Re: organism and identity / for maria luisa
> > > > Allow me to point out, that I have never revealed to youSG, what would you have me do? There is no dream-sharing
> > > > my personal experiences with consciousness, except
> > > > indirectly.
> > >
> > > so rather than play ring around the mulberry bush why don't
> > > you simply speak openly of what it is ?
> > Well, considering that all we can do is speak indirectly of it,
> > how would I reply?
> SG: perhaps start by directly sharing what it was for
> you ...... rather than speaking of the by-products
> which are being filtered as a process of thinking ......
machine available, as was available to Claire in
"Until the End of the World". You will have to be
satisfied with my particular language of expression,
even if the apparent logic is distasteful to you.
What a farce it would be for me to express it in any
other way than what comes naturally. If you were a close
friend, someone I trusted deeply, I might share more
of the herstory of specifics, or even be available to
lead the way into the experience. However, "Nina" (and
probably many others on these lists) is more private than
to broadcast such things, and also sees them as "beside
the point". If you are interested and looking, you can
find it in what I write.
> N: > There are all manner of spontaneous expressions of beingYou are correct, I could determine to stop posting on these lists.
> > filled with "The Holy Spirit". As regards my own expression
> > of this highly intimate experience, either you see it in
> > what I share, or you don't. The same could be said of anyone's
> > contributions on this list.
> > Ring around the mulberry bush is what we do here, on these
> > lists.
> SG: that could be ended ...... it is a choice.........
> > You may call my writing 'cold', others might call it 'direct',You are mistaken if you think that my intellect/intellectual process
> > yet others might find it to be different, entirely.
> > You say my writing is based in 'logic'; however, where is my
> > "logic" coming from, except from "experience"?
> SG: try bringing it from the Heart rather than the sterility
> of intellect and intellectual process .........
is not arising from the heart. How do you think it is, that my
intellect is inspired?
The desert southwest in the USA looks sterile and lifeless to those
who are used to life being abundantly visible and green. Vitality has
to each her own,
- --- In firstname.lastname@example.org, "Nina" <murrkis@y...> wrote:
> > > When the inspiration fails, it is no worse thanNina, you just made my day
> > > a sandcastle being washed away by the beach tide.
> > > Tomorrow, I build another sandcastle.
> > >
> > > The thing is, I do know that at any time, I could
> > > let go of the sandcastle building... but why?
> > > Maybe you know why and would share the why...
> > SG: one perhaps builds sandcastles until there is no longer
> > an attachment to building and creating a structured form ......
> > Inspirations may be wrapped up in sandcastles .....
> > perhaps at that point one simply creates them out of the joy of
> > the moment..... not expecting them to last but simply for the
> > beauty and joy of spontaneous art and motion which flows from
> > the Bliss of Being here now in this place in this moment .......
> > it needs not carry behind it some representation or hidden
> > meaning it simply is as it is Beautiful and sacred within it's own
> > right.......
> > then as in all things (this creation of the moment) simply falls
> > away so that another image may take its place
> > First one goes beyond the transient unfolding play before it is
> > fully understood and appreciated for what it is ....... then one
> > steps back into the lila and play simply Enjoying that lila as an
> > expression of Infinite Love in motion........
> > Formless or Form it is the same Essense
> > minus the distinguishing factors .....
> > SG: hahahahaha perhaps so .... everything proceeds from
> > Source and returns to Source in some manner......
> > Infinite Love
> 1. There are pictures of this sandcastle building: faded square
> photographs with radiused corners, the blues and greens and sand
> colors of photographs from that time, the reds always slightly
> pungent, as if the pigment were wired and erratic, unsure of its
> place in the film. There we are, squatting in the sand: my blond-
> haired mother, sitting aside, arm around the barrel-chest of the
> small grey dog; my father and a very small I sitting together,
> scraping sand into forms. What the photograph barely hints at is the
> joy of building that sandcastle, part enjoyment of the sand and
> water, part thrill and satisfaction of building it with my father.
> What the photograph doesn't contain is what came later. After
> building it, I felt so much happiness and pride; we played in the
> water, and I kept looking back to see that sandcastle sitting before
> the waves. Then the two boys came, stepping into the sandcastle,
> crushing it. I cried salt tears to the sea, inconsolable, and unable
> to explain or even understand that the greatest loss was not the
> sandcastle, but what the sandcastle represented.
> 2. We like to go early to the beach, before the beach patrol comes on
> line, and let our dogs run off leash. One morning, on the way back,
> we are walking close to the dunes, past a sandcastle left above the
> tide line. One of the dogs stalks the sandcastle, circling it,
> sniffing it carefully, as if the castle might move. She notes the
> hollow center of the castle, and daintily scratches it with one paw,
> once, twice. Moving within the hollow, she begins to dig, throwing
> large arcs of sand beneath and behind her, very efficiently deepening
> the hollow. Sufficiently inspired, she leaps from the castle, and
> runs circles on the beach. She is amazing, lean muscle and arching
> back, her earth-pounding feet carrying her so close to us on her
> returns that her breath is heard and wake is felt.
> 3. After the walk, I remain on the beach after the others return
> home. The sun is coming up, pink and orange, and the sky is humid and
> a thick blue-grey. The moon is still out, and a few stars, but are
> gradually fading in a sky that is approaching their brilliance. I
> stand within the laps of the waves, and look out to the rocking
> shrimp boats, and the long, thin horizon beyond. With each receding
> wave, the water draws sand from beneath the edges of my feet.
> Eventually, I am balancing on two pyramids beneath my arches. I find
> that if I am not perfectly balanced through the soles of my feet as
> these pyramids form, that eventually I must cling to the tops of the
> pyramids with the muscles of my legs, lest my feet slide from the
> pyramids. I stand for a long while like this, trying on new pyramids,
> learning as a matter of course what it is to be perfectly balanced
> within my soles, and how transparent and effortless that feels,
> watching the night suns recede as I am warmed by the heat advancing
> in the eastern sky. At some point, the shrimp boats disappear, and I
> take that as my cue to leave.
> Thanks for your letter, SG.