Another Howl into the Wind

It's somewhat humorous to re-read my old posts, having mostly forgotten about this blog for over a year, and feel as though I can pick it up right where I left off.

The things I wrote down are still all quite close to my mind. Which is strange, because it makes me wonder if I've really 'progressed' or solved anything.

That in itself is a silly thought. Life is here to be got through. Not solved, not progressed. We all progress only to mud. Avoid pain, avoid boredom, to the best of my ability. Grow, perhaps, if I can, but accept too that past a certain point, there's nothing left to do but fade a little, day by day. Until the last day, where the last little bit is breathed out, and the ball of yarn is unstrung and has run its final course.

I have recently received something of a double-punch to the gut. I've been sick for the past three days and my most recent writing project, of some 70k words and forty days of effort has paid out in peanuts that won't even cover the food I ate during those days. I am approaching my fifth year toiling away in the bowels of Amazon/self-pub land, and am barely any closer to 'financial security' than I was in year one.

I must admit at this point that I think my ability to predict what will and won't in the context of my work is perhaps broken. In a way this is freeing, as it means I can just try shit and see what sticks. In another way, I'm feeling a bit broken about all that time and effort I sunk thinking about things that turned out to not be helpful. Regardless of how I feel about it though, the time is sunk.

Anyway, off for now.

A Life Update, I guess

 I'm struggling with holding fragments of myself together I think. In short, dear reader, I'm in a rough headspace. One of my favorite people, Freebird/Dave Osborne, the windsurfer, committed suicide about a week and a half ago. One of the happiest of people. I had always wondered what happened to him after his journals stopped in 2015/2016. https://www.trailjournals.com/journal/entry/552280

My mom's health issues are getting to the point where she's talking about them... which means she's worse off than normal. That said, it's nothing serious and she should continue to be around for a long time to come.

That said, in life there is always some kind of pleasure around. I've got my meditation, and for now, I have a heating pad, electricity, internet, and good games to play. Yes, I'm still reading my early buddhist texts too, though at this point it's hard enough to just be a layperson and have faith.

I don't really have a 'next move' after this current living situation. With half my roommates about to move out-- I have to keep reminding myself that it's not me that's moving-- I can stay! I don't need to be worrying about concrete plans.

Even Ran has admitted kind of that his will to keep up his blog is dying. Then again, he's had a good few decades of writing as a hobby.

In short, things that were once stable for me are in flux. Or just decaying. Or, in the case of Freebird, just fucking gone with so many questions unanswered. Zap. There's a lot of things that I can say I don't care about anymore-- but the few things I do care about-- losing some of that leaves me with tears on my pillow, same as anyone.

I think... however long my living situation/finances last where I'm at, this is my last stop before I go back to Moab. I don't want to get into another roommates/couch-surfing situation. I'm very tired of it. Or maybe just this iteration has been uniquely painful. With all that said, a particular poem is on my mind.

---

"Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light."

~ https://poets.org/poem/do-not-go-gentle-good-night (Dylan Thomas)

Samvega

 I am so tired of this dusty every-day experience. I feel like a yellowed leaf already curling on the branch, like I could fall at any moment. I've tasted so many things, so many things-- over and over: 'this is the best life can give. This is as good as it gets.' I've told myself that, in regard to sensual pleasures and living in the world, over and over.

Why do I only feel ok when my mind is focused on the dhamma?

Wrong View and Wrong View

 Your vision of the world is at odds with how things actually are. Your vision of the world is at odds with how the world actually is. This is what is called in buddhism ignorance, or delusion: which is the foundation of wrong view.

What view is right then? I will answer a little, as best I can. Getting more pleasure will never lead to happiness. Satisfying a craving will not end craving in general. The world is insatiable, a slave to craving. People grieve because of acquisitions.

The view that cuts out craving is right view. The view that prioritizes happiness and well-being over pleasure is right view. Seeing the world as it is-- made of suffering, impermanence, and non-self, this is right view. Seeing the pain inherent in further becoming, that is right view.

Hilltop hut

Secluded in this hilltop hut,

Surrounded by gentle rain and tiny birds,

I unpack my mind

bit by bit,

until the work is done.

maple beat

 Under the autumn maple,

halfway between beginnings and endings

leaves fall, some now, some later

all the time, every last one.

Feeling the ending of this,

can you dance to the spring of a new beginning?

Morning time

Cross-legged on thin cushion

in third watch of the night,

cold autumn air.

The sun's halo rises in the distance

warmth like honey seeps into my clothes.

fade in, fade out

thoughtless whimsy dreams.

--

Under warm covers

restless daybreak,

cold autumn air.

Rooster shrieks in judgement, I'm late!

but so tired...

fade in, fade out,

empty things

thoughtless whimsy dreams.