A flower, a bee, and redemption in love
taken from I, FOR LACK OF A BETTER TERM: a soul's soliloquy, from early writings by Jack Haas: this is a rare, online book
“We sit together,
the mountain and I,
until only the mountain remains.”
Allow me to continue spinning the yarn of this interminable diatribe. Return with me won’t you, to the absence of ourselves.
Life is the flower and the bee; you are merely the pollen-sac, filled and emptied, emptied and filled; you are the unpleasant absence without which neither flower, nor fruit, nor bee, would be.
But even that emptiness is not your own; a pit can exist merely because the earth was needed elsewhere. So, in this becoming which never completes itself, if the pain is as real as the absence, then perhaps the self which we call ourselves is simply a metaphysical prosthesis by which we might limp less torturously forward, or back. Perhaps the separate soul is a phantom limb.
When finally you become nobody, you become a hole through which the universe can enter and become whole.
It matters little whether the cup is half full or half empty, you drink it. The point of interiorization becomes the point of exteriorization, so they are the same.
When you become the flesh completely, only then will the flesh become free.
Oh, I dug myself all the way towards the centre of life's tune, found nothing, then dug beyond to the other side. The other side, yes, but not 'other', since by then there was no centre, only a tunnel ...no me. Which is to say, I disappeared in the act of trying to find myself.
Ah, to perish, to truly perish, to die while being lives on; to deplete oneself of all intent, understanding, and fear; to eviscerate the soul, to shed oneself, and to not be what remains in the ruins.
How strange indeed it is to journey back to the heart of being, and return with no word to tell. All to no conclusion. All to no avail.
A window, that's all I truly am, and not even that; I did not, as I had romantically hoped, see through myself to the great beyond- IT saw through me.
Perhaps it was the remembrance of my nobodiness which dispersed me first into the ether, or perhaps it was the fit of catatonic wonder unleashed mercilessly upon my waxen hide, or perhaps it was the swelling force of gratitude which then hauled me willessly by the breastbone upward, or maybe it was the last surrender- when all of it collapsed in a blinding moment of apocalyptic rapture. It was one of these, I'm sure of it. Either and every way, the little drop exploded in the storm, and then there was no more lightning, thunder, nor rain, only the great sea of something free.
Yea, in the slack, motionless movement, between the ebb and flow, where inside and out exchange themselves- there it is that you and I shall not-exist while existing. When the estuary is clear, then shall the source be one.
Just go ahead and try it. Everything will remain, just remove yourself. Keep everything else. For if truth be known, you are not moving through life, life is moving through you. Reverse the flow through that cylinder, and suddenly the light ...comes out of you. It's your space, all of it.
Like a door which swings both ways so heaven and earth can visit each other; you are the nothing which allows the all; after all, a dynamic medium which attempts to sustain a static quality, is not wholly dynamic; when you are the wind you are nobody always changing. All else is stasis, hardening, and an end which we call death.
Out of the original binary comes the absence called the third, the slack tide, the non-breath between breaths, the hole between the external and internal which creates the whole, the living non-division between us.
It is, and is not, and enhances what it depends on by ...not being. It is the bond between opposites, without which they would be opposed, and not then married.
Unseparated in this way, you shall become the common ground of all. Then indeed you shall love instead of hating. Oh, in the ardor, losses, and agony of the day- you shall love instead of hating.
To love. To stand firm and angry in that loving. To hold and smile and drift away. To take them with you.
To love. To rise.
To take them with you.
Early writings by Jack Haas: a rare, online book.