Beyond the Clouds

I've been thinking about Honen and his nembutsus. He used to recite as many as 60,000 per day apparently and his nembutsus were no more special than his followers nembutsus whether they were beginners or very well established practitioners. His main disciples that we know a little bit about seem to have grasped his teachings in slightly different ways even though they notably Shinran used to say that his teaching is the same as his teacher's teaching which echoes what Honen used to say about his teacher Shan-Tao.

Some people remember facts and figures, quotes and ideas, phrases and poems, while I remember none of that. What stays with me is the atmosphere, the emotional and tonal quality of the place: dark, sombre, shady, cold, and heavy light from long hours praying remain with me even though I doubt I was in that sort of place for very long just as much as the warm, relaxed, colourful, and joyful sounds from a place equally long ago and far away saturate my mind and thus the room that I am in. Well, I wonder anyway, to what extent my own pathos tends to leak out into the room so that all is covered and stained with a longing and wistful delusion that comes from one so wanting and so lacking in the dharma.

I imagine the Pureland to be a room in which the atmosphere is thick with love. In this room, are numerous Bodhisattvas, some are lying down, others are sitting on cushions, and even more are standing up and walking around crying out for for Nyorai. It is truly a magnificent sight to see. All these majestic figures, each accomplished in one or more aspect of the Dharma, still expressing their longing and their love to re-connect with the Buddha and live according to the Dharma.

I imagine myself walking into this room where the ambience is warm with love, so much so that my own longing and wish to be with the Buddhas of the past, present and future feels duly acknowledged as the most appropriate feeling. There are people talking and discourses held which I take to be wise and inspiring but I remember none of that. The only thing I remember is this loving atmosphere.

It's a strange kind of formula.

two drops become one
One drop splits again into two
one of the two joins another one
and three become two
until two feels alone
and joins with another one
until they all split again

whirling around in circular motion the music climbs higher in the players bed chamber. Flutes whistle and cymbals clang faster and faster with the rising heat of the whirling spirit going round and round to the same bloody song. The furious fiddle fuming away jerking and urging all in the game to hurl down their gauntlets and take up the sword to separate the smoke from what's really there. They cut and they slash all the curtains of hope, shred it to peices in one single stroke, to wake too late to love's crying shame, and witness in shock, all the horror and pain.

too late to redo the bed that was made and slept in by him - her lover and maid, a new day has broken and silence has begged forgiveness and pardon to all that was said in anger and jest the moon cast its shadow on the new night of year twenty and ten - what hope, what chance, what fortune befalls those who are wicked and caught in the thralls of madness and rage? In the midst of the fires of fathomless passions a tiny light shines on the steaming wet spires.

When something happens that is new and unexpected what is it that keeps us steady and noble? In other words, when Dukkha happens and feelings arise what prevents us from creating more dukkha? When a process unfolds that creates conditions that are spiritually dangerous how open can we be before we betray our moral principles or do something that we'll regret later down the line? How can we capture and imprison our greed, hate, and delusion, and release them into more compassionate, loving and wise actions without Amida close at heart?

On cloud nine the sun shines and moon glows, the harmonies are heavenly and the melodies sublime. however, beyond number nine new harmonies play and fractious notes squeeze between the steps on the scale, infra-red light reflects what isn't absorbed and colours my antagonized heart, vanilla coffee sweetens the air and quenches my undying desire for sublimanation. The cat purrs and disappears into the shiny black suit of existence.

no to suffer is to feel and to feel is to love - no to love is to feel happy and not to suffer but to cry - no to cry is to feel sad and to suffer - no to suffer is to love that which is beyond reach and to yearn to touch it and hold it just for one moment in time. no?

The conditions were sublime. Beauty, Truth and Freedom stood together in the booth ready to sing together when all of a sudden Beauty was seized by Love. He grabbed her around the waist and whispered that he didn't know whether this could help him. In fact, was so sure that he was wasting everyone's time - surely they had better things to do than to save him from Hate. Her chest tightened not knowing whether she should reveal the depth of feeling to him, not knowing whether it was better to say nothing and accept his predicament or whether to give him hope - hope that he was Love and will always be, no matter what hardship might befall him or feelings he had about who is felt he was.

She decided to reveal her secret in a way that would be understood by the heart and not with the brain. But he grimaced and grew angry. How immature and childish, how belittling and patronizing! So he fought back shouting at her to look at him and to stop treating him like a child. He still couldn't see the point - so futile was his life in a world that set seething dogs to get him and fools running after him with sharp knives all because he cut them off from greed and delusion.

How bored he was of life. He just couldn't see how anything could help anymore and though he wanted to hear that Truth might help, or that Freedom would work, what was never offered to him was the willingness to try and go into the ugly quagmire of the mind and feel the difficulties that came with two beings locked in conflict. Beauty's way was mysterious but lacked alot of will.

The will to walk into Truth and see the lies that he told her and others was missing. The will to struggle and fight with shadows locked within Freedom was weak. And the will to expose and uncover the bloodstained sheets within Beauty's cupboard was absent and so Love put on his coat, heaved a sigh and said thanks for nothing.

peeling away the layers
going deeper into trailers
his feelings so real and based on illusions
her truth is just a bunch of lies
and based on real feelings