It is almost Friday, the day when another of my blog posts is ‘due’ in accordance with my own resolve. Here I sit on Thursday afternoon staring at the blankness of the page which is really the blankness of my own mind. There is a feeling of unrest, of minor anxiety undefined. There is a sense of desire to write with brilliance and a sense of trepidation that I will come up short at mediocrity.

Suddenly an inner voice from deep within rises to the fore whispering, “Confront the time. Let the resistant self confront the open self. Let the ‘No’ confront the ‘Yes’ in the same space-time continuum.”

This voice is ME, the self who is resolved to post every Friday. This is the innermost Voice of genuine Intention lying deep within. This inner voice is a beautiful reminder that there is no audience, no brilliance, and no glory which can be had outside of the thought of having. There is no acquisition apart from the projected desire to acquire and no attainment outside of the third party reaction to my projected image which agrees or disagrees with the abstract premise that I have or have not attained fame, glory, brilliance, intelligence, beauty, wisdom, or any other relative form of possession.

Inner War and Peace

It occurs to me that it is simple to find peace when one feels peaceful. Much greater is the challenge to find peace amidst the chaos of the warring selves within. During times of peace one tends to feel that BEING is possible, even simple. One has the energy to watch carefully if one is truly serious about Realizing the Truth. But when one feels negatively charged and down or when one is busy with the ‘things I must do’, in times of perceived conflict, attaining inner peace seems so difficult, even impossible. Yet the former condition of peace does not compel one to BE, it does not drive one inside to meet one’s self totally naked and vulnerabe. On the contrary, it is the latter state of conflict which pushes one in who is serious about ending suffering. It is the state of conflict and battle which compels one who is serious to face himself as he IS, without pretension, without justification, without prejudice, without judgment, without a single garment between himself and the observation of himself. After all, if one cannot SEE when the going is rough then SEEING as a goal will fade into the background.  Indeed it seems totally paradoxical that one must enter into conflict in order to attain peace, but this perceived contradiction also depends upon one’s quality of Seeing as meaning changes in proportion to the quality of one’s Being.

The Conforming Mind Machine

As the war that rages on externally reflects the turbulence of the tempest which rages on internally, one need amass a radical upheaval against the mind’s natural tendency towards violence. I must wage an internal war against my warring self, my fearing self, my escapist self. I must confront fear in the very moment it arises, facing the boredom, anxiety, desire and violence within my own mind not intellectually, but actually in the moment of its occurrence. To SEE the Totality of the mind, not its particular content, but the total picture of the gears at work underlying the mechanical nature of thoughts as they are manufactured, is to Be Aware. Yes, it seems to me that my thoughts are like finite pieces of plastic being molded by some great machine, mass produced, packaged, and marketed to my mind without my knowledge or consent. I am a thinking factory, a manufacturer of fear and desire and from where I obtain the material to manufacture my redundant thoughts is a great junkyard, a massive heap of decay in the from of traditions and ideologies accumulated by humanity over thousands of years. Can such a machine ever produce an original thought when the material that is used to create is itself old and recycled, dead?

Who is Writing?

Yes, I must confront my own self in order to SEE, in order to BE. I ask myself “who is writing? What is the writer’s intent?” Several voices seem to clamor for attention: “You can be a famous writer one day!” one says. “You can make lots of money doing what you love!” says another. “You are wasting your talent if you don’t write,” says a third. “Oh please, you think you’re a writer? You are delusional, worthless.” a fourth objects. These selves seem to appear on a regular basis. They seem inexhaustible as they bombard my mind from every side with their temptations and justifications painting themselves into a corner, each self segretating itself from the whole. Their rhetoric is a divisive pattern of umpteen particular fears and desires that take deep root in my subconscious mind, and yet they seem ever ready to divide again and again, this particular fear or desire branching out into a sub category of fear or desire which again branches out into another, dividing endlessly in the realm of time. Should I concern myself with facing each particular fear and each particular desire individually? Should I dive into that heap of mental garbage counting and analyzing every link in the infinite chain of cause and effect to find the root of each dysfunction? Will this analysis of dead time and malignant selves help me to SEE the Moment as it IS or will the divisions continue despite my intellectual endeavors, despite my efforts at uncovering the ancient rot of causes of effects of causes of effects? Can the dead be of any use to the Living?

No, this can’t be the way of discovery as this will only take me in circles chasing my own tail. This cannot be the way of exploring the innermost self as there is an endless barrage of selves to contend with, and an endless proliferation of those selves through a perpetual process of division, a mechanical manufacturing of old recycled thoughts whose origins are even more ancient and distorted. So I ask the question again, “Who is the Writer? What is the Writer’s intention?” For the answer to arise I must STOP. I must face the self who is resisting the answer by resisting this very Moment. I must confront the self who projects her desired image of success as a result of her projected
fear of ‘failure’. I must challenge the self who is caught between the ghosts of the past and their projections onto the future.

The Answer Comes:

The Writer in me is not old, she is new. She is not the mass producing manufacturer of dead thoughts but the original Creator of original works arising out of genuine Realizations attained in total nakedness, Free from the constraints of time. The Writer who is Present in the moment is as supple as a newborn, as open, as naked and as innocent. The Writer is a blank slate, tabula rasa. The Writer within is not the umpteen voices which clamor for attention, for distinction, recognition, glory, fame, money or power, totally insensitive to the fear and violence which pervade these illusory demands. The Writer is ME, the ONE who Intends writing for the sake of writing, the ONE who Intends writing as an exploration of Life and Living, searching for the Truth about the innermost self which is the Truth of existence itself. I exist. Therefore, becoming totally conscious of who I Am is becoming conscious of the dimension of consciousness itself, existence itself.  The Writer is the ONE who is FREE from the confines of the herd mentality within and without, who writes not for the applause of an adoring audience but for the love of writing and discovering. The Writer is the ONE who is on the front lines of exploration, on the precipice of self discovery for the sake of finding meaning amidst the meaninglessness of Life.

Creation: An Act of Total Freedom and Will

To BE the Creator, the Writer, the Artist one cannot simultaneously be the factory, the mass producer, the mass marketer, the imitator. To be open to the potential of Life through the discovery of one’s innermost self is to be totally Free from the mechanical nature of thought which produces the mechanical habits and reactions of which I am almost totally unaware. The True Writer can don no cloak nor wear any mask. She can grasp no shield of defense, nor pull at any bow of offense. The Writer cannot afford to be sheltered in any way. She must allow herself to be totally exposed in the moment facing herself in total transparency, her mind and body utterly sensitive to the internal and external Reality, fearlessly vulnerable in her stark nakedness.

Yes, the Writer is Naked who becomes ONE with her writing and opens the doors of potential for LIVING outside the hideous man-made boundaries that contain and nourish our sense of fear and isolation, a perfect breeding ground for violence and decay. Society is humanity veiled, afraid of exposing its own natural state of being and finding security in every form of escape imaginable, in every cloak and garment imaginable.

So, who is the one writing? What is her intention? Here she now stands fearless before her own image face to face, moment to moment, dressed in her natural uniform asking nothing, imposing nothing, her intention radically unveiled before her Third Eye. Completely immersed in the sheer Moment merging with the energy of her own existence, consciousness stripped of all illusions and delusions, she expands into the space of No-time and occupying her immovable seat, the Writer becomes the Writing.

Born Poet

by Rula Mazigi

a true poet resides

in the space of non-titles

where only intention matters

without self-promoting proclamation

from either side of the fence

intention seeks no validation nor longs for approval

the art seeker’s observing self

herds his energy surge into focus,

reflecting personal takes on life’s implications,

layers in tune with the manifestation of

his basic human urge of

will to meaning