subjects subjected to subjectivity: a smile
written to one(ness), to be shared with my self, which is to say, all of you...
dear ALL,
you've already written the message that follows (as if chronology still bears any meaning)...
say the things i don't want to come from you. things i don't want to come from you? i would love nothing else than for everything to come from you, for that is the nature of you, my brother of shiningsunmother.
what is forced? either nothing is forced or all is forced.
wouldn't you say that life is a choice? that bliss is a choice? that sadness is a choice? if all of life is a choice, if we are truly creators and co-authors of this existence, then, dear brother, i wonder what could ever be seen as unforced? for it is choice.
now, to say the same thing from the opposite direction, if things happen simply because they happen, with no specific underlying cause to any of it, if we truly just do it just to do it, then i must emphatically proclaim that nothing at all in life is forced. for force would imply that we could do anything other than we are doing, that is to say, force would imply that we could be anything other than infinitely beautiful expressions of perfection. bliss happens because what else is there? this is force in the same way that this is the utter (ly triumphant) lack of force.
force.
choice.
haha.
laughter.
let me share the dream i woke from at 4:00 am this morning still winedrunk and waxing rhapsodical...
i'm in stevens point with you and vanessa. it is the middle of the most misty (i'd like to say mystical) of nights and we are walking east down jefferson st. towards iverson park. a couple blocks from the entrance and the descension down that hill that i've taken countless times in my 22 years, we stop and i ask, "are we really going down there?"
then, as seems to be the metaphysics of josiahpaul (for we are truly inseparable), we speak in unison (LOVE ONE VOICE REJOICE), "i'd rather not if i don't have to."
smiles spread like sunlight and we begin to turn round and i look over my shoulder towards the entrance of the park and see the headlights of a beastly car piercing through the immense body of fog, like frog legs in a frying pan in 1968 in some forgotten place where kids chewed on chipped windowsills, where the paint was always wet and, of course, still is
or
is still.
paranoia - in whatever mild form i'm still able to feel - sets in like the husky voice of dusk. i suggest we run/ride our bicycles (for we are simultaneously the three of us doing both) for the car is coming for us. i proceed to telepathically direct us in a spontaneous blooming zig zag of streets wet with memories of icicles, rosy cheeks, and icy-nosed weeks of winters still wintering the whisks of hatched eggs.
we pass a patch of ice disguised as a driveway roaring trainlike right on by, but you stop us - for as you so astutely noticed, there is a backpack lying atop this patch of ice. vanessa and i hesitate a moment, concerning ourselves momentarily with the silly concept of time - do we have enough - the silence echoes its "of course" in the form of your adamancy that we retrieve it.
i turn back - a quick sprint and (thrown round emboldened shoulders) it is on my back, feeling smaller than it appeared. perhaps my back had grown in dreamfulness. suddenly!!
we burst onto prais st., now again running/riding east towards washington school, past ashley's house, and the sky OH THE SKY - it explodes into vibrancies unseen before except to blind eyes and love pours from our eyes in awe of this skyward reflection of our perfection in hues of pink and orange and yellow, all of it flecked with swirls of black cumulous cloud that has accumulated in honor of us, and we laugh from the deepest (infinite) pits of our buddha bellies in pure BLISS and adoration for this backdrop to our wax-drip existence!
all merges to timelessness. i take a photograph of the sky's interpretation of our laughter.
"we" "get" "home" (haha, what a funny sentence of silly words and silly concepts so misused by our bodhi-brothers and sisters!) and i
open the backpack. there are two books inside.
the first i pull seems a cyclical miracle of transformation from of mice and men to grapes of wrath then back to mice then back again to bones stained red.
the other is a book that rouses my excitement to a much greater degree, though what exactly it is i do not know, and really, it does not matter at all. it is either an extremely old version of a book i adore or a book i've long been searching for.
adam is there too in the kitchen of this house we've found ourselves "back" to. he must have found his shoes and put them on or burned them.
i wake.
this dream finds itself irrevocably linked to a nessicled dream i believe either she or myself have prior to this articulated to thee. it is one of us - all of us sadagati lovers and friends, in a kitchen gone golden with our candle lights (our hearts? i think so, dear friend!), and gary snyder is there also. i'd like to think corso chuckles from wherever. we are preparing for a journey of some sort and i am wearing a leather knapsack that gives an air of timelessness and inscribed on it are THE words:
ALL IS ONE
and dear josiah, the journey has begun and will never end, for all there are are beginnings and beginnings to further beginnings, never straying a hair from the NOW, never splitting hairs over the WOW that is
this life. this fun. this oneness.
like alan watts and the lion's maine.
like hair littering floors and the color green.
like the golden island and truth serum.
like samsara and the flourescent streetlit fountain.
like the mountain and the yawn.
like the dervish dancing at dawn and the flash that follows.
like phonetics and the phoenix.
like the hieroglyph and kokopelli's flute.
like the flight of mute messiahs and portland.
like two twos and two sixes enveloped by an ellipsis ...
spat unto the world from the belly of a wanderlust whale as
wholeness personified. perfected. deified. spread.
like the sunlight of shared dreams.
all of this means
nothing.
everything.
emptiness.
bliss.
bliss.
bliss.
bliss.
bliss.
walk by "yourself" and with you i am. for I AM. therefore i am.
all there is bliss, therefore all there is is bliss!
haha haha, the fruitflies flock to this! swat or simply smile, all is bliss, regardless!
hahahahaha oh josiah firefly messiah brother, swat or smile, man! swat or smile!
force loses its force when faced with the recognition of bliss. so choose it or don't, there it remains. oh oh oh, there it remains - a chianti stained tooth chipped by this dharmic truth.
smiling.
eternity.
write to me.
paul michael jungwirth
1710 2nd ave s., #22
minneapo(bliss), mn 55403
and let your fingers act as feet as you write OUR SELF upon the pages that are me.
OUR. SELF. upon the pages that are me.
eternity.
-paul.
dear ALL,
you've already written the message that follows (as if chronology still bears any meaning)...
say the things i don't want to come from you. things i don't want to come from you? i would love nothing else than for everything to come from you, for that is the nature of you, my brother of shiningsunmother.
what is forced? either nothing is forced or all is forced.
wouldn't you say that life is a choice? that bliss is a choice? that sadness is a choice? if all of life is a choice, if we are truly creators and co-authors of this existence, then, dear brother, i wonder what could ever be seen as unforced? for it is choice.
now, to say the same thing from the opposite direction, if things happen simply because they happen, with no specific underlying cause to any of it, if we truly just do it just to do it, then i must emphatically proclaim that nothing at all in life is forced. for force would imply that we could do anything other than we are doing, that is to say, force would imply that we could be anything other than infinitely beautiful expressions of perfection. bliss happens because what else is there? this is force in the same way that this is the utter (ly triumphant) lack of force.
force.
choice.
haha.
laughter.
let me share the dream i woke from at 4:00 am this morning still winedrunk and waxing rhapsodical...
i'm in stevens point with you and vanessa. it is the middle of the most misty (i'd like to say mystical) of nights and we are walking east down jefferson st. towards iverson park. a couple blocks from the entrance and the descension down that hill that i've taken countless times in my 22 years, we stop and i ask, "are we really going down there?"
then, as seems to be the metaphysics of josiahpaul (for we are truly inseparable), we speak in unison (LOVE ONE VOICE REJOICE), "i'd rather not if i don't have to."
smiles spread like sunlight and we begin to turn round and i look over my shoulder towards the entrance of the park and see the headlights of a beastly car piercing through the immense body of fog, like frog legs in a frying pan in 1968 in some forgotten place where kids chewed on chipped windowsills, where the paint was always wet and, of course, still is
or
is still.
paranoia - in whatever mild form i'm still able to feel - sets in like the husky voice of dusk. i suggest we run/ride our bicycles (for we are simultaneously the three of us doing both) for the car is coming for us. i proceed to telepathically direct us in a spontaneous blooming zig zag of streets wet with memories of icicles, rosy cheeks, and icy-nosed weeks of winters still wintering the whisks of hatched eggs.
we pass a patch of ice disguised as a driveway roaring trainlike right on by, but you stop us - for as you so astutely noticed, there is a backpack lying atop this patch of ice. vanessa and i hesitate a moment, concerning ourselves momentarily with the silly concept of time - do we have enough - the silence echoes its "of course" in the form of your adamancy that we retrieve it.
i turn back - a quick sprint and (thrown round emboldened shoulders) it is on my back, feeling smaller than it appeared. perhaps my back had grown in dreamfulness. suddenly!!
we burst onto prais st., now again running/riding east towards washington school, past ashley's house, and the sky OH THE SKY - it explodes into vibrancies unseen before except to blind eyes and love pours from our eyes in awe of this skyward reflection of our perfection in hues of pink and orange and yellow, all of it flecked with swirls of black cumulous cloud that has accumulated in honor of us, and we laugh from the deepest (infinite) pits of our buddha bellies in pure BLISS and adoration for this backdrop to our wax-drip existence!
all merges to timelessness. i take a photograph of the sky's interpretation of our laughter.
"we" "get" "home" (haha, what a funny sentence of silly words and silly concepts so misused by our bodhi-brothers and sisters!) and i
open the backpack. there are two books inside.
the first i pull seems a cyclical miracle of transformation from of mice and men to grapes of wrath then back to mice then back again to bones stained red.
the other is a book that rouses my excitement to a much greater degree, though what exactly it is i do not know, and really, it does not matter at all. it is either an extremely old version of a book i adore or a book i've long been searching for.
adam is there too in the kitchen of this house we've found ourselves "back" to. he must have found his shoes and put them on or burned them.
i wake.
this dream finds itself irrevocably linked to a nessicled dream i believe either she or myself have prior to this articulated to thee. it is one of us - all of us sadagati lovers and friends, in a kitchen gone golden with our candle lights (our hearts? i think so, dear friend!), and gary snyder is there also. i'd like to think corso chuckles from wherever. we are preparing for a journey of some sort and i am wearing a leather knapsack that gives an air of timelessness and inscribed on it are THE words:
ALL IS ONE
and dear josiah, the journey has begun and will never end, for all there are are beginnings and beginnings to further beginnings, never straying a hair from the NOW, never splitting hairs over the WOW that is
this life. this fun. this oneness.
like alan watts and the lion's maine.
like hair littering floors and the color green.
like the golden island and truth serum.
like samsara and the flourescent streetlit fountain.
like the mountain and the yawn.
like the dervish dancing at dawn and the flash that follows.
like phonetics and the phoenix.
like the hieroglyph and kokopelli's flute.
like the flight of mute messiahs and portland.
like two twos and two sixes enveloped by an ellipsis ...
spat unto the world from the belly of a wanderlust whale as
wholeness personified. perfected. deified. spread.
like the sunlight of shared dreams.
all of this means
nothing.
everything.
emptiness.
bliss.
bliss.
bliss.
bliss.
bliss.
walk by "yourself" and with you i am. for I AM. therefore i am.
all there is bliss, therefore all there is is bliss!
haha haha, the fruitflies flock to this! swat or simply smile, all is bliss, regardless!
hahahahaha oh josiah firefly messiah brother, swat or smile, man! swat or smile!
force loses its force when faced with the recognition of bliss. so choose it or don't, there it remains. oh oh oh, there it remains - a chianti stained tooth chipped by this dharmic truth.
smiling.
eternity.
write to me.
paul michael jungwirth
1710 2nd ave s., #22
minneapo(bliss), mn 55403
and let your fingers act as feet as you write OUR SELF upon the pages that are me.
OUR. SELF. upon the pages that are me.
eternity.
-paul.