Philo
(The Unbearable Itchiness of Now)
for Peter F.
There’s no “here” – there is always a locus of focus –
(Although sectarians would drag you into some hocus pocus)
The choice is always made by you, the child who has dreams –
If you are in the water, how often do you change the streams of schemes?
How often do you change the game, beyond the narratives and judgments?
How often do you let your body strive for something beyond old motives and patterns?
How often do you sniff the floor, lick the plant, destroy a thing, scream and jump without treason,
Follow the beetle, make pointless sounds and moves,... – shifting seasons for no reason?
Beyond the necessity of being something specific, there is never nothing,
There is just something unnamed, that you choose to do – faster than the mind is tracking,
There is a permanent change, the thousand-petaled pathway of void,
The permanent change that you embody as “it” – and it never stops.
They say “calm down your mind” or “don’t ever dare to move”,
Obey or run away – school is a prep for life, both kill the bodily truths,
One can meditate away some things sometime, yet one still has to poo,
And so “here” you always meet “it” (some sort of loo) – the form acting through “you”.
They say “ego is an enemy”, but what if it is just a boundary –
A place for adulthood to keep aliveness, while non-harming?
Within the self-chosen bounds you swipe the channels of being,
Outside there’s myth-crafting with those whom you like seeing.
Who then is this witness, if he does not attend the pure silence?
Sober artisan sailing the acid of each second that happens,
Keeping the wheel of balance between the wilderness and a kind bow,
His name is Friendship with the unbearable It-qì-ness of Now.
(Sopot, 18.11.18)