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1. "If I have any understanding of compassion..., it all comes from studying the Bodhicharyavatara" HH Dalai Lama 2. "The whole of the Bodhicharyvatara is geared toward prajna, the direct realization of emptiness, absolute bodhichitta, without which the true practice of compassion is impossible." The Way of the Bodhisattva 3. To be aware of Absolute Bodhicitta, is to understand: a) that everything you perceive is a dream. b ) only the consciousness you had before you were born can correctly discern reality. c) that there is no present in time. d) You will never understand Who you are, until you realize When you are. 4. In the commentary on the Dalai Lama's (DVD) The Four Noble Truth's, Robert Thurman stressed that, "Buddhist teachings on compassion are grounded in the direct realization of Emptiness; without which, compassion is impossible." 5. In the book Crazy Wisdom, Chögyam Trungpa said, "Compassion is not so much feeling sorry for somebody, feeling that you are in a better place and somebody is in a worse place. Compassion is not having any hesitation to reflect your light on things. As light has no hesitation, no inhibition about reflecting on things, it does not discriminate whether to reflect on a pile of shit or on a pile of rock or on a pile of diamonds. It reflects on everything it faces." 6. Sakyamuni Buddha's greatest teaching, (purportedly) according to Sakyamuni, is that only through the perfect wisdom of the Heart sutra comes the perfect compassion of a bodhisattva. If compassion arises from form alone, it is false compassion, no matter how well intended. 8. Sharon Salzberg said, "Sometimes we think that to develop an open heart, to be truly loving and compassionate, means that we need to be passive, to allow others to abuse us, to smile and let anyone do what they want with us. Yet this is not what is meant by compassion. Quite the contrary. Compassion is not at all weak. It is the strength that arises out of seeing the true nature of suffering in the world. Compassion allows us to bear witness to that suffering, whether it is in ourselves or others, without fear; it allows us to name injustice without hesitation, and to act strongly, with all the skill at our disposal. To develop this mind state of compassion...is to learn to live, as the Buddha put it, with sympathy for all living beings, without exception." 9. Kenchen Thrangu Rinpoche: said, "...everbody thinks that compassion is important, and everyone has compassion. True enough, but the Buddha gave uncommon quintessential instructions when he taught the methods for cultivating compassion, and the differences are extraordinarily important."

Philosophy and how to books are fine, but I find gritty true life travel books hold my interest and take my breath away. My favorite Buddhist book is: 'The Gods Drink Whiskey: Stumbling Toward Enlightenment in the Land of the Tattered Buddha' by Buddhist Professor Stephen T. Asma. Its a write up of his travels teaching Buddhism in Cambodia. Don't let the tittle fool you, between stories of his travels he gets as deep into Buddhism as any philosophy books I've read. http://www.amazon.com/The-Gods-Drink-Whiskey-Enlightenment/dp/0060723955 This is one of the books I picked up at the library and had to buy a copy because its as deep as it is entertaining. If you ever dream of traveling East and learning about Buddhism, this is your book. Still I think I'll hunt down one of the Nan Hai-Chin's books- Working Toward Enlightenment, To Realize Enlightenment and Tao and Longevity- SereneBlue mentioned.

I used to get dreams of a nuclear war when I first learned about the atomic and hydrogen bombs as a kid. Learning about the a and h bombs has scared me and made me uneasy, and my dreams reflected that for a time. After a while I got used to the idea, and thought of it as more of a mundane and even theoretical detail that's largely irrelevant in day to day life. And I stopped dreaming of nuclear wars for the most part (99.999%). There was exactly one exception when I had an interesting spiritual experience around early 20's. In that experience I walked into a nuclear blast column on purpose. I wouldn't classify it as a dream. It was an experience. I wasn't dreaming, but rather, having a vision while meditating on the floor in my room.

People who claim to have obtained non dual awareness, which may or may not be enlightenment, it could be some form of schizophrenia even, claim that nothing is better or worse than anything. For them having sex with seventy two 18 year old virgins while stoned out of their gourd and winning the lottery would be no more appealing than being slowly ground into hamburger while alive. Neither pleasure nor pain have any meaning, nor does anything else in anything more than the context of a dream. According to them no person exists anymore to experience either pain nor pleasure. If this is mental illness or enlightenment I can't say for sure. It does seem these people no longer have any issues, as even a physical painful death is of no concern.

Not bad, but I would put it this way: It is possible to wake up and realize your life is a lucid dream.

Is it possible to wake up in reality and become lucid like you would in a lucid dream

hey everyone thank you for your continued support and help Yes, if there is a moderator or admin please check our ips to verify. I don't think i've ever met Tulku before at least not in this life time. Though Tulku thank you again for being who you are and having wrote what you did, it literally has changed the direction of my life. Everything that happened was real, I'm not here to play games and waste so much time writing all this. I sincerely needed help. With the good turn of things I feel so blessed and wanted those who are in the same shoes to be able to find some help. Maybe the mantras will work for you, maybe not. But there were also many other great suggestions, advice and exercises to do and take that others have contributed so please explore them all. Like life, there are many paths, and choices, just as there are many religions and martial arts and chi kung practices. None are ultimately right or wrong, but all seem to take to the same place. The mantra out of the blue work at the unexpected moment. and I think the most incredible things usually work like that when it is the most unexpected, least expect, where the mind does not concieve, life brings a surprise. I can't believe many are so skeptical, I understand where you are coming from though. As things that seem too good to be true, and yes there is a lot of bs out there. But honestly every word I write, even now I'm writing from my heart. I wish you could be there to see what happened, I don't want to sound like a spirtiual or religious freak, but after what I experienced I'm a believer, there is definitely way more out there then what meets the eye. Based on the comments I'm feeling people may be really stuck in their way of thinking, like the world can only this way or so and so because I read and perceived it that way, or experienced it that way. That I see the world from a tibetian perspective, a taoist, a scientific, or whatever it may be. We get so caught up in the knowledge we read and the reality bubble we create that we forget to accept all possiblities. Didn't someone like socrates once say to know is to not know? I think he alluded that we have to remind ourselves to have a sense of wonder in the world like children. Where anything is possible, new, unexpect, etc. They also have a similar saying about having the mind completely empty and not full. I've been through a lot of pain and suffering with the sexual addiction and was at very low point and was pretty much knocking on death's door. Then the miracle even't with the mantra. I'm not saying it cured, though I hope it did. Its only been a day so far. But so far things have been greatly improving. Im not from a tibetan background and don't believe in mantras by the way, but it was wonderful how life used mantras as way to show me other possiblities to respect all other aspects of life. That life doesn't just come in the way I think it does, but can come in many infinite ways that the mind can never dream or conceive. Just an update, not much but today I finally met the girl I was talking about and we just chatted up like old friends and it was a really good couple hour chat and walk around a park. I was scared to have a conversation and felt like there was good bonding and friendship in a communication way. Before it was so difficult to have conversations with people, thats if I could even get to the scenario of chatting with people. I would always not be fully focused, worried or self concisence. However today I also had a negative thing, my allergies were still pretty bad and I couldn't breath. I don't know if this is a side effect of whats happening or something I ate, but my chest felt really tight and breathing passage really tight, as if I had ashma and the whole day felt it really hard to breath, just gasping for air. My pulse has also slowed down. Above all if there is any summary for what I've learnt so far I would have to say is: Fearless. Live life fearlessly, the biggest obstacle is our mind which seems to be where the fear comes from. Be fearless and you will live in freedom, even in the midst of pain and suffering and being bothered by the hard breathing, I was fearless in the sense that I accepted the moment of what life offered and in that acceptance I somehow found peace. And then it came to pass and now I'm able to breath more easy now. I dont want to sound like i'm throwing philosophies out there or ideologies, sorry if I'am. Just take it for what it is, if it rings true to your heart then may it bless you, if not then move on and may you find what works for your way! I will keep you guys posted and bring up any challenges that come, and hope this place continues to be a place of healing and help. Again thank you to everyone out there who has been offering help, support and advice. You guys feel like my angels and brothers, honestly I feel so blessed. Thank you again.

You, the buddha, having grasped the one, seeing the universe as the dream of an ocean, as the light of your own mind reveals infinite shimmering mandala worlds, your body of bodies forever shattering into billions of buddhas each bearing their own fruits of enlightenment for endless sentient beings, do nothing. Because it's already done, in just this one moment... perhaps. Perhaps the significance of our actions right now are so vast, profound and far-reaching that the story of our own lives are reflected in the crucible of any and every possible life ever told, reaching it's fermentation in our being just so. It's interesting to think about!

Bad term for that by the way, since it has religious origins and connotations. The interesting but often overlooked meaning of the word holocaust is the religious name for a sacrificial offering by fire. (That meaning is also intended by some zionists regarding the Jewish holocaust.) How about global nuclear annihilation? ( Language provides so much variety. ) Hm, or maybe you did dream it in a religious context. P.S.: I'm only commenting on this because language shapes thought and thought shapes language.

Spoiler: We're collectively creating our reality. So if enough people believe with a lot of emotion that something world-changing is happening at the end of 2012, that craze itself might be the self-fulfilling prophecy. Regarding the poll: Had two dreams some weeks ago, with a few days or weeks in-between. I don't remember the order, but one was me at home with family, at night, and space aliens were attacking, with energy beams I think. I knew/thought they'd wipe out the whole human race, and couldn't handle that very well. Felt kinda unfulfilling to me. The other one, I was in a huge rectangular office building, very spacey, didn't even see any furniture, and when looking out the windows, there was nothing but forest, all around. Felt nice actually. Then an alarm signal sounded, not a conventional one, more like a loud buzzer, and a few seconds after that, the building was shaking so much that we (?) had trouble staying on our feet, and I think I almost fell down an escalator or something. Somehow in the dream I knew or assumed that that wasn't a regular earthquake, at least not like on planet Earth (maybe I was on another planet, not sure), but more like something immensely powerful was tearing the ground apart. Had a lot of mundane/weird dreams lately.

Interesting, my last animal dreams involved nice animals bringing me things so I could accomplish something I wanted/had to do.The animals were determined to make it happen. My last people dream involved drug-injections and supposed air-travel (but we never left the airport) prior to which a computer programmer dressed like a 'fairy' with pink tutu and wand. Great post Taomeow!

once or twice I had some wacky quasi catastrophe dreams, but that was 15, 20 years ago. when I dream it is just random musings, almost always pleasant. sensitive bullshit meter, so those weird couple many years ago I roused myself...they didnt perturb me, though. if there's "action" in my dreams it is needing to get something done!

{Taomeow add a dot for virus/plague if you have the time} One dream I thoroughly enjoyed: I woke up one morning Knowing that it was my purpose, my destiny to destroy civilization as we know it. With this knowledge, I also 'knew' that I was one of the 1 in 100 people who are Immune to the Ebola virus. All I had to do was become infected so I would be a carrier. I booked a flight to Africa, hired a jeep and an escort to get me as close to the Ebola zone as possible. It was cordoned off by the military so I spent another two days scouting their perimeter, looking for a weak spot I could exploit. I found one eventually, and by cover of night, wriggled in. I searched around inside there till I found an old elephant burial ground. I gleefully rolled around in old elephant scraps, till I 'knew' I had contracted the disease and then sneaked back out. The next thing was flying round and round to all the worlds international airports, and then standing in the various boarding cues to different country's, and coughing on people to Infect them. The next scene was walking through a waste land of a city. There had been rioting and looting and then - Silence. It was one of the most profound senses of joy I have ever felt. The happiness of occasionally seeing a face emerge and knowing that we were going to create the new world, and that Nature would regenerate and become glorious once again. The Happiness of having fulfilled my purpose. I have regular apocalypse dreams with varying themes, from famines, contagions, zombies or peak oil. Also it should be noted that I love the theme, think about it alot, and we in my house consider ourselves to be in apocalypse training. [steadily acquiring the skill sets necessary for the end of the world, as we know it]

Oh man, I had a dream where I was a person living in some dried up village when some invaders came on a flying island covered in trees and stuff I went inside it and it was all technologic and stuff

Have had some awesome ones. For instance, in one I stepped outside of my parent's house on a beautiful day, and all of a sudden there were pieces of land floating in the sky (similar to the movie Avatar, before it came out). Turned out they were actually alien invader ships in disguise, then these high tech Marine ships flew by and tried to take them out. Last year had a dream that the Mississippi flooded really bad so that numerous states were completely wiped out. I think it did end up flooding, but wasn't anywhere close to that.

Good way of putting that. Non-duality means that the (perceptual) distinction between Observer & Observed disappears. Since we normally identify ourselves as the "Observer," to us this initially feels like our "self" has disappeared and that there is simply "no self." "True"...but in the larger analysis, what's fully happened is that the whole dividing line between Observer/Observed doesn't exist (perceptually anymore). Whereas, saying that there is "no self" - is still operating within that dualistic paradigm - and implies that there is only the "Observed" left. But, true non-duality actually transcends both sides of that coin. So, what's left is a bizarre "quantum dream" state that may be neither fully "objective reality" or "subjective perception." Or I don't really know...I'm just rambling now.. Anyhow, the state of "oneness" traditionally occurs sometime after the macrocosmic orbit has already been opened. I think this basically happens when you open your xuan guan and see the "white strobe light."

karma is self-perpetuated and self-sustained, and samsara is a dream within your own self. Stop feeding your demons and rest in peace.

IN ORDER TO APPRECIATE "TAOBUMS" YA GATTA HAVE READ "THE DHARMA BUMS" BY JACK KEROUAC. IN CASE YA HAVENT, HERE IT IS. RJ ``````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````` JACK KEROUAC THE DHARMA BUMS Version 2.0 Dedicated to Han Shan 1 Hopping a freight out of Los Angeles at high noon one day in late September 1955 I got on a gondola and lay down with my duffel bag under my head and my knees crossed and contemplated the clouds as we rolled north to Santa Barbara. It was a local and I intended to sleep on the beach at Santa Barbara that night and catch either another local to San Luis Obispo the next morning or the first class freight all the way to San Francisco at seven p.m. Somewhere near Camarillo where Charlie Parker'd been mad and relaxed back to normal health, a thin old little bum climbed into my gondola as we headed into a siding to give a train right of way and looked surprised to see me there. He established himself at the other end of the gondola and lay down, facing me, with his head on his own miserably small pack and said nothing. By and by they blew the highball whistle after the eastbound freight had smashed through on the main line and we pulled out as the air got colder and fog began to blow from the sea over the warm valleys of the coast. Both the little bum and I, after unsuccessful attempts to huddle on the cold steel in wraparounds, got up and paced back and forth and jumped and flapped arms at each our end of the gon. Pretty soon we headed into another siding at a small railroad town and I figured I needed a poorboy of Tokay wine to complete the cold dusk run to Santa Barbara. "Will you watch my pack while I run over there and get a bottle of wine?" "Sure thing." I jumped over the side and ran across Highway 101 to the store, and bought, besides wine, a little bread and candy. I ran back to my freight train which had another fifteen minutes to wait in the now warm sunny scene. But it was late afternoon and bound to get cold soon. The little bum was sitting cross-legged at his end before a pitiful repast of one can of sardines. I took pity on him and went over and said, "How about a little wine to warm you up? Maybe you'd like some bread and cheese with your sardines." "Sure thing." He spoke from far away inside a little meek voice-box afraid or unwilling to assert himself. I'd bought the cheese three days ago in Mexico City before the long cheap bus trip across Zacatecas and Durango and Chihuahua two thousand long miles to the border at El Paso. He ate the cheese and bread and drank the wine with gusto and gratitude. I was pleased. I reminded myself of the line in the Diamond Sutra that says, "Practice charity without holding in mind any conceptions about charity, for charity after all is just a word." I was very devout in those days and was practicing my religious devotions almost to perfection. Since then I've become a little hypocritical about my lip-service and a little tired and cynical. Because now I am grown so old and neutral. . . . But then I really believed in the reality of charity and kindness and humility and zeal and neutral tranquillity and wisdom and ecstasy, and I believed that I was an old time bhikku in modern clothes wandering the world (usually the immense triangular arc of New York to Mexico City to San Francisco) in order to turn the wheel of the True Meaning, or Dharma, and gain merit for myself as a future Buddha (Awakener) and as a future Hero in Paradise. I had not met Japhy Ryder yet, I was about to the next week, or heard anything about "Dharma Bums" although at this time I was a perfect Dharma Bum myself and considered myself a religious wanderer. The little bum in the gondola solidified all my beliefs by warming up to the wine and talking and finally whipping out a tiny slip of paper which contained a prayer by Saint Teresa announcing that after her death she will return to the earth by showering it with roses from heaven, forever, for all living creatures. "Where did you get this?" I asked. "Oh, I cut it out of a reading-room magazine in Los Angeles couple of years ago. I always carry it, with me." "And you squat in boxcars and read it?" "Most every day." He talked not much more than this, didn't amplify on the subject of Saint Teresa, and was very modest about his religion and told me little about his personal life. He is the kind of thin quiet little bum nobody pays much attention to even in Skid Row, let alone Main Street. If a cop hustled him off, he hustled, and disappeared, and if yard dicks were around in big city yards when a freight was pulling out, chances are they never got a sight of the little man hiding in the weeds and hopping on in the shadows. When I told him I was planning to hop the Zipper first class freight train the next night he said, "Ah you mean the Midnight Ghost." "Is that what you call the Zipper?" "You musta been a railroad man on that railroad." "I was, I was a brakeman on the S.P." "Well, we bums call it the Midnight Ghost cause you get on it at L.A. and nobody sees you till you get to San Francisco in the morning the thing flies so fast." "Eighty miles an hour on the straightaways, pap." "That's right but it gits mighty cold at night when you're flyin up that coast north of Gavioty and up around Surf." "Surf that's right, then the mountains down south of Margarita." "Margarity, that's right, but I've rid that Midnight Ghost more times'n I can count I guess." "How many years been since you've been home?" "More years than I care to count I guess. Ohio was where I was from." But the train got started, the wind grew cold and foggy again, and we spent the following hour and a half doing everything in our power and will power not to freeze and chatter-teeth too much. I'd huddle and meditate on the warmth, the actual warmth of God, to obviate the cold; then I'd jump up and flap my arms and legs and sing. But the little bum had more patience than I had and just lay there most of the time chewing his cud in forlorn bitter-lipped thought. My teeth were chattering, my lips blue. By dark we saw with relief the familiar mountains of Santa Barbara taking shape and soon we'd be stopped and warm in the warm starlit night by the tracks. I bade farewell to the little bum of Saint Teresa at the crossing, where we jumped off, and went to sleep the night in the sand in my blankets, far down the beach at the foot of a cliff where cops wouldn't see me and drive me away. I cooked hot-dogs on freshly cut and sharpened sticks over the coals of a big wood fire, and heated a can of beans and a can of cheese macaroni in the red hot hollows, and drank my newly bought wine, and exulted in one of the most pleasant nights of my life. I waded in the water and dunked a little and stood looking up at the splendorous night sky, Avalokitesvara's ten-wondered universe of dark and diamonds. "Well, Ray," sez I, glad, "only a few miles to go. You've done it again." Happy. Just in my swim shorts, barefooted, wild-haired, in the red fire dark, singing, swigging wine, spitting, jumping, running-that's the way to live. All alone and free in the soft sands of the beach by the sigh of the sea out there, with the Ma-Wink fallopian virgin warm stars reflecting on the outer channel fluid belly waters. And if your cans are red hot and you can't hold them in your hands, just use good old railroad gloves, that's all. I let the food cool a little to enjoy more wine and my thoughts. I sat cross-legged in the sand and contemplated my life. Well, there, and what difference did it make? "What's going to happen to me up ahead?" Then the wine got to work on my taste buds and before long I had to pitch into those hot dogs, biting them right off the end of the stick spit, and chomp chomp, and dig down into the two tasty cans with the old pack spoon, spooning up rich bites of hot beans and pork, or of macaroni with sizzling hot sauce, and maybe a little sand thrown in. "And how many grains of sand are there on this beach?" I think. "Why, as many grains of sand as there are stars in that sky!" (chomp chomp) and if so "How many human beings have there been, in fact how many living creatures have there been, since before the less part of beginningless time? Why, oy, I reckon you would have to calculate the number of grains of sand on this beach and on every star in the sky, in every one of the ten thousand great chilicosms, which would be a number of sand grains uncomputable by IBM and Burroughs too, why boy I don't rightly know" (swig of wine) "I don't rightly know but it must be a couple umpteen trillion sextillion infideled and busted up innumerable number of roses that sweet Saint Teresa and that fine little old man are now this minute showering on your head, with lilies." Then, meal done, wiping my lips with my red bandana, I washed up the dishes in the salt sea, kicked a few clods of sand, wandered around, wiped them, put them away, stuck the old spoon back in the salty pack, and lay down curled in my blanket for a night's good and just rest. Waking up in the middle of the night, "Wa? Where am I, what is the basketbally game of eternity the girls are playing here by me in the old house of my life, the house isn't on fire is it?" but it's only the banding rush of waves piling up higher closer high tide to my blanket bed. "I be as hard and old as a conch shell," and I go to sleep and dream that while sleeping I use up three slices of bread breathing. . . . Ah poor mind of man, and lonely man alone on the beach, and God watching with intent smile I'd say. . . . And I dreamed of home long ago in New England, my little kitkats trying to go a thousand miles following me on the road across America, and my mother with a pack on her back, and my father running after the ephemeral uncatchable train, and I dreamed and woke up to a gray dawn, saw it, sniffed (because I had seen all the horizon shift as if a sceneshifter had hurried to put it back in place and make me believe in its reality), and went back to sleep, turning over. "It's all the same thing," I heard my voice say in the void that's highly embraceable during sleep. 2 The little Saint Teresa bum was the first genuine Dharma Bum I'd met, and the second was the number one Dharma Bum of them all and in fact it was he, Japhy Ryder, who coined the phrase. Japhy Ryder was a kid from eastern Oregon brought up in a log cabin deep in the woods with his father and mother and sister, from the beginning a woods boy, an axman, farmer, interested in animals and Indian lore so that when he finally got to college by hook or crook he was already well equipped for his early studies in anthropology and later in Indian myth and in the actual texts of Indian mythology. Finally he learned Chinese and Japanese and became an Oriental scholar and discovered the greatest Dharma Bums of them all, the Zen Lunatics of China and Japan. At the same time, being a Northwest boy with idealistic tendencies, he got interested in old-fashioned I.W.W. anarchism and learned to play the guitar and sing old worker songs to go with his Indian songs and general folk song interests. I first saw him walking down the street in San Francisco the following week (after hitchhiking the rest of the way from Santa Barbara in one long zipping ride given me, as though anybody'll believe this, by a beautiful darling young blonde in a snow-white strapless bathing suit and barefooted with a gold bracelet on her ankle, driving a next-year's cinnamon-red Lincoln Mercury, who wanted benzedrine so she could drive all the way to the City and when I said I had some in my duffel bag yelled "Crazy!") -I saw Japhy loping along in that curious long stride of the mountain climber, with a small knapsack on his back filled with books and toothbrushes and whatnot which was his small "goin-to-the-city" knapsack as apart from his big full rucksack complete with sleeping bag, poncho, and cook pots. He wore a little goatee, strangely Oriental-looking with his somewhat slanted green eyes, but he didn't look like a Bohemian at all, and was far from being a Bohemian (a hanger-onner around the arts). He was wiry, suntanned, vigorous, open, all howdies and glad talk and even yelling hello to bums on the street and when asked a question answered right off the bat from the top or bottom of his mind I don't know which and always in a sprightly sparkling way. "Where did you meet Ray Smith?" they asked him when we walked into The Place, the favorite bar of the hep cats around the Beach. "Oh I always meet my Bodhisattvas in the street!" he yelled, and ordered beers. It was a great night, a historic night in more ways than one. He and some other poets (he also wrote poetry and translated Chinese and Japanese poetry into English) were scheduled to give a poetry reading at the Gallery Six in town. They were all meeting in the bar and getting high. But as they stood and sat around I saw that he was the only one who didn't look like a poet, though poet he was indeed. The other poets were either horn-rimmed intellectual hep cats with wild black hair like Alvah Goldbook, or delicate pale handsome poets like Ike O'Shay (in a suit), or out-of-this-world genteel-looking Renaissance Italians like Francis DaPavia (who looks like a young priest), or bow-tied wild-haired old anarchist fuds like Rheinhold Cacoethes, or big fat bespectacled quiet booboos like Warren Coughlin. And all the other hopeful poets were standing around, in various costumes, worn-at-the-sleeves corduroy jackets, scuffly shoes, books sticking out of their pockets. But Japhy was in rough worlungman's clothes he'd bought secondhand in Goodwill stores to serve him on mountain climbs and hikes and for sitting in the open at night, for campfires, for hitchhiking up and down the Coast. In fact in his little knapsack he also had a funny green alpine cap that he wore when he got to the foot of a mountain, usually with a yodel, before starting to tromp up a few thousand feet. He wore mountain-climbing boots, expensive ones, his pride and joy, Italian make, in which he clomped around over the sawdust floor of the bar like an old-time lumberjack. Japhy wasn't big, just about five foot seven, but strong and wiry and fast and muscular. His face was a mask of woeful bone, but his eyes twinkled like the eyes of old giggling sages of China, over that little goatee, to offset the rough look of his handsome face. His teeth were a little brown, from early backwoods neglect, but you never noticed that and he opened his mouth wide to guffaw at jokes. Sometimes he'd quiet down and just stare sadly at the floor, like a man whittling. He was merry at times. He showed great sympathetic interest in me and in the story about the little Saint Teresa bum and the stories I told him about my own experiences hopping freights or hitchhiking or hiking in woods. He claimed at once that I was a great "Bodhisattva," meaning "great wise being" or "great wise angel," and that I was ornamenting this world with my sincerity. We had the same favorite Buddhist saint, too: Avalokitesvara, or, in Japanese, Kwannon the Eleven-Headed. He knew all the details of Tibetan, Chinese, Mahayana, Hinayana, Japanese and even Burmese Buddhism but I warned him at once I didn't give a goddamn about the mythology and all the names and national flavors of Buddhism, but was just interested in the first of Sakyamuni's four noble truths, All life is suffering. And to an extent interested in the third, The suppression of suffering can be achieved, which I didn't quite believe was possible then. (I hadn't yet digested the Lankavatara Scripture which eventually shows you that there's nothing in the world but the mind itself, and therefore all's possible including the suppression of suffering.) Japhy's buddy was the aforementioned booboo big old goodhearted Warren Coughlin a hundred and eighty pounds of poet meat, who was advertised by Japhy (privately in my ear) as being more than meets the eye. "Who is he?" "He's my big best friend from up in Oregon, we've known each other a long time. At first you think he's slow and stupid but actually he's a shining diamond. You'll see. Don't let him cut you to ribbons. He'll make the top of your head fly away, boy, with a choice chance word." "Why?" "He's a great mysterious Bodhisattva I think maybe a reincarnation of Asagna the great Mahayana scholar of the old centuries." "And who am I?" "I dunno, maybe you're Goat." "Goat?" "Maybe you're Mudface." "Who's Mudface?" "Mudface is the mud in your goat face. What would you say if someone was asked the question 'Does a dog have the Buddha nature?' and said 'Woof!' " "I'd say that was a lot of silly Zen Buddhism." This took Japhy back a bit. "Lissen Japhy," I said, "I'm not a Zen Buddhist, I'm a serious Buddhist, I'm an old-fashioned dreamy Hinayana coward of later Mahayanism," and so forth into the night, my contention being that Zen Buddhism didn't concentrate on kindness so much as on confusing the intellect to make it perceive the illusion of all sources of things. "It's mean" I complained. "All those Zen Masters throwing young kids in the mud because they can't answer their silly word questions." "That's because they want them to realize mud is better than words, boy." But I can't recreate the exact (will try) brilliance of all Japhy's answers and come-backs and come-ons with which he had me on pins and needles all the rime and did eventually stick something in my crystal head that made me change my plans in life. Anyway I followed the whole gang of howling poets to the reading at Gallery Six that night, which was, among other important things, the night of the birth of the San Francisco Poetry Renaissance. Everyone was there. It was a mad night. And I was the one who got things jumping by going around collecting dimes and quarters from the rather stiff audience standing around in the gallery and coming back with three huge gallon jugs of California Burgundy and getting them all piffed so that by eleven o'clock when Alvah Goldbook was reading his, wailing his poem "Wail" drunk with arms outspread everybody was yelling "Go! Go! Go!" (like a jam session) and old Rheinhold Cacoethes the father of the Frisco poetry scene was wiping his tears in gladness. Japhy himself read his fine poems about Coyote the God of the North American Plateau Indians (I think), at least the God of the Northwest Indians, Kwakiutl and what-all. "Fuck you! sang Coyote, and ran away!" read Japhy to the distinguished audience, making them all howl with joy, it was so pure, fuck being a dirty word that comes out clean. And he had his tender lyrical lines, like the ones about bears eating berries, showing his love of animals, and great mystery lines about oxen on the Mongolian road showing his knowledge of Oriental literature even on to Hsuan Tsung the great Chinese monk who walked from China to Tibet, Lanchow to Kashgar and Mongolia carrying a stick of incense in his hand. Then Japhy showed his sudden barroom humor with lines about Coyote bringing goodies. And his anarchistic ideas about how Americans don't know how to live, with lines about commuters being trapped in living rooms that come from poor trees felled by chainsaws (showing here, also, his background as a logger up north). His voice was deep and resonant and somehow brave, like the voice of old-time American heroes and orators. Something earnest and strong and humanly hopeful I liked about him, while the other poets were either too dainty in their aestheticism, or too hysterically cynical to hope for anything, or too abstract and indoorsy, or too political, or like Coughlin too incomprehensible to understand (big Coughlin saying things about "unclarified processes" though where Coughlin did say that revelation was a personal thing I noticed the strong Buddhist and idealistic feeling of Japhy, which he'd shared with goodhearted Coughlin in their buddy days at college, as I had shared mine with Alvah in the Eastern scene and with others less apocalyptical and straighter but in no sense more sympathetic and tearful). Meanwhile scores of people stood around in the darkened gallery straining to hear every word of the amazing poetry reading as I wandered from group to group, facing them and facing away from the stage, urging them to glug a slug from the jug, or wandered back and sat on the right side of the stage giving out little wows and yesses of approval and even whole sentences of comment with nobody's invitation but in the general gaiety nobody's disapproval either. It was a great night. Delicate Francis DaPavia read, from delicate onionskin, yellow pages, or pink, which he kept flipping carefully with long white fingers, the poems of his dead chum Altman who'd eaten too much peyote in Chihuahua (or died of polio, one) but read none of his own poems-a charming elegy in itself to the memory of the dead young poet, enough to draw tears from the Cervantes of Chapter Seven, and read them in a delicate Englishy voice that had me crying with inside laughter though I later got to know Francis and liked him. Among the people standing in the audience was Rosie Buchanan, a girl with a short haircut, red-haired, bony, handsome, a real gone chick and friend of everybody of any consequence on the Beach, who'd been a painter's model and a writer herself and was bubbling over with excitement at that time because she was in love with my old buddy Cody. "Great, hey Rosie?" I yelled, and she took a big slug from my jug and shined eyes at me. Cody just stood behind her with both arms around her waist. Between poets, Rheinhold Cacoethes, in his bow tie and shabby old coat, would get up and make a little funny speech in his snide funny voice and introduce the next reader; but as I say come eleven-thirty when all the poems were read and everybody was milling around wondering what had happened and what would come next in American poetry, he was wiping his eyes with his handkerchief. And we all got together with him, the poets, and drove in several cars to Chinatown for a big fabulous dinner off the Chinese menu, with chopsticks, yelling conversation in the middle of the night in one of those free-swinging great Chinese restaurants of San Francisco. This happened to be Japhy's favorite Chinese restaurant, Nam Yuen, and he showed me how to order and how to eat with chopsticks and told anecdotes about the Zen Lunatics of the Orient and had me going so glad (and we had a bottle of wine on the table) that finally I went over to an old cook in the doorway of the kitchen and asked him "Why did Bodhidharma come from the West?" (Bodhidharma was the Indian who brought Buddhism eastward to China.) "I don't care," said the old cook, with lidded eyes, and I told Japhy and he said, "Perfect answer, absolutely perfect. Now you know what I mean by Zen." I had a lot more to learn, too. Especially about how to handle girls-Japhy's incomparable Zen Lunatic way, which I got a chance to see firsthand the following week. 3 In Berkeley I was living with Alvah Goldbook in his little rose-covered cottage in the backyard of a bigger house on Milvia Street. The old rotten porch slanted forward to the ground, among vines, with a nice old rocking chair that I sat in every morning to read my Diamond Sutra. The yard was full of tomato plants about to ripen, and mint, mint, everything smelling of mint, and one fine old tree that I loved to sit under and meditate on those cool perfect starry California October nights unmatched anywhere in the world. We had a perfect little kitchen with a gas stove, but no icebox, but no matter. We also had a perfect little bathroom with a tub and hot water, and one main room, covered with pillows and floor mats of straw and mattresses to sleep on, and books, books, hundreds of books everything from Catullus to Pound to Blyth to albums of Bach and Beethoven (and even one swinging Ella Fitzgerald album with Clark Terry very interesting on trumpet) and a good three-speed Webcor phonograph that played loud enough to blast the roof off: and the roof nothing but plywood, the walls too, through which one night in one of our Zen Lunatic drunks I put my fist in glee and Coughlin saw me and put his head through about three inches. About a mile from there, way down Milvia and then upslope toward the campus of the University of California, behind another big old house on a quiet street (Hillegass), Japhy lived in his own shack which was infinitely smaller than ours, about twelve by twelve, with nothing in it but typical Japhy appurtenances that showed his belief in the simple monastic life-no chairs at all, not even one sentimental rocking chair, but just straw mats. In the corner was his famous rucksack with cleaned-up pots and pans all fitting into one another in a compact unit and all tied and put away inside a knotted-up blue bandana. Then his Japanese wooden pata shoes, which he never used, and a pair of black inside-pata socks to pad around softly in over his pretty straw mats, just room for your four toes on one side and your big toe on the other. He had a slew of orange crates all filled with beautiful scholarly books, some of them in Oriental languages, all the great sutras, comments on sutras, the complete works of D. T. Suzuki and a fine quadruple-volume edition of Japanese haikus. He also had an immense collection of valuable general poetry. In fact if a thief should have broken in there the only things of real value were the books. Japhy's clothes were all old hand-me-downs bought secondhand with a bemused and happy expression in Goodwill and Salvation Army stores: wool socks darned, colored undershirts, jeans, workshirts, moccasin shoes, and a few turtleneck sweaters that he wore one on top the other in the cold mountain nights of the High Sierras in California and the High Cascades of Washington and Oregon on the long incredible jaunts that sometimes lasted weeks and weeks with just a few pounds of dried food in his pack. A few orange crates made his table, on which, one late sunny afternoon as I arrived, was steaming a peaceful cup of tea at his side as he bent his serious head to the Chinese signs of the poet Han Shan. Coughlin had given me the address and I came there, seeing first Japhy's bicycle on the lawn in front of the big house out front (where his landlady lived) then the few odd boulders and rocks and funny little trees he'd brought back from mountain jaunts to set out in his own "Japanese tea garden" or "tea-house garden," as there was a convenient pine tree soughing over his little domicile. A peacefuler scene I never saw than when, in that rather nippy late red afternoon, I simply opened his little door and looked in and saw him at the end of the little shack, sitting cross-legged on a Paisley pillow on a straw mat, with his spectacles on, making him look old and scholarly and wise, with book on lap and the little tin teapot and porcelain cup steaming at his side. He looked up very peacefully, saw who it was, said, "Ray, come in," and bent his eyes again to the script. "What you doing?" "Translating Han Shan's great poem called 'Cold Mountain' written a thousand years ago some of it scribbled on the sides of cliffs hundreds of miles away from any other living beings." "Wow." "When you come into this house though you've got to take your shoes off, see those straw mats, you can ruin 'em with shoes." So I took my soft-soled blue cloth shoes off and laid them dutifully by the door and he threw me a pillow and I sat crosslegged along the little wooden board wall and he offered me a cup of hot tea. "Did you ever read the Book of Tea?" said he. "No, what's that?" "It's a scholarly treatise on how to make tea utilizing all the knowledge of two thousand years about tea-brewing. Some of the descriptions of the effect of the first sip of tea, and the second, and the third, are really wild and ecstatic." "Those guys got high on nothing, hey?" "Sip your tea and you'll see; this is good green tea." It was good and I immediately felt calm and warm. "Want me to read you parts of this Han Shan poem? Want me to tell you about Han Shan?" "Yeah." "Han Shan you see was a Chinese scholar who got sick of the big city and the world and took off to hide in the mountains." "Say, that sounds like you." "In those days you could really do that. He stayed in caves not far from a Buddhist monastery in the T'ang Hsing district of T'ien Tai and his only human friend was the funny Zen Lunatic Shih-te who had a job sweeping out the monastery with a straw broom. Shih-te was a poet too but he never wrote much down. Every now and then Han Shan would come down from Cold Mountain in his bark clothing and come into the warm kitchen and wait for food, but none of the monks would ever feed him because he didn't want to join the order and answer the meditation bell three times a day. You see why in some of his utterances, like-listen and I'll look here and read from the Chinese," and I bent over his shoulder and watched him read from big wild crowtracks of Chinese signs: "Climbing up Cold Mountain path, Cold Mountain path goes on and on, long gorge choked with scree and boulders, wide creek and mist-blurred grass, moss is slippery though there's been no rain, pine sings but there's no wind, who can leap the world's ties and sit with me among white clouds?" "Wow." "Course that's my own translation into English, you see there are five signs for each line and I have to put in Western prepositions and articles and such." "Why don't you just translate it as it is, five signs, five words? What's those first five signs?" "Sign for climbing, sign for up, sign for cold, sign for mountain, sign for path." "Well then, translate it 'Climbing up Cold Mountain path.' " "Yeah, but what do you do with the sign for long, sign for gorge, sign for choke, sign for avalanche, sign for boulders?" "Where's that?" "That's the third line, would have to read 'Long gorge choke avalanche boulders.' " "Well that's even better!" "Well yeah, I thought of that, but I have to have this pass the approval of Chinese scholars here at the university and have it clear in English." "Boy what a great thing this is," I said looking around at the little shack, "and you sitting here so very quietly at this very quiet hour studying all alone with your glasses. . . ." "Ray what you got to do is go climb a mountain with me soon. How would you like to climb Matterhorn?" "Great! Where's that?" "Up in the High Sierras. We can go there with Henry Morley in his car and bring our packs and take off from the lake. I could carry all the food and stuff we need in my rucksack and you could borrow Alvah's small knapsack and carry extra socks and shoes and stuff." "What's these signs mean?" "These signs mean that Han Shan came down from the mountain after many years roaming around up there, to see his folks in town, says, 'Till recently I stayed at Cold Mountain, et cetera, yesterday I called on friends and family, more than half had gone to the Yellow Springs,' that means death, the Yellow Springs, 'now morning I face my lone shadow, I can't study with both eyes full of tears.' " "That's like you too, Japhy, studying with eyes full of tears." "My eyes aren't full of tears!" "Aren't they going to be after a long long time?" "They certainly will, Ray . . . and look here, 'In the mountains it's cold, it's always been cold not just this year,' see, he's real high, maybe twelve thousand or thirteen thousand feet or more, way up there, and says, 'Jagged scarps always snowed in, woods in the dark ravines spitting mist, grass is still sprouting at the end of June, leaves begin to fall in early August, and here am I high as a junkey-' " "As a junkey!" "That's my own translation, he actually says here am I as high as the sensualist in the city below, but I made it modern and high translation." "Great." I wondered why Han Shan was Japhy's hero. "Because," said he, "he was a poet, a mountain man, a Buddhist dedicated to the principle of meditation on the essence of all things, a vegetarian too by the way though I haven't got on that kick from figuring maybe in this modern world to be a vegetarian is to split hairs a little since all sentient beings eat what they can. And he was a man of solitude who could take off by himself and live purely and true to himself." "That sounds like you too." "And like you too, Ray, I haven't forgotten what you told me about how you made it in the woods meditating in North Carolina and all." Japhy was very sad, subdued, I'd never seen him so quiet, melancholy, thoughtful his voice was as tender as a mother's, he seemed to be talking from far away to a poor yearning creature (me) who needed to hear his message he wasn't putting anything on he was in a bit of a trance. "Have you been meditating today?" "Yeah I meditate first thing in the morning before breakfast and I always meditate a long time in the afternoon unless I'm interrupted." "Who interrupts you?" "Oh, people. Coughlin sometimes, and Alvah came yesterday, and Rol Sturlason, and I got this girl comes over to play yabyum." "Yabyum? What's that?" "Don't you know about yabyum, Smith? I'll tell you later." He seemed to be too sad to talk about yabyum, which I found out about a couple of nights later. We talked a while longer about Han Shan and poems on cliffs and as I was going away his friend Rol Sturlason, a tall blond good-looking kid, came in to discuss his coming trip to Japan with him. This Rol Sturlason was interested in the famous Ryoanji rock garden of Shokokuji monastery in Kyoto, which is nothing but old boulders placed in such a way, supposedly mystically aesthetic, as to cause thousands of tourists and monks every year to journey there to stare at the boulders in the sand and thereby gain peace of mind. I have never met such weird yet serious and earnest people. I never saw Rol Sturlason again, he went to Japan soon after, but I can't forget what he said about the boulders, to my question, "Well who placed them in that certain way that's so great?" "Nobody knows, some monk, or monks, long ago. But there is a definite mysterious form in the arrangement of the rocks. It's only through form that we can realize emptiness." He showed me the picture of the boulders in well-raked sand, looking like islands in the sea, looking as though they had eyes (declivities) and surrounded by a neatly screened and architectural monastery patio. Then he showed me a diagram of the stone arrangement with the projection in silhouette and showed me the geometrical logics and all, and mentioned the phrases "lonely individuality" and the rocks as "bumps pushing into space," all meaning some kind of koan business I wasn't as much interested in as in him and especially in good kind Japhy who brewed more tea on his noisy gasoline primus and gave us added cups with almost a silent Oriental bow. It was quite different from the night of the poetry reading. 4 But the next night, about midnight, Coughlin and I and Alvah got together and decided to buy a big gallon jug of Burgundy and go bust in on Japhy in his shack. "What's he doing tonight?" I asked. "Oh," says Coughlin, "probably studying, probably screwing, we'll go see." We bought the jug on Shattuck Avenue way down and went over and once more I saw his pitiful English bicycle on the lawn. "Japhy travels around on that bicycle with his little knapsack on his back all up and down Berkeley all day," said Coughlin. "He used to do the same thing at Reed College in Oregon. He was a regular fixture up there. Then we'd throw big wine parties and have girls and end up jumping out of windows and playing Joe College pranks all up and down town." "Gee, he's strange," said Alvah, biting his lip, in a mood of marvel, and Alvah himself was making a careful interested study of our strange noisy-quiet friend. We came in the little door again, Japhy looked up from his cross-legged study over a book, American poetry this time, glasses on, and said nothing but "Ah" in a strangely cultured tone. We took off our shoes and padded across the little five feet of straw to sit by him, but I was last with my shoes off, and had the jug in my hand, which I turned to show him from across the shack, and from his cross-legged position Japhy suddenly roared "Yaaaaah!" and leaped up into the air and straight across the room to me, landing on his feet in a fencing position with a sudden dagger in his hand the tip of it just barely stabbing the glass of the bottle with a small distinct "clink." It was the most amazing leap I ever saw in my life, except by nutty acrobats, much like a mountain goat, which he was, it turned out. Also it reminded me of a Japanese Samurai warrior-the yelling roar, the leap, the position, and his expression of comic wrath his eyes bulging and making a big funny face at me. I had the feeling it was really a complaint against our breaking in on his studies and against wine itself which would get him drunk and make him miss his planned evening of reading. But without further ado he uncapped the bottle himself and took a big slug and we all sat cross-legged and spent four hours screaming news at one another, one of the funniest nights. Some of it went like this: japhy: Well, Coughlin, you old fart, what you been doin? coughlin: Nothin. alvah: What are all these strange books here? Hm, Pound, do you like Pound? japhy: Except for the fact that that old fartface flubbed up the name of Li Po by calling him by his Japanese name and all such famous twaddle, he was all right-in fact he's my favorite poet. ray: Pound? Who wants to make a favorite poet out of that pretentious nut? japhy: Have some more wine, Smith, you're not making sense. Who is your favorite poet, Alvah? ray: Why don't somebody ask me my favorite poet, I know more about poetry than all of you put together. japhy: Is that true? alvah: It might be. Haven't you seen Ray's new book of poems he just wrote in Mexico-"the wheel of the quivering meat conception turns in the void expelling tics, porcupines, elephants, people, stardusts, fools, nonsense . . ." ray: That's not it! japhy: Speaking of meat, have you read the new poem of ... Etc., etc., then finally disintegrating into a wild talkfest and yellfest and finally songfest with people rolling on the floor in laughter and ending with Alvah and Coughlin and I going staggering up the quiet college street arm in arm singing "Eli Eli" at the top of our voices and dropping the empty jug right at our feet in a crash of glass, as Japhy laughed from his little door. But we'd made him miss his evening of study and I felt bad about that, till the following night when he suddenly appeared at our little cottage with a pretty girl and came in and told her to take her clothes off, which she did at once. 5 This was in keeping with Japhy's theories about women and lovemaking. I forgot to mention that the day the rock artist had called on him in the late afternoon, a girl had come right after, a blonde in rubber boots and a Tibetan coat with wooden buttons, and in the general talk she'd inquired about our plan to climb Mount Matterhorn and said "Can I come with ya?" as she was a bit of a mountain climber herself. "Shore," said Japhy, in his funny voice he used for joking, a big loud deep imitation of a lumberjack he knew in the Northwest, a ranger actually, old Burnie Byers, "shore, come on with us and we'll all screw ya at ten thousand feet" and the way he said it was so funny and casual, and in fact serious, that the girl wasn't shocked at all but somewhat pleased. In this same spirit he'd now brought this girl Princess to our cottage, it was about eight o'clock at night, dark, Alvah and I were quietly sipping tea and reading poems or typing poems at the typewriter and two bicycles came in the yard: Japhy on his, Princess on hers. Princess had gray eyes and yellow hair and was very beautiful and only twenty. I must say one thing about her, she was sex mad and man mad, so there wasn't much of a problem in persuading her to play yabyum. "Don't you know about yabyum, Smith?" said Japhy in his big booming voice striding in in his boots holding Princess's hand. "Princess and I come here to show ya, boy." "Suits me," said I, "whatever it is." Also I'd known Princess before and had been mad about her, in the City, about a year ago. It was just another wild coincidence that she had happened to meet Japhy and fallen in love with him and madly too, she'd do anything he said. Whenever people dropped in to visit us at the cottage I'd always put my red bandana over the little wall lamp and put out the ceiling light to make a nice cool red dim scene to sit and drink wine and talk in. I did this, and went to get the bottle out of the kitchen and couldn't believe my eyes when I saw Japhy and Alvah taking their clothes off and throwing them every whichaway and I looked and Princess was stark naked, her skin white as snow when the red sun hits it at dusk, in the dim red light. "What the hell," I said. "Here's what yabyum is, Smith," said Japhy, and he sat cross-legged on the pillow on the floor and motioned to Princess, who came over and sat down on him facing him with her arms about his neck and they sat like that saying nothing for a while. Japhy wasn't at all nervous and embarrassed and just sat there in perfect form just as he was supposed to do. "This is what they do in the temples of Tibet. It's a holy ceremony, it's done just like this in front of chanting priests. People pray and recite OMB Mani Pahdme Hum, which means Amen the Thunderbolt in the Dark Void. I'm the thunderbolt and Princess is the dark void, you see." "But what's she thinking?" I yelled almost in despair, I'd had such idealistic longings for that girl in that past year and had conscience-stricken hours wondering if I should seduce her because she was so young and all. "Oh this is lovely," said Princess. "Come on and try it." "But I can't sit cross-legged like that." Japhy was sitting in the full lotus position, it's called, with both ankles over both thighs. Alvah was sitting on the mattress trying to yank his ankles over his thighs to do it. Finally Japhy's legs began to hurt and they just tumbled over on the mattress where both Alvah and Japhy began to explore the territory. I still couldn't believe it. "Take your clothes off and join in, Smith!" But on top of all that, the feelings about Princess, I'd also gone through an entire year of celibacy based on my feeling that lust was the direct cause of birth which was the direct cause of suffering and death and I had really no lie come to a point where I regarded lust as offensive and even cruel. "Pretty girls make graves," was my saying, whenever I'd had to turn my head around involuntarily to stare at the incomparable pretties of Indian Mexico. And the absence of active lust in me had also given me a new peaceful life that I was enjoying a great deal. But this was too much. I was still afraid to take my clothes off; also I never liked to do that in front of more than one person, especially with men around. But Japhy didn't give a goddamn hoot and holler about any of this and pretty soon he was making Princess happy and then Alvah had a turn (with his big serious eyes staring in the dim light, and him reading poems a minute ago). So I said "How about me startin to work on her arm?" "Go ahead, great." Which I did, lying down on the floor with all my clothes on and kissing her hand, then her wrist, then up, to her body, as she laughed and almost cried with delight everybody everywhere working on her. All the peaceful celibacy of my Buddhism was going down the drain. "Smith, I distrust any kind of Buddhism or any kinda philosophy or social system that puts down sex," said Japhy quite scholarly now that he was done and sitting naked cross-legged rolling himself a Bull Durham cigarette (which he did as part of his "simplicity" life). It ended up with everybody naked and finally making gay pots of coffee in the kitchen and Princess on the kitchen floor naked with her knees clasped in her arms, lying on her side, just for nothing, just to do it, then finally she and I took a warm bath together in the bathtub and could hear Alvah and Japhy discussing Zen Free Love Lunacy orgies in the other room. "Hey Princess we'll do this every Thursday night, hey?" yelled Japhy. "It'll be a regular function." "Yeah," yelled Princess from the bathtub. I'm telling you she was actually glad to do all this and told me "You know, I feel like I'm the mother of all things and I have to take care of my little children." "You're such a young pretty thing yourself." "But I'm the old mother of earth. I'm a Bodhisattva." She was just a little off her nut but when I heard her say "Bodhisattva" I realized she wanted to be a big Buddhist like Japhy and being a girl the only way she could express it was this way, which had its traditional roots in the yabyum ceremony of Tibetan Buddhism, so everything was fine. Alvah was immensely pleased and was all for the idea of "every Thursday night" and so was I by now. "Alvah, Princess says she's a Bodhisattva." "Of course she is." "She says she's the mother of all of us." "The Bodhisattva women of Tibet and parts of ancient India," said Japhy, "were taken and used as holy concubines in temples and sometimes in ritual caves and would get to lay up a stock of merit and they meditated too. All of them, men and women, they'd meditate, fast, have balls like this, go back to eating, drinking, talking, hike around, live in viharas in the rainy season and outdoors in the dry, there was no question of what to do about sex which is what I always liked about Oriental religion. And what I always dug about the Indians in our country . . . You know when I was a little kid in Oregon I didn't feel that I was an American at all, with all that suburban ideal and sex repression and general dreary newspaper gray censorship of all our real human values but and when I discovered Buddhism and all I suddenly felt that I had lived in a previous lifetime innumerable ages ago and now because of faults and sins in that lifetime I was being degraded to a more grievous domain of existence and my karma was to be born in America where nobody has any fun or believes in anything, especially freedom. That's why I was always sympathetic to freedom movements, too, like anarchism in the Northwest, the old-time heroes of Everett Massacre and all. . . ." It ended up with long earnest discussions about all these subjects and finally Princess got dressed and went home with Japhy on their bicycles and Alvah and I sat facing each other in the dim red light. "But you know, Ray, Japhy is really sharp-he's really the wildest craziest sharpest cat we've ever met. And what I love about him is he's the big hero of the West Coast, do you realize I've been out here for two years now and hadn't met anybody worth knowing really or anybody with any truly illuminated intelligence and was giving up hope for the West Coast? Besides all the background he has, in Oriental scholarship, Pound, taking peyote and seeing visions, his mountain climbing and bhikkuing, wow, Japhy Ryder is a great new hero of American culture." "He's mad!" I agreed. "And other things I like about him, his quiet sad moments when he don't say much. . . ." "Gee, I wonder what will happen to him in the end." "I think he'll end up like Han Shan living alone in the mountains and writing poems on the walls of cliffs, or chanting them to crowds outside his cave." "Or maybe he'll go to Hollywood and be a movie star, you know he said that the other day, he said 'Alvah you know I've never thought of going to the movies and becoming a star, I can do anything you know, I haven't tried that yet,' and I believe him, he can do anything. Did you see the way he had Princess all wrapped around Mm?" "Aye indeed" and later that night as Alvah slept I sat under the tree in the yard and looked up at the stars or closed my eyes to meditate and tried to quiet myself down back to my normal self. Alvah couldn't sleep and came out and lay flat on his back in the grass looking up at the sky, and said "Big steamy clouds going by in the dark up there, it makes me realize we live on an actual planet." "Close your eyes and you'll see more than that." "Oh I don't know what you mean by all that!" he said pettishly. He was always being bugged by my little lectures on Samadhi ecstasy, which is the state you reach when you stop everything and stop your mind and you actually with your eyes closed see a kind of eternal multiswarm of electrical Power of some kind ululating in place of just pitiful images and forms of objects, which are, after all, imaginary. And if you don't believe me come back in a billion years and deny it. For what is time? "Don't you think it's much more interesting just to be like Japhy and have girls and studies and good times and really be doing something, than all this silly sitting under trees?" "Nope," I said, and meant it, and I knew Japhy would agree with me. "All Japhy's doing is amusing himself in the void." "I don't think so." "I bet he is. I'm going mountain climbing with him next week and find out and tell you." "Well" (sigh), "as for me, I'm just going to go on being Alvah Goldbook and to hell with all this Buddhist bullshit." "You'll be sorry some day. Why don't you ever understand what I'm trying to tell you: it's with your six senses that you're fooled into believing not only that you have six senses, but that you contact an actual outside world with them. If it wasn't for your eyes, you wouldn't see me. If it wasn't for your ears, you wouldn't hear that airplane. If it wasn't for your nose, you wouldn't smell the midnight mint. If it wasn't for your tongue taster, you wouldn't taste the difference between A and B. If it wasn't for your body, you wouldn't feel Princess. There is no me, no airplane, no mind, no Princess, no nothing, you for krissakes do you want to go on being fooled every damn minute of your life?" "Yes, that's all I want, I thank God that something has come out of nothing." "Well, I got news for you, it's the other way around nothing has come out of something, and that something is Dharmakaya, the body of the True Meaning, and that nothing is this and all this twaddle and talk. I'm going to bed." "Well sometimes I see a flash of illumination in what you're trying to say but believe me I get more of a satori out of Princess than out of words." "It's a satori of your foolish flesh, you lecher." "I know my redeemer liveth." "What redeemer and what liveth?" "Oh let's cut this out and just live!" "Balls, when I thought like you, Alvah, I was just as miserable and graspy as you are now. All you want to do is run out there and get laid and get beat up and get screwed up and get old and sick and banged around by samsara, you fucking eternal meat of comeback you you'll deserve it too, I'll say." "That's not nice. Everybody's tearful and trying to live with what they got. Your Buddhism has made you mean Ray and makes you even afraid to take your clothes off for a simple healthy orgy." "Well, I did finally, didn't I?" "But you were coming on so ninety about- Oh let's forget it." Alvah went to bed and I sat and closed my eyes and thought "This thinking has stopped" but because I had to think it no thinking had stopped, but there did come over me a wave of gladness to know that all this perturbation was just a dream already ended and I didn't have to worry because I wasn't "I" and I prayed that God, or Tathagata, would give me enough time and enough sense and strength to be able to tell people what I knew (as I can't even do properly now) so they'd know what I know and not despair so much. The old tree brooded over me silently, a living thing. I heard a mouse snoring in the garden weeds. The rooftops of Berkeley looked like pitiful living meat sheltering grieving phantoms from the eternality of the heavens which they feared to face. By the time I went to bed I wasn't taken in by no Princess or no desire for no Princess and nobody's disapproval and I felt glad and slept well. 6

If you gather knowledge to worry then it is better not to know, if you for whatever reason can not change it. If you know things which you should not know because your developement has not reach the point to able to use it then such knowlege cause bitterness, grief and greed, fear and other attachment. Seers who can not bear seeing the possible future should no see into future. Part of your freedom is to have discipline to decide how you react in a situation, you decide how you feel. People react so different to a situation and you choose the worst view of the situation. Look, you still count time in terms of reincarnation. You forget that when Right Person appear it becomes timeless only a moment. From daily life, activity you do not like appear long and boring, things which you like appear fun and short. If something is a curse or a dream depends on your choice of reaction the fact is Right person "is" and you "is" and the others around also "are" because it is "we". And it is to show integrity and not polarity. A buddha acts - a commoner reacts.

personal light or celestial light? personal self effort, or grace? <link 1> <link 2> there is powerful spiritual war coming up. can't be helped. everyone knows the cusp of ages is ahead. and what is a spirtiual war? well movies like star wars and LOTR gave clues. .... you don't think it could happen close by? you don't think such a conflict has happened before in the past? if you read on magic you know that some magic is misapplied. (ok, a lot of it is misapplied) also when someone gets proprietary magic, they have the CORNER on the market. they own that deal, and they use it to control stuff. like media. like medicine. like education. like business. they use that ownership to shape beliefs. to shape reality in a sense. after several weeks they convince the masses that "romney is the logical choice" ... but wait. didn't they have that scenario picked long in advance? of course. oh yeah, I think that I thunk I knew who ta vote for, but hey, they done took away my candidate and alls I hear is this other fella and they always show the fella with white shiny teeth and all and a plastic porcelain expression and this guys the guy, ya know cause that's all they ever shows ya on the tv or news, and you know I don't hear about my fella no more so maybe that means he ain't they guy, maybe ... maybe that fella's not so bad after all, yep I know, he's a plastic fella for sure but maybe he looks cuter than those other fellas and anyway he's gonna fix the economy, cause that's what he promises and everything ... duhhhhhhhhhhh .................. guhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh ..... duhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh ................. and now we return to our other entertainment ..... so come on. is this war? or is it something to ignore, as we muddle about. is someone's reality being shaped here? so how would we fight such a war? do we even know what the adversary looks like? sure we do. but it's blocked out of consciousnes by clever programs. imagine that eh. well one thing I've found out a bit is that spiritual attainment is a pipe dream unless it balances by taking into account the resistance forces to it. there's a lot of talk here about spiritual ambition, but scarecely little about any kind of opposing energy. and you don't suppose there would be an opposing energy that doesn't like spiritual advancement?

Suicide is a highly negative act if you have not practised sufficiently to have gained control of the death process. There were Lamas in Tibet who committed suicide through phowa3 because they knew that death by execution or through torture would not enable them to maintain awareness of the death process. If we cannot experience awareness in the dream state, then it is unlikely that we will experience awareness in the bardo state. If we cannot maintain awareness into sleep, through dreaming, and into waking, then we stand little chance of maintaining awareness through the more profound experience of death, bardo, and birth. For those of us who have not developed such practice, the state of mind at the moment of death is important. Dying with a happy mind is beneficial. http://www.spacious-passion.org/shared/text/s/spacious_passion_ch_05_infinite_09_happy_mind_eng.php

Yup! Dont bite hand that feeds is right!! It was not his intention though... its my own carelessness that caused it. Update: 22 hours have passed. Still no painkillers taken. Trying to get a full night's uninterrupted sleep was not possible as the hand was throbbing a bit, yet i feel well rested this morning. I remember having a dream of looking at my hand and thinking Wow! No pain at all! Amazing to have such severe wounds and be pain-free! Am on antibiotics though to ward off infection.

"Sleeping quigong", can you spare a few words about that? There's definitely a state of mind that kicks in for me when I accept that I can be falling down, sleeping, standing up- and I find it helpful. As to what I had to heal to sit the lotus, what I would say is that in 2005 I wrote that the movement of breath and the cranial-sacral rhythm place the occurrence of consciousness in such a way as to open an ability to feel. What that says to me is that by attending to the sense of location in the occurrence of consciousness, my natural well-being will open the appropriate ability to feel in my senses. From there, it's a case of my natural well-being healing both my body and my mind, as it were- experiences that allow me to remember what I need to attend to the sense of location in the occurrence of consciousness from moment to moment. Greek, probably! here's the link, as close as I could get it, to humbleone's experience with his dream.

like a bubble in an ocean of silence, it is a dream where anything is acceptable and nothing goes.

Well... awareness is always present, it is the basic reality. Even while you are asleep, your awareness is still there. Pristine awareness is the Tao. Consciousness is the normal "I" of the waking state... or even the fictitious "I" of dreaming. There are different state of consciousness used in shamanic works. There's a state of consciousness associated with Lucid Dream and so on. The sequence to follow for getting the Tao is very simple. First you cultivate emptiness: you achieve a state of consciousness without thoughts. Second, you abandon this emptiness realizing that it is in the realm of thoughts: emptiness is a subtle thought. What's left? Pristine awareness. When we say "Aware the palm of your hand", we mean "Focus your consciousness on a single thought which is the sensation of your hand" That's Qigong. When we bring our consciousness into emptiness, we forget our body. All the tensions fade and it starts to heal itself without efforts. This happens because when you are in emptiness, your consciousness is not bothering your body with his continuous "I am this". Try to believe