Black dog on sunrise morning

A big black dog greets me at my door. And I see a beautiful blonde woman in the light.

And a fingernail moon, and the birds going crazy.

Man, the moon is beautiful.

All that happens that is disagreeable is the ass’s fault. You are walking on asphalt. My ass. My fault.

Photography is about finding things like a childhood.

Whistling past the graveyard, I scream and wake up.

I realize that the trees around me have sucked up the cemetery dust into their phloem and xylem.

And there they sit, flowing and pondering for eternity the little cracking open of light they once saw.

And you think there’s depression in this world? There’s nothing like it here.

Abiding non-dual awareness connect me to that dust in the trees.

I have one singular crush on this eternal, infinite plaything, this puppy dog of a partner. I let go of all the baggage and then I can go through the eye of the needle, like the camel I am.

The answers to why are not even on the table. They are not there.

This thing is doing what it’s doing anyway, you either get on board with it or you flounder and splash.

You can imagine all you want, but there is a bigger imagination going on here.

And I go right past the locks on the gates and right through the eye of the needle.

Ism, ism, ism – they are all trivial problems. And up above the pink clouds of La Vie En Rose – the life in pink – are a much better pastimes than obsessing on isms

All the many who think it’s special to rise early and see the sunrise, to think that they are a part of it, and know that in some small way, but the eagle puts them at the center of it and they forgot that all of it is moving on their behalf and sometimes not on their behalf.

Man I left my mark, and it was a human bat shit crazy splat on the bottom of the stage. Smile, you are on the eternal, internal camera.

And you’re seeing ladders so move forward and upward and downward and in every direction.

Most of the rest are back to sleep. Some awaken in your presence.

The choo-choo train is on the track puffing smoke, burning fuel. When will it go off the tracks?

You are carrying around a piece of machinery – some kind of ghost hardware.

What if I am a dog being walked by Brahman every day on a path he chose?

I think that’s highly likely. Tolls I pay, and I continue down his silly trail.

Do you think it matters where you go? That’s silly. All that matters is who you are. And who are you? You certainly are not Philip. And you’re not Phil. Hasn’t this been beautiful?

You don’t need to be seen. If you can get along fine being unseen.

I’m burning up this ego as best I can.

Love is something to play with. But even that goes away. When you die poof.

Be delivered, interact with things in the outer world. Be the golf ball walked to the hole instead of painstakingly dramatized by sticks.

You are a fool, and this is a joke.

It’s a whole new creek today, but it’s the same fucking creek connected to the same damn ocean and sky.

The homeless man lying down by the gate was trying to give up. He was trying to get in. But his problem was, of course, that he was trying.

In the dream world you are the king. That is just a fact.

You cannot read the world. The world can only read you. You could notice the patterns if you wanted to.