A Whisper of Silence, this Self.

I do not have a name for myself. I simply exist without tag or form, moving without comparing any one moment with any other moment.

There is just a presence in the liquid movement all around, the flowing of the fields of light, the forgetting the words and their meanings. There is just the peaceful communion with the reality that extinguishes all illusions.

Abiding in this state I forget that there was such a thing as the world. I forget the mere possibility of existence, of sound, of light, of movement, of time. I forget, living in this eternal space, that there is a word for that space. I forget the opposite of what is. I forget the distinction between self and it.

In that forgetfulness, a slight vibration surprisingly comes. It happened, and it went. I almost missed it, almost feel that it did not happen at all. Maybe it did not happen. Maybe that slight stirring comes only from within to put a tiny mark on the perfection of that infinite silence. Maybe it’s just a habit that I have accumulated over countless dreams of existence––a slight distortion of the darkness.

It comes. It goes. It’s a whisper of silence.

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In this Emptiness I Forget

I let go, slowly but surely, all ideas of God, of eternal peace, of definitive knowledge. I let go of the idea that this person will love me forever. I let go of my name. I let go of my title. I let go of the ideas that I held on to. The more I see the emptiness––the expansive presence of the ocean covering and holding the light of every star––the bigger this nothingness becomes, and the more I fail to grasp on the stream of self-important thoughts.

Ordinary life, then, becomes the dream that vanishes upon the awakening of the soul. It no longer matters what happens to me in this life, in my previous life, and in all the chains of incarnations. I am no longer concerned with what will happen to me today, tomorrow, next year, after rebirth, after that life, in other incarnations. That stream of movement and happenings, I know it to be nothing but the subtle vibrations of a mind that moves, of a life that stirs, of the fire of existence.

In this emptiness I forget myself. In this emptiness, the entire drama of existence becomes as nothing but the flickering lights, the little shadows that come across the eyes when sleeping. It no longer becomes important, that life. There no longer seems to be a difference between being human or animal, rock, tree. It no longer seems different to be word or breath, to be flower or bee. I can no longer put my finger on the difference between being mountain or poem, between being the fluttering butterfly in the heart of a young girl or being the industrious burrowing of an anthill.

There is no longer an important difference between the radiant light flowing from the heart of the sun and the lightning strike flowing through a path of emptiness, emanating, spreading light and death. There is no longer any difference between any one thing and any other thing.

I abide in this state of not being; at union with the eternal presence; at-one-ment through the floating, deeply refreshing sensation of being a simple center in the womb of the mother; growing in eternal peace and sleep. I revel in this sweet dissolution in the forgetfulness of life and death.

 

 

Raindrops on the Old Rooftop

I hear the empty spaces in between the words,
like empty spaces between cars of a moving train,
like the sound of rain that falls
on the rooftop of my grandmother’s house.
It falls.

I hear.
Drops of rain carry no meaning;
a drop no more important than any other drop.

I hear my thoughts.
They come and go.
River of movement, river of life.
I do not grab one to follow.
No importance to it all.

All concerns about this body,
of karmic debt, of life before,
are no more.

They grab nothing.
They move and carry nothing.
They appear and nothing contain.

I live, I go;
and when in between thoughts, I die.
And nothing stays.

Just a Moment in this Room

It is pertinent to say that we are sitting in a room, surrounded by four walls. Outside the walls there’s a world of people, and lights, and darkness. We receive the subtle vibrations, the sounds that come from the world. And as we move together this world outside begins to fade away slowly, like the remnants of a dream just before beginning to awake.

Above us there is a ceiling, beyond which the vast space and the infinite stars thereof continue into an endless expanse, seemingly unmoving, serene, peaceful; giving a hint, to the eyes that see, of an ocean of infinity.

Below us there seems to be a floor of solid mass; made, of course, mostly of empty space and small particles of vibrating energy–below which lies another ocean of fire and magma.

We seem to be in a room of four walls, divided and separated above and below from oceans of rock, and mud,, and fire and space. We sit in this room where the darkness and the light, the shadows and subtle currents of air, circulate between us. We sit in this room, sensing the presence of one another–the polite quiet attention of an observer. We sit in this room in a brief moment of time, sharing a space, sharing a moment.

 

My Precious Double

Think of a dream you are having. You project yourself into that dream. That projection is a double of you, an avatar that is native to the dream environment. You are creating both the dream and the dream self that inhabit that realm.

If you identify with that double, you act and feel as if that is your only reality.

To be aware of both the dream and the one who is outside the dream allows you to loose your form, and to exist beyond the limits of your dream.

To withdraw your identification from the dream double is to wake up, and to find yourself in the wake world–which itself as a dream to the eternal void beyond all dreaming and experience.

The Elusive I Am

The being who says “I am”, implied in every sentence, the being that observes, that hears, that sees color and light, sits in the shadows between the worlds.

If I look within the source of attention, trying to find the I Am, the I Am retreats even further. When I think I’ve grappled it, when I think I have surrounded the I Am in a web craftily and carefully constructed with meaning and concerns, when I say “Ah! Here I Am!,” the I Am becomes smaller, more remote, more in shadow.

I look for the I Am, realizing that the one who searches is also the I Am, forever retreating yet always at the center of the experience.

The End of Thought

The endeavor of philosophy is to come to the end of thought, to be able to burst through the fogginess of mind into the silence–the nothingness. If you understand this, you would know that out of this silence no question comes. The question is the result of a confrontation with the silence, with death. The question can be the result of fear, the mind attempting to cover the silence with chatter, or it can be an attempt to become awake in the silence. And if one knows this difference, truly, one can perhaps come to a liberation from the trap of the mind.

The way most of us ask questions comes from the emptiness of not having an answer. The way the Philosophus asks questions comes from the answer. The way the uninitiated speaks comes from division. Yet, the question of the Philosophus comes from the unity of opposites. The answer is contained in the question as the speech in the silence.

It is there. At one point, if we manage to continue this Philosophical Inquiry, one will come to understand not only the end of thought and not only the use of language, one would also perhaps come to understand and know that the Philosophus is to utilize language as the mathematician utilizes numerical formulas–in that a mathematical problem contains its own solution. In that same manner a philosophical question contains its own answer.

To engage in a true philosophical question is to extract from it its own resolution, which means its own death. For in engaging with the question there is the death of the question. In that sense, philosophy becomes magick. Because inevitably we come to see ourselves as the most important question that this mind is posing. Out of this question, its solution emerges–solution in the mathematical sense and in the chemical sense.

This process puts false ego to the side and in the center something truer. It implies a more mature engagement of language. For the language of the Philosophus is not about validating oneself, about fears or identity. The game became wider. Now you’re dealing with the archetypal language of the human race.

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Does I exist?

When we engage with a philosophical inquiry, What is that which wants to know? Is it not the mind? Who asks the question? Who is asking this question? Is there an expectation for an answer when this question is asked? What would satisfy this question?

The mind who is thinking creates the I who thinks. I think.

This I who says “I think” wants to be a real entity. A real thing. But the I who says “I think”, “I want to know”, “I wonder”, “I want”, is the result of thought. “I am Mexican”, “I am Peruvian”, “I am Argentinian”, “I am American”, “I am White”, “I am Black”, “I am male, female”. This I who speaks, this I who asks questions, the I who wants to know, is that I not the result of thought? Is that I not the one that keeps talking and asking?

The mind is aware of itself. And the mind continues to negotiate its existence. It wants validation from others. It wants confirmation of its own existence. It creates anything to feel that it exists. It creates depression. It creates confusion. It creates anger. Just to prove that it exists. But it is the product of thought. And this mind which creates thought, which creates ego, wants to argue. It wants to prove itself. It wants to be heard. It wants to be validated. It wants to ask questions. It wants to understand the answers. But is this ego, this I, not the result of thought? Does it exist beyond thought? Does it exist without thoughts?

Electrical Tolerance In the Art of Philosophical Inquiry

For a philosophical inquiry, we need intensification of tolerance. I am not referring to social tolerance, but of electrical tolerance. A lightning rod allows the passage of power without breaking because it has a high electrical tolerance. a material with high resistance will burn out and break. This tolerance is the movement of the attention necessary to develop for this inquiry. It is the same as putting a 9-volt battery on your tongue. The initial shock makes you want to pull away.

That is what the mind experiences when it meets silence. It wants to do something to stay away from that shock. That something can be boredom. It can be feeling insulted. It can be the thought that says: “let’s talk about something else”. But if one is able to hold it, the initial discomfort is going to go away and we are going to find this pulsing energy flowing through the tongue.

The intensification of magickal force necessary to make this crossing, and this is a crucial point, is not about us doing something stronger. It’s about us opening up more. The intensification is of our tolerance so that the flow of power can continue. The intensification of the mind in a philosophical inquiry is first and foremost about the ability to receive more, to tolerate more. Put that battery on your tongue. Let it flow. It takes practice though, because the ordinary mind has been trained wrongly—in our schools, in our entertainment and in our language.

I hear people speak for hours and for days without hearing one another: switching and changing, following any impulse and retreating from any topic without regard for the dance of the dialogue, without regard for timing. It takes a very disciplined mind to be able to hold something.

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How the Philosopher Overcomes the Resistance of the Mind

The language that you acquire when you train in an esoteric school is the magickal language, Qabalistic thought, logical thought, and archetypal thought. A Philosophus can approach language from a very different perspective. There is an exactitude necessary to language, but at the same time there is a letting go of stagnant and calcified meanings. One has to be able to be very precise and at the same time to not hang on to unconscious agreements about what words mean.

There are a couple of tendencies of the mind that keep us from engaging in Philosophical inquiry. One is the tendency to let go of the effort. When you concentrate on one thought or one term for too long, the mind wants to move on. It wants to say: “yeah, I already know that. Give me something else.”

Another barrier is when you hold on and can’t let go of a point for ego reasons. That usually happens when the ego is involved and you feel like your point has not been heard or you feel like you are being misunderstood and your ego is attached to the outcome of the conversation. You want to keep going back to one point. The difference between exploring an idea for a long time and holding on to one idea, the difference between those two things, is that when we are exploring an idea from a philosophical standpoint, we are moving with it. You are seeing it from this angle then this angle then this angle until something becomes universal. There is a silence that springs in you when you find yourself looking at an idea from multiple directions. However, if you are identified with the outcome and lust for results, then the ego gets involved in the discussion and we will get stuck.

The third impediment is when we listen and compare what is being said to what we think we already know. To try to compare what’s being said to your idea of reality, to judge what is being said as being true or being false, whether you like it or dislike it, to whether you’re being entertained or not, are all tricks of the mind to get you back to an ordinary state. When the intensive chamber of the Teaching becomes strong, the mind also tries to shut down by confusing you, by making you tired. You keep listening to the words, trying to find something of interest. However, even if every thing in every word is quite understood, the mind begins to give up the effort necessary to hold on to the idea. The body becomes tired. Therefore, you need the blood-flow to the head. The breathing must be open and natural, the spine erect and the blood must flow to the brain so that you don’t fall asleep. The ego has to be put out of the equation. So that nothing that is said is interpreted as insult, as personal.

These are some of the tendencies of the mind that take us away from the present. Somehow, the reader could be hearing what I’m saying just as prologue. As something that is not the topic yet. In other words the mind is already talking and the things I’m saying are not heard. They are being categorized and cataloged into interesting or uninteresting. I question that function of the mind which wants to talk about something else: something that was talked about last week, for example; or something that your mind was considering a few months ago or a year ago; or something you heard in the past. All of that is at the expense of the moment. For at this moment, the tactics of the mind to get away from the now are being approached.