Atomic Decompositions
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Thursday, July 30, 2015
Liberating the Wanderers
Liberating the Wanders (Prismacolor on Watercolor paper)
by Wes Hansen Copyright all rights reserved
"Kyema! Out of unconscious karmic instinct I now wander in samsara. May the radiance of the primordial innate free me from all fear. O peaceful and wrathful deities, lead the way. O supreme consorts and great dakinis, hold me from behind. Show me how to cross the terrible path of the bardo. Point the way to the state of buddhahood itself.
When countless empty images appear as peaceful and wrathful forms, may the buddhas hold me with the hooks of their compassion. When the five great radiances arise, may I recognize them as my own mental projections. When the peaceful and wrathful deities appear, may I remain strong and without fear.
When the force of my own negative karma brings pain, may my mandala practice hold me free. When great thunderous sounds arise in the bardo, may I hear only om mani padme hum, the mantra of compassion.
May I rely upon Avalokiteshvara, Buddha of Compassion. May I rely upon samadhi, the meditation on inseparable bliss and void. May I see the five elements as friends, and not as enemies. May I see right now the realms of the five buddhas."
- from the Bardo Todol
The Wish-fulfilling Jewel
The Blessed Mother or Where the Honey Is (Prismacolor on Watercolor Paper)
by Wes Hansen Full Copyrights Reserved
"This Day-maker of the oral tradition, which dispels the darkness of the three worlds, rising out of the god's path, our investigations, is what makes the lotus of the correct view blossom. Hence, it is a treasure banquet for the hordes of bees, the great meditators."
- Khonton Rinpoche, “The Wish-fulfilling Jewel of the Oral Tradition,” as translated by Jose Ignacio Cabezon, the Chair of the Religious Studies Department at UC Santa Barbara, in the book, “Meditation on the Nature of Mind” (http://www.wisdompubs.org/
The Shadow of my Ancestors
The Shadow
I walk in the Shadow of Ancestors
thinking back on Misspent Youth,
Crystalized thought stabbing Life,
Killing the Psyche.
Deserted stillness comes like Death
While trying to find the last Kernel;
Happiness, Slippery as the worm
Avoiding the Hook
Evades the search, killing memories
Whose only purpose tricking one more Day,
Like a Whore to some unseen Pimp.
Monumental Madness disguised in
The Full, Blood-red Moon rocks the Tide
In a violent Trance; a beaten Roar.
Woman, Dance on my Corpse,
Help me ride the Threshold of
Time in need of a Partner.
Lapsed moments condensed into
Future Promises, maintaining the Shadow;
The Sickness cured by Dreams of
Self-mutilation. I hang from Two Hooks,
Pierced flesh a prelude to my Own
Private Peace; an Offering
To the Woman, Dancing on My Corpse.
I walk in the Shadow of Ancestors,
An outlaw aberration dedicated to
A Creative Mythology; My own Jihad.
A restless Native looking for Art in the
Land of Change. A neophyte tamed by
the course of War. Contempt for Life,
Cradled in Reverence for Death, redemption
Refused and Discarded, a spoiled, petulant
Philosophy rendered mute by carved Flesh
Hanging. Living sculpture in the form of Man
Suspended, Blood red dripping into the Mouth
Of the Woman riding the Moon.
I Love the Woman as She dances,
A celebration in honor of a Warrior’s
Death, and still I walk,
A meandering Journey in the timeless Shadow.
I escape the Tempest, turning Within,
Sitting in Silence, Doing nothing,
Seasons pass anew. The Shadow?
The Shadow takes care of Itself.
It’s something to ponder.
I set my own hooks and I enjoy it immensely . . .
Ode to the Keeper of the White Lotus
An Ode to the Keeper of the White Lotus
by Wes Hansen Copyright all rights reserved
“I wish
I could describe the feeling of being at sea; the anguish, frustration, and
fear, the beauty that accompanies threatening spectacles, the spiritual
communion with creatures in whose domain I sail. There is a magnificent
intensity in life that comes when we are not in control but are only reacting,
living, surviving. I am not a religious man per se. My own cosmology is
convoluted and not in line with any particular church or philosophy. But for
me, to go to sea is to glimpse the face of God. At sea I am reminded of my
insignificance – of all men's insignificance. It is a wonderful feeling to be
so humbled.”
We were
separated at birth,
the torrent,
Alluvion, came
sudden like
and the
massacred
ego, awash
in the
tempest hue,
had no harbor
against
time.
The images
after, constructed
from Native
spirits
untethered in
the cold
inferno of an
endless winter,
emerged from
the
Wheel of
Medicine.
They were
Spiritual,
ephemeral, requisite . . .
I had . . .
I had so much
to say,
but the
separation was overwhelming;
I could only
scream and yelp in
Beard pulling
gibberish born
of the
anguish . . .
the anguish
of separation prior to
New Dawn.
“Come back to
me . . .
come back to
me,” I cried,
“and I will
beat music
inspired by
the love and
the Fury into
your wintery
pelt.
And we will
make the love sounds,
forlorn but
elemental.
And we will
cherish the blue depth
and ride the
current together
until death,
dying,
dead.
And we will
persevere into the
New Dawn.”
But the
torrential wind
beat down and
caste
my plea into
the
deafening
abyss of
icebound
passage
and I was
stark,
naked,
alone . . .
Love was
ripped from me
and I died an
infinite
Death,
transpired in bleak
ugliness,
arisen in
Spiritual
famine,
the youth
sacrificed
to scarred
flesh
Warriors . .
.
And I became
a man accustomed,
the
ten-thousand horrors, the ten-thousand ecstasies,
the
ten-thousand, ten-thousand,
meaningless
fodder but for
the ancient
hymns,
Dauphin
elegies. [1]
And the truth
became realized,
Eternal
Reward,
A mantra of
praise, beseeching:
“Have mercy
on me,
a castaway
drifting;
have mercy on
me,
an initiate
to the Wandering;
have mercy on
me,
an intrepid
traveler;
have mercy on
me . . . “
And mercy was
granted
in a blissful
suffering
of color,
sound, and fury;
a suffering
reminiscent of
life before
but fully engaged;
rapture
without capture, free, but
suffering
still . . .
And the cold
Destroyer
beat down
upon me,
fleeting
moments substantial
in sheer
volume.
I laughed, I
cried, and
I screamed,
“Come on . . .
come on with
your furious
display.” The
violent lust
of rapture
flowed in
rivers of
blood,
dark,
gaseous,
full . . .
But for a
moment suspended,
my flesh torn
and bleeding,
did I
remember the riot of
Passion.
And the
Passion was Love . . .
1.
Pelt, Dauphin Elegies, music for the
Journey . . .
Ponder, Seek, Discover
This little poem and the accompanying oil painting were both
inspired by the excellent books of Dynamical Chaos theorist and computer
scientist, Ben Goertzel: The Structure of Intelligence; The Evolving Mind;
Chaotic Logic; From Complexity to Creativity; The Hidden Pattern. I highly recommend all of them!
The Contemplative
by Wes Hansen Copyright full rights reserved
Ponder this …
Life is just a Stream,
Thought, in Mind Divine,
It moves beyond Perception
Where time, collapsed, remains unknown.
Newly born Stars, Planets spinning,
Naught but New Ideas unfolding;
Plants and Animals, All of human consciousness,
Just a thread within the stream.
Inspiration comes, a Shock stirring the Nebulae,
Awakening potential, the birth of emergent form.
Cause becoming Effect, Effect becoming Cause,
a convoluted return to what has always been –
Infinity, boundless and eternal.
Scientific or Mystic, the approach matters not,
the conclusion, Universal, transcends Duality,
a Singularity giving birth to Thought Divine.
Relative stillness, demarcation unknown,
the result an Experience where
Time, collapsed, becomes Time Present.
Death and Re-birth, the slightest shift,
Awakens a New Paradigm. And yet,
Ancient and Perennial, It’s spoken of
often and Available to All.
Pure Heart, Pure Love …
Ponder …
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