it’s a beautiful night I label, I grasp still, I appreciate nice temporary conditions with childlike delight (especially in winter)
knowing the cause of this peaceful mind is not this appearance but an action, long passed now the effect blooms in the garden of good conditions no external wish granted just joyful disposition for winter never could bring happiness what is this effortless arising so easy, so pure it’s the mind of renunciation samsara’s cure
for the only reason I now have delight is Dharma given kindly which I recall tonight
A political ideology is always faulty and, lacking inherent existence, temporary empty of true philosophy each strawman finds himself merely propped up in dependence – in most cases – upon a fat paycheck, pockets stuffed with straw and sometimes a free iPhone X
We witness a dreamlike hologram feeling like it’s played out before hollow men assailed by eight concerns running to this part of the world and that searching for sensual pleasures – or escaping crap – a quick high, come down, fall flat putting it all online, shamelessly on the line and still, with each desire filled birthing seven more in place and as the siren’s wine is spilled each vice is found and chased
I know the appearance to be empty I know it’s just the karma of this life arising moment by each moment ever changing, temporary, light only made serious in grasping and how we hold the tendency so tight we struggle to create a better habit to remember all appearance dreamlike is just effects of actions of past mind and in present moment torment patient endurance does just fine as never for discouragement could I justify a moment’s time
While we wish it would be easy and that others’ take our pain there never was a politician who sacrificed money or his name and if I need a hero – and certainly I do – I just put Dharma into practice maintaining faith & pure virtue and never was a better hero than my internal motive true mixed with my Spiritual Guide and all of Buddhas’ blessings too
Oh how my success is guaranteed! and perhaps because my name means halfwit I won’t cling to one inborn habit finding no meaning in madness I abandon gross self conceptuality and break attachment to all pleasures brief now seeing clearly the suffering it brings not to mention pervading disappointment “Is that all there is?” old Peggy Lee sings wondering, doubting that we’ll learn caught in a world lacking honourable kings I will not find a perfect ordinary being
It does no good to stomp and yearn or spend much time out in search of something I could never find in this world and in this time a (single) man – no, not even one – who knew when to speak or hold his tongue and understood why war was waged and won, a man who lives with honour and dies by sword or – at the very least – can keep his word perhaps he has philosophy more than a mishmash of newage trickery a value system tried and true but then… he would have time for… who?
No, no such person could exist but female fantasies persist; so this hero imagined I take it upon myself to become and just crank up the volume if I wish to feel strings, bass and drum enjoying skin-kiss from torrid summer sun that sensual object simply swapped for this other one changing suffering is all we appear until awakened from this cursed nightmare happy ever after begins to seem no more than an impossible dream
Yet it’s also my firm work-in-progress because effects must arise as no action is wasted and His compassion prophesied all beings become enlightened all happy, all free it won’t be found in samsara won’t arise from this political crime spree – we ourself abandon bullshit and gain control of our mind with spontaneous understanding we take it upon ourself to be kind no other can take responsibility for this, your one precious life for when swallowed by death you leave this world for the next and there is no remember no refuge, no best no freedom, just sufferings for aeons, without rest
Making use of this life means bowing out of the race I haven’t the time I can’t keep worldly pace my focus and practice is a spiritual drive never separate, never selfish never political nor so contrived understanding my actions imprint on all minds I refrain from harming others and strive to be wise always increasing my wisdom and with blessings apply each Dharma teaching in correct stride this cannot be mandated nor politicized for a Spiritual Path is individual and – in most cases – private, not public, but for each, he decides when to opt out and regain control of his conscious awareness and reprogram his soul until then, never satisfied
I cannot help but laugh at the fake tears our politicians cry even as some will believe their lies I laugh because I am not surprised and I will not be corrupted – even in spite – because happiness is only comprised of parts found within the mind – never outside – so I cannot be bought I will not run nor hide and having removed the delusions pure loving peace now abides so I can truly help others without self – or political ties.
Scratch the aforementioned Seven Brothers thing – this week’s yearned for aesthetic is The Man From Snowy River:
movies based on poems
wild Australian outback
wild horses
dead parents
mountain boys
boys becoming men
saddles & sunsets
stallions being broken
1880s bad girls
running away from home
hard country
hard men
men in leather (brown)
damn Yankees
cooking fires
trains & mountains
Ol’ Clancy sneaking around
*Big Sigh*
*Cheesy Trailer Warning*
*Climactic Spoiler Alert*
the verse that started it all:
The Man From Snowy River a poem by Banjo Paterson
There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around That colt from old Regret had got away, And had joined the wild bush horses – he was worth a thousand pound, So all the cracks had gathered to the fray. All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far Had mustered at the homestead overnight, For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are, And the stockhorse snuffs the battle with delight.
There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup, The old man with his hair as white as snow; But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up – He would go wherever horse and man could go. And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand, No better horseman ever held the reins; For never horse could throw him while the saddle girths would stand, He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.
And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast, He was something like a racehorse undersized, With a touch of Timor pony – three parts thoroughbred at least – And such as are by mountain horsemen prized. He was hard and tough and wiry – just the sort that won’t say die – There was courage in his quick impatient tread; And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye, And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.
But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay, And the old man said, ‘That horse will never do For a long and tiring gallop – lad, you’d better stop away, Those hills are far too rough for such as you.’ So he waited sad and wistful – only Clancy stood his friend – ‘I think we ought to let him come,’ he said; ‘I warrant he’ll be with us when he’s wanted at the end, For both his horse and he are mountain bred.
‘He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko’s side, Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough, Where a horse’s hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride, The man that holds his own is good enough. And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home, Where the river runs those giant hills between; I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam, But nowhere yet such horsemen I have seen.’
So he went – they found the horses by the big mimosa clump – They raced away towards the mountain’s brow, And the old man gave his orders, ‘Boys, go at them from the jump, No use to try for fancy riding now. And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel thme ot hte right. Ride bodlly, lad, and never fear the spills, For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight, If once they gain the shelter of those hills.’
So Clancy rode to wheel them – he was racing on the wing Where the best and boldest riders take their place, And he raced his stockhorse past them, and he made the ranges ring With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face. Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreadful lash, But they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash, And off into the mountain scrub they flew.
Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black Resounded to the thunder of their tread, And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead. And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way, where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide; And the old man muttered fiercely, ‘ We may bid the mob good day, No man can hold them down the other side.’
When they reached the mountain’s summit, even Clancy took a pull, It well might make the boldest hold their breath, The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full Of wombat holes, and any slip was death. But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head, And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer, And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed, While the others stood and watched in very fear.
He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet, He cleared the fallen timber in his stride, And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat – It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride. Through the stringybarks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground, Down the hillside at a racing pace he went; And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound, At the bottom of that terrible descent.
He was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill, And the watchers on the mountain standing mute, Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still, As he raced across the clearing in pursuit. Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet, With the man from Snowy River at their heels.
And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam. he followed like a bloodhound on their track, Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home, And alone and unassisted brought them back. But his hardy mountain pony hne could scarcely raise a trot, He was blood and from hip to shoulder from the spur; But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot, For never yet was mountain horse a cur.
And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise Their torn and rugged battlements on high, Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze At midnight in the cold and frosty sky, And where The Overflow the reed beds sweep and sway To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide, The man from Snowy River is a household word today, And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.
I see you in your little cage exhausted having spent your rage avoiding me from right next door while pretending you’re in Singapore I feel you in the gusts of wind that rattle the panes as drafts creep in the coldness of your inherited state your brilliance like countless snowflakes glittering in the lamplight’s splay temporary, soon melted away timid as the portalled rainbows refracted rays as rare as angels bestowing a captivating vision to a silent waiting world, attachment to external appearance, feeling meaningless beyond the moment of enjoyment or perhaps in time travel, occasional memory bubbling to the surface from an ether seldomly accessed, no longer in reflex your alternate reflux exasperating creating such drawn out suffering pervading all minds — so instead you should find the lost key or break the lock to your invisible cage and be free of the misery in your head which is a choice, a bore and follow the fun and light some more that is the path of the fearless emperor
(how do you resist joyful allure?)
Oh! How you would shine with the radiance of fresh-fallen snow in the pure sunlight, if you should try and break free
lying cramped in the tub feeling like I’ve done this not hundreds but infinite times before floating here in scented water salted overly concerned with eight unavoidable concerns actually caring to be incensed or insulted! tossed about violently and needlessly by eight winds! anyway, words are received meaninglessly, buoyant on the sea of a soured mind, like mine
if I observe for even a moment I bear witness: I exist so foolishly perfumed, smelling sweet as a rose but still rotting with refusal to diffuse the subtle self-cherishing arising I see delusions and try to oppose the inappropriate attention hooking my senses guiding me toward inappropriate action easy to engage for a moment of mild enjoyment
but how much sweeter the treat of her if you bank with interest for later delight collected faster with correct imagination using wise discrimination to do right saving a virtuous treasure for an auspicious time, devoid kryptonite unknown to a non-clairvoyant, powerful but ignorant mind, like mine
still, I accept that the merit must ripen and I can find the fruits faster, not by cheating, but by pure intention and multiplying with imagination for immeasurables and always remembering the tub is the nature of suffering changing, and misunderstood
I no longer wish to meet those who make me regret my virtue of course, I can’t excuse my own forfeit of mind and I never would regret virtuous intention even when challenged!
Instead, I see clearly that in samsara there exists no real happiness, no good reputation no wealth, no status, no good condition not only failure, misery, and criticism not only lowly status and painful position but always departing from what we love and too often meeting what we hate!
So if i have any regret, it’s saved for actions throwing me lower than the grave then I purify completely in three more steps with reliance, opponent force and firm promise never again laying claim to hateful mind never again to drink addictive poisons never again to grasp, to crave never again to begin again the beginningless cycle of suffering this lifetime I break the chain!
I will die without regret having used every momently wisely a cause-creator, achieving true happiness
They say curiosity killed the cat and satisfaction brought her back but in samsara’s spoiled waters I find only ill departers it’s hardly satisfying when everyone I love is dying I see sickness in all migrators who swim wantonly with alligators breaking open hearts and seals contemplating Sinbad’s deal excusing whorish proffers while taking what’s not offered to indulge each selfish desire to enjoy the heat of temporary fire turning quickly to ember, burning out leaving grey ashes of deluded doubt
How can I help all beings with such ailments of the mind with intense hedonistic attachment to each sensory pleasure, illusory yet defined each one appearing solid, concrete while in actuality like a dream from mind produced from empty-like space contaminated matter is all I find I must vomit out this poison and grow virtuous roots, from seeds purified
To help nurture this new garden of joyful, chaste, and pure delights to replace increasing darkness with pure increasing Dharma light I visualize taking from all migrators, their poison, like charcoal smoke the delusions leave their bodies arising unobstructed from all folk all suffering, ill intent, all harmful desires billow like black clouds from raging forest fires flow, now fly, to my subtle mind, my heart and are destroyed completely at the inner drop annihilating my self-cherishing and my self-grasping now I give pure, boundless love and compassion, and I too receive this medicinal nectar all beings enjoy happiness, everlasting and I become a pure preceptor
There is magic in the world If you dare to see it There is happiness in the world If you dare to feel it There is hope in the world If you dare to force it There is love in the world If you dare to wish it There is faith in your heart If you dare to test it There is compassion in your heart If you dare to risk it There wisdom in your heart If you dare to mind it There is joy in the world If you dare to celebrate it
The Halfwit Writer 