Form is emptiness
Welcome To Planet 325765-E, AKA The Beautiful Shit Machine
The perfect dichotomy of living in a divine, violent world
It’s like taking a rewarding dump in a sacred rainforest stream.
There’s something profoundly satisfying about emptying one’s rainbow colon into the chattering liquid, surrounded by luminous green fern and the mid-frequency hip hop of forest-dwelling Avifaunae.
And one could argue that such a vivid experience might well be so infused with delight that if one could pass caramel on queue without the need for nutritional reloading, one might spend one’s days in such a natural environment taking dump after dump as a crack whore might alternate cock and smoke.
And until one can fully surrender to the non-dual expanse where both the shit and the rainforest are like the two-tone dance of the mad hooker with the freckles in the red-lit window in Hamsterjam — until one is utterly fearless in the great dank mask on the face of the ethereal wisp of emotion — you better stop spying on the forest shitter like some desperate turd loving freak, okay? Cos it’s just gonna keep chucking flammable sprinkles on the burning ice cream sundae of your non-preferential chemical-driven bodily temperature change, AKA your anxiety.
What do you expect?
Of course, we want this world to be perfect. We don’t want these outer elements to be a profound reflection of the collective inner elements of the beings within it — but it is.
And the sooner you stop flapping around like a windsock and realise this world is a turd in a rainforest, the sooner you can align yourself with reality and decide what your place is within it.
The majestic Shakyamuni Buddha said something like,
Why try and cover the world in leather when you can wear shoes?
And maybe if you’ve been in this place for twelve years or six years, it might be as natural as a fox in a field for you to cover the world in leather. But if you’ve been here for twenty-plus years, you need to take a long, hard look in the Mirror of Erised and get a grip on yourself.
You’re like that geezer sitting next to a pond, eating a bag of chillis and waiting for the sweet one.
It ain’t comin’ sweetheart.
This ain’t the Heaven of the Thirty-Three, my friends. It’s Planet 325765-E, AKA the beautiful shit machine.
If you look to the East, there’s an exquisite landscape where fresh families enjoy ripe boysenberry crepes with chunks of flake sprinkled on top, and dogs chase each other around the maypole in some expression of conceptless joy.
If you look to the North, there are a hundred labradors trapped in tiny cages under artificial lights, being injected with cancer so scientists can develop another top-class drug that will keep you cancer-free as long as you keep buying it.
If you look to the West, a post-nuclear American family watches Gridiron on a Sunday while Mom cooks up a bowl of her famous ox-anus casserole with hot dogs.
Meanwhile, in the South, the imaginary territory known as the United States, aka ‘The corporate war bitch’, pushes their warships into some other country where shit is going down, which ain’t none of their goddamn business.
Planet 325765-E didn’t land on your doorstep. You landed here.
You came knocking on the door like a child on Halloween wearing the gothic costume of your past karma, and the planet let you take part in its game free of charge — no entry fee. Hence, no refundus.
So rather than trying to cover this tremendous bio-globe’s velvet skin with albino monkey leather — rather than complaining that this world doesn’t fit your tastes like you’re some stuck-up movie critic, why don’t you take a crystalline darn moment to try and find your place within it?
If a boat of mad tourists is sinking, you can either wet your drawers with the rest of the gang, calling out to the cloud, repeating something like,
Not like this — Not. Like. This.
Or leave a message on your cousin Nancy’s answering machine:
Nancy — it’s me. I’m not gonna make it. The boat I’m on is sinking. And I just wanted to say I’m sorry for the time I gave you crabs. And — I love you.
Or, you can bring ease to the minds of those still too weak to deal with the suffering.
Rise out of your bitching and find your adamantine love for all.
Because, even if the boat survives, there’s always another shitshow waiting around the corner.
There’s only one TV channel
Why don’t you stop trying to change it and instead find a way to realise that you can’t be hurt by a television show?
There’s an assumed ownership of phenomena that is causing you pain.
You are assuming a central character of some substance.
And why? No one said it belonged to you. So why do you try to steal it?
It’s like believing a horror movie to be real.
Even grief, fear, and pain can be enjoyed as a projection when you realise it isn’t.
And once you get it — and one day you will, promise you will find a way to show the others until we can all be free to enjoy the television channel known as,
The inexhaustible stream of incandescent play.
Someone who does that is known in various circles as a Bodhisattva.
May it become utterly impossible for me to bring even the slightest harm to a single being. Instead may I bring all of them, not leaving a single one behind, to true liberation.
