I have wanted to avoid writing for the sake of writing. I expect this blog to stay fresh, that the material would be more of an evolution than a repetition. I also want it to be an active blog. Wanting fresher material I have added no material and that has become the repetition.
I have not been idle. I am doing the work that I believe will produce fresh material. One of my primary occupations is metaphysics. The structure of how. Of how a person finds themselves to be. We often confuse who we are with how we are, and how, is metaphysical. The metaphysics of how is an exercise in subtlety and can seem tedious. I am working on my personal gravity. On what it draws to myself. The work is going well. I still attract a past injury that casts a shadow of anger or a distant rage.
This project has brought me to our fundamental gravity, our birth. This is something each one of us has in common, a nearly identical experience that unites us to our origin. To what preceded birth. I am considering the experience to be something like a black hole. Obviously there is a pun there but it is not intended, just unavoidable. It seems that birth introduces us to a bubble, to an interruption of the time that does exist; now. I am working to reacquaint myself with my infant person. A truer representation of who I am. It is this person who understands better our true nature and can introduce us to the magic of now. All that ever can, ever will, ever did, happen happens now. It is all contained there and it is all known there. It owns us all and would share itself with anyone who can discover that their singular gravity is now. We tend to be much busier than that. It is intended that each of us should know this magic. That we are that which is creation. We have and are creative authority.
You can see that writing about this one thing, but living it, well that is another. It is that conundrum that has kept me from writing. I feel I am constantly alluding to something that I have not completed. That I am chasing my tail.
The Mystic Tourist