Rainer Maria Rilke

"Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels' hierarchies? And even if one of them pressed me against his heart: I would be consumed in that overwhelming existence. For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror, which we still are just able to endure, and we are so awed because it serenely disdains to annihilate us. Every angel is terrifying. And so I hold myself back and swallow the call note of my dark sobbing. Ah, whom can we ever turn to in our need? Not angels, not humans, and already the knowing animals are aware that we are not really at home in our interpreted world.

Perhaps there remains for us some tree on a hillside, which every day we take into our vision; there remains for us yesterday's street and the loyalty of a habit so much at ease when it stayed with us that it moved in and never left.

Oh, and night: there is night, when a wind full of infinite space gnaws at our faces.
Whom would it not remain for -- that longed-after, mildly disillusioning presence, which the solitary heart so painfully meets?

Is it any less difficult for lovers? But they keep on using each other to hide their own fate. Don't you know yet? Fling the emptiness out of your arms into the spaces we breathe; perhaps the bird will feel the expanded air with more passionate flying.

Yes -- the springtimes needed you. Often a star was waiting for you to notice it.
A wave rolled toward you out of the distant past, or as you walked under an open window, a violin yielded itself to your hearing...

More and more in my life and in my work I am guided by the effort to correct our old repressions, which have removed and gradually estranged from us the mysteries out of whose abundance our lives might have become truly infinite. It is true that these mysteries are dreadful and people have always drawn away from them.

But where can we find anything sweet and glorious that would never wear the mask of the dreadful? Life -- and we know nothing else -- isn't life itself dreadful? But as soon as we acknowledge its dreadfulness (not as opponents: what kind of match could we be for it?), but somehow with a confidence that this very dreadfulness may be something completely ours, though something that is just now too great, too vast, too incomprehensible for our learning hearts -- as soon as we accept life's most terrifying dreadfulness, at the risk of perishing from it (i.e., from our own Too-much!) -- then an intuition of blessedness will open up for us
and, at this cost, will be ours.

Whoever does not, sometime or other, give his full consent, his full and JOYOUS consent to the dreadfulness of life, can never take possession of the unutterable abundance and power of our existence; can only walk on its edge, and one day, when the judgment is given, will have been neither alive nor dead. To show the IDENTITY of dreadfulness and bliss, these two faces of the same divine head, indeed this one SINGLE face, which just presents itself this way or that, according to our distance from it or the state of mind in which we perceive it -- this is the true significance and purpose of the Elegies and the Sonnets to Orpheus."


(To Countess Margot Siszo-Noris-Crouy, April 12, 1923)

Reverie Upon A Mountain High

I sit upon a mountain high, above familiar scenes,
Of dusty browns and ocher hues and living shades of green.
All the well-loved landmarks there surround me in the vibrant air,
So old and wise, yet strangely new...inscrutable and fair.

I sit upon a mountain high and think of days gone by;
Of meadow flowers and enchanted hours with lizards and butterflies;
Of peaceful afternoons and starlit nights with bedtimes come too soon;
Of trees and rocks, of falls and knocks...the mystery of the moon.

I sit upon a mountain high; my favorite place I occupy,
To think of all that's gone before, a part of which I am no more;
Of all the untold thousand things and more that I have never seen:
For in every field in every spring, there is a new and different green.

I sit upon a mountain high and think of long ago,
Of those unborn who'll see a world that I will never know.
Aye, poignant 'tis to feel so, yet with joy my heart still sings,
As ever does it know the way, where the Bird of Time has no wings.
For appearance holds us all in thrall where REALITY bursts asunder.
And what seems all separate, is in TRUTH together...

I sit upon a mountain high, knowing all that was...is yet to be!
Feeling future deeds and unknown lands and seas to be but silver moonlight memories...
'Strange thoughts' you say, 'A fool's repast'--
But Oh! Perfection of Wisdom shall tell at last,
The Open Secret...hidden for all to seize.

I sit upon a mountain high, a silhouette against the sky,
United in mute harmony, I am all things...all things are me.
Just as ever have I been and ever more will be.
Oh Infinity! Infinity: the dewdrop is the shining sea.

Whereof We Cannot Speak and The First Myth

WHEREOF WE CANNOT SPEAK, THEREOF WE MUST REMAIN SILENT.

and:

THE FIRST MYTH

Ludwig Wittgenstein’s densely and meticulously reasoned Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, published in 1922, concludes with the elliptical statement above (not the subtitle). Ludwig, in his preface to the work, paraphrases: “What can be said at all can be said clearly, and what we cannot talk about we must pass over in silence.” Is there anything the human mind can’t talk about? Without intending here a nuts and bolts analysis of Ludwig’s philosophical argument, we will instead use his conclusion to launch an exploration of our own within the labyrinthine corridors of the purview of the mind, or, what is meant herein by the term “mind”: the conscious part of the brain (also known as the cerebrum).

By the “conscious part of the brain” we mean the seat of that uniquely self-reflexive human awareness that people refer to when they say “I” or “me”. “Me, myself and I”: the most intimate companions known to any man. Companions? Yes, and without fail every sane human deems it so. But when the mind thinks “I”, whom is it addressing? Itself. And who is speaking? Itself. Hmmmm, how can this be? Isn’t this tantamount to the brain lifting itself by its own bootstraps?! A hand grasping itself or an eye seeing itself is the logical equivalent. How can you see the back of your own head? Not with a mirror: what’s seen in a mirror is a reflection. Let’s see what may be said clearly about this curious state of affairs, and what deserves Ludwig’s silence.

The ultimate question for a man—because the exemplary illuminator of Ultimate Mystery—is “Who is this speaking?” (or, alternately, “Who am I?” )… NOT: “Does God exist” or “What is the purpose of life?” Yet it’s certainly the de facto quotidian practice that the ordinary mind never asks of itself the first question, whereas it’s quite prone to ask the latter two. Also, note that the latter two invite investigation away from the source of the questions; further, they can be answered (viz., all religions are answers) whilst the former cuts directly to the chase—but right up a dead-end alley! Basically, silence is the only proper answer to ‘Who?’ since the responding agency IS the asking agency. You might as well have enquired: “What happens to your lap when you stand up?” or “What’s the answer to this question?” What’s the point? Here then, is a prime candidate for the “whereof we cannot speak… “; for here is…The First Myth: “I”.

What exactly happens when the mind disregards Ludwig’s advice however, and provides the answer to itself of: “I am speaking” or “It’s me!”? It is, in effect, pretending unto itself. And all pretence is known pretence. Thus, at some level the mind must know that talking to itself is just a talking…of the talking! Ah hah! Now, why would the mind pretend to itself? And why isn’t everyone unavoidably aware that instead of “I,” it really is: “Attention on the set!—this is the conscious part of the brain speaking…”?

Another supremely unmasking question for an individual man: “What am I going to think next?” Any self-respecting mind that can ask the question clinically and acutely should be goggle-eyed and struck dumb, for—surely everyone can agree—nobody has the faintest notion of what idea is going to occur to them next, in the willy-nilly chain of thoughts continually arising in the mind! Zounds!: except when engaged in scientific research on some physical-world related problem, the brain is not in control of itself. It cannot dictate what it thinks; it registers and reacts to whatever external stimuli the environment provides, whether a hot stovetop, or a book of poetry or a cinema film or the artist’s blank canvas (or the blinking prompt-icon in a word document on a computer screen, importuning input for the written task at hand…).

Here’s one more killer question: “When did you decide to be born?” Or, “When did you decide to be a sorehead; to be beautiful or ugly or smart or short or happy or glum?” Face it and see clearly: ‘you’ had nothing to do with, have nothing to do with and will have nothing to do with creating the reality within which you move and breathe. Do I have your attention?` It is The First Myth in another form. Perhaps you don’t buy this scenario, yet with impartial observation and careful analysis it’s inescapably true. But the mind will say otherwise, and it is here that Ludwig’s counsel “thereof we must remain silent” becomes apt and essential. Only in silence, both outward and inward, can The First Myth be fully bared for what it is: pretence and misdirection. This is re-cognition and awakening.

Re-cognition? Consider an analogy. You walk into your garden shed to fetch a tool for weeding, when Yeek! you nearly step on a venomous snake curled on the floor at your feet!! Jumping back like a scalded cat and turning to dodge out the door, it suddenly clicks that it’s NOT a snake at all: it’s a coil of old rope lying on the floor. Whew! Pant, pant! Be still my beating heart. OK. So, what happened? The mind was fooled and took an illusion for reality. Sound familiar? Your famous “I” has the same substance as that snake in the shed; it’s just that the “I”-fooling goes on interminably—in everybody but Those-Who-See. Analogous to the seeing-thru (recognition) of the illusion of the snake, when the penny drops, all confusion, fear, worry, unease and self-importance related to “I” falls away, leaving the unadorned (perhaps even laughable) what-there-is-really: the conscious part of the brain talking of, for and to itself. When you see THAT, well, all bewilderment and noise condenses into a blackhole and vanishes. THEN, you re-cognize what’s going on...

The Tenth Man

THE ‘TENTH MAN’ STORY

Once there were ten monks traveling together from one Master to another, in search of the enlightenment they had failed to obtain. Crossing a river in flood, they were separated by the swift current and when they reached the far shore they reassembled while one counted the others to make sure that all were safely across… alas, he was only able to count nine brothers.

Each in turn counted the others, and each could count only nine. As they were weeping and bewailing their drowned brother, a passing traveler on his way to the nearest town asked what the trouble was and, having counted them, assured them that all ten were present. But each counted again, and the traveler, unable to persuade them, left them and went on his way…

Then one monk went to the riverside in order to rinse his tear-stained face. As he leant over a rock above a clear pool he gave out a cry and, rushing to his nine fellow-monks, he announced that he had found their poor drowned brother at the bottom of a pool. So each in turn went over to the rock in question and, leaning over, looked into the depths of the pool.

When all had seen their poor drowned brother, whom, owing to the depth of the pool they could not reach, they celebrated a funeral service in his memory.

The passing traveler, returning from the town, asked them what they were doing and, when he was told, pointed out to them and assured them, that since each had celebrated his own decease, and since all had celebrated the decease of each, one and all they were well and truly dead!

Hearing this, each monk was instantly awakened, and ten fully enlightened monks returned to their monastery to the intense delight of their grandmotherly old Master.

Note:

Each monk had found the answer to the OPEN SECRET, which the traveler had missed because he didn’t know it was a secret: THE TENTH MAN IS THE ONLY MAN. THERE IS NO OTHER…

YOU, yes YOU... are responsible!

An ordinary man does not hold anybody responsible for what he thinks. Not so, emotions. When you feel emotional it’s always on somebody else’s account, i.e., their actions caused your upset. Men never take any responsibility for their emotions. And realization of this never occurs to a man; men don’t even think about it. How could life get along if the same attitude were operative re: your physical body? How can it be that men are oblivious to this fact, aren't struck with how ridiculous it is to attribute their emotions to external causes?

Given the choice of thinking better or feeling better, everybody would opt for feeling better (i.e., happiness). And, as men erroneously believe, if emotions are contingent on the actions of others, ipso facto they are out of our control; we can’t do anything about them, right? Here we have the perfect underpinnings of hapless victimhood.

The ordinary thinking that flows through you has no focus. Such mechanical thought always has an emotional basis; arises from an emotional experience. Without focus, the brain, like the heart, will operate, like an engine idling, in the form of daydreaming or repeating song fragments: the noise equivalent to the wind-sound of the lungs and thump of the heart. To be conscious in the moment stops this dynamic, mitigates the extant mood by bringing clarity and focus. Emotional upset can be used as a reminder, a hairshirt, for being in the moment. Whenever you’re filled with energy as a result of notable emotion, to realize that YOU’RE RESPONSIBLE for it, brings clarity and consciousness of the moment.

--synopsis of a talk given by Jan Cox, 9-3-96 (#1643)

Man's Position As Being Human

Built in to human consciousness is a marked disinclination to view things simply. Men are inclined to dismiss the idea that man is just a special kind of animal. But the only real difference between man and animals is man's technological accomplishments and his cultural world. Up to a certain point, the mind is for the purpose of simplifying life, which generates more free time. At that point however, what happens? The mind begins to complicate life!

The mind is for two things only: information and entertainment. Information for purposes of simplifying life, easing the challenge of survival; entertainment however, introduces complication. Any complexity of life is based on consciousness. The mind cannot distinguish between information and entertainment: it takes entertainment to be information. But information simplifies while entertainment/culture complicates.

The mind cannot see that its culture is really entertainment, not an informing agency, because it must take culture seriously—as important and necessary. Thus does the mind, when in entertainment mode, complicate without realizing it. Only a true originality of thought can see this since all ordinary thinking is derivative, because culturally determined.

The pursuit of enlightenment is the attempt to simplify life: to see life just as it is; culture interferes with this.

Synopsis of a talk given by Jan Cox, Dec. 12, 2003

Perfect Justice Prevails

A simple farmer was walking along the road, his trusty donkey trailing behind. As he rounded a sharp bend in the trail a figure leaped out of the bushes behind him, and struck him a mighty blow to the head. When the poor farmer regained consciousness, he discovered his faithful donkey gone. He ran up the road and down the road searching and calling to the beast, but to no avail.

Presently he came to a river, where he saw a man standing on the bank, wringing his hands and sobbing. Although the farmer did not recognize him, the man was the very assailant that had struck him and stolen his donkey. The farmer asked why he was so upset, and the thief replied, "I have dropped my purse, containing five hundred silver coins, into this dangerous stream. If you would jump in and retrieve it for me I will gladly give you half of its contents as your reward."

The farmer thought to himself, "Praise be. When bad luck strikes, good luck must surely be close behind. The silver coins are worth much more than my lost donkey. Justice will prevail on this glorious day."

So, he stripped himself and plunged into the cold waters, and the thief ran off with his clothes.

--"Magnus Machina" by Jan Cox p.124

Cause and Effect

One day the Eccentric was walking along an alleyway when a man fell from a rooftop and landed on him. The other man was unhurt, but the Eccentric was taken to the hospital.

Later, one of his sons asked him, "Father, you have told us that life itself should be an education, and that a wise man can learn a lesson from any event, but tell me, what can be learned from this occurrence?"

And the Eccentric answered, "Avoid all theoretical discussion concerning 'cause and effect' and place no faith in the outcome of logical sequence. How can one waste his time speculating on questions such as: 'If a man falls from the roof, will his neck be broken?' The other man fell, but my neck is broken."

--"Magnus Machina" by Jan Cox p.130

Jurisdiction

The officer of the law of a certain village was one day sitting under a shade tree, resting his eyes, when a disheveled figure rushed to his side and began to shout, "Help, you must help me. I am a stranger here, and while I was passing through your town someone jumped me from behind and stole everything I own. You are in charge here, and I demand that you find the culprit."

The officer cracked one eye at the stranger and said, "I see that you still have your undergarments."

"Yes, these they did not take."

"Well," said the lawman, "The thief was not from our village, things are done with thoroughness here. It's out of my jurisdiction and I cannot be of help." --"Magnus Machina" by Jan Cox p.129

The Mechanics of Man

In the late evening, when the shadows were beginning to lengthen, a man suddenly found himself on a lonely and deserted road. He rubbed his eyes and looked around, and felt as though he had just awakened from a dream and come to his senses. He sat down in the road and tried to think, but soon realized that he had no memory. He did not know who he was or where he had come from. It was as though he had been born in the last several minutes. After realizing that further mental effort was useless, he stood up and began walking down the dark unknown road that led to God only knows where.

After a while, the man rounded a bend in the road and came upon an old house that was dark and evidently deserted. He stood looking for several seconds, then decided to enter the house and spend the night there. He stepped on the porch and opened the door; he found the inside to be pitch black. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, but found his effort futile---there was not the minutest speck of light in the old house. Still, he decided to enter and as he crossed the threshold the door slammed shut behind him. When he reached back, he found that the door had no inside knob, and he suddenly had the eerie feeling that he was imprisoned. The man tried to swallow his fears and started to explore the dark area that was his temporary home. Stepping carefully, with hands outheld, he slowly moved from wall to wall, finding nothing in between. He became bored with this uneventful activity and sat down against one wall. Soon, he was half asleep, when a ferocious animal roar startled him from his slumber. He leaped to his feet and pressed his back against the wall, waiting in horror for his unseen enemy.

After standing in this position for several tiring minutes he decided that perhaps he had simply dreamed the terrifying noise, so he slipped back to his sitting position and entered again the world of tight-eyed dreams. But suddenly the hideous roar filled the dark house again, and the man awoke from one nightmare into another. After his initial fright had somewhat subsided, he called out, "Who is there?" There was another mighty roar that seemed to shake the whole house, and then he heard a voice.

The voice was not human, but it spoke a language that sounded rather similar to his own. The man listened intently and could make out most of the words, but the unseen voice put such unusual and curious inflections in the words that they seemed to have a meaning other than their usual one. The voice itself was hard to define, but it was rather like you would imagine a lion would sound if he could actually speak your tongue.

The man cried out again, "Who is there?" And the animal voice replied, "Why ask who I am? See for yourself."

And the man said, "It is dark in here and I cannot see. Who are you?"

The animal roar again filled the house, then the voice asked, "Are you hungry?"

The man thought for a second, then asked, "Hungry for what?"

His answer was another tremendous roar. The man trembled and waited. Finally, the voice spoke again, "If you are not hungry perhaps we will go to sleep." But by now the man's imagination was so excited that all ideas of sleep were hopeless. He cried out to the voice, "No, no sleep. Let us talk for awhile."

"Talk?" asked the voice, "What is talk?"

"That is what I am doing now," replied the man.

And the voice asked, "You mean like asking me who I am, and asking 'Hungry for what'?"

"Yes," said the man, "That is talk."

The voice roared and said, "I find no meaning in such foolishness."

The man pleaded, "Please, let us talk, you'll find it most meaningful, you'll see."

The voice gave no reply, so the man continued, "Well, let me tell you what has happened to me. I found myself on the road outside, and I don't know how I got there, or even who I am..."

The animal voice interrupted, "If you do not know who you are what right have you to ask me who I am?"

"Wait," said the man, "Let me continue. I know you will find this most interesting. I can't remember a thing: nothing, nothing at all."

The voice stopped him again, "Perhaps you remember nothing because you never knew anything."

"No," cried the man, "That's ridiculous. There are some things I still know. I certainly know I exist. I know that this is me standing here. I know I'm somebody, and I know that I'm somewhere."

The animal laughed, "This is what you call 'knowing'?" Then he roared louder than ever, and the man began to hear heavy footsteps moving about in the dark house.

The man shivered and called out, "Is that you? Where are you?"

"You ask me where I am when you do not know where you are; you ask, 'Is that you?' How do you expect to know me when you do not know yourself? Ha. 'Talk, talk, talk." Then he roared again. The footsteps began again and the voice roared constantly. The man fell to the floor in fearful tears.

Suddenly the noises stopped, and through the silence the voice arose, but this time it had a feminine and seductive tone; it said, "Come here by me and lie in my arms."

The man gasped for breath and became speechless. When the voice roared again it not only seemed to be completely surrounding him, but it seemed as though it was now filling his very insides. He finally found his voice, screamed and fell to the floor.

After a long stillness, he raised up his head and cried out, "Whoever you are, have mercy on me. I beg you, leave me be, or tell me how to leave this frightening place."

The animal voice calmly replied, "Be still old man, you are home. This is where you belong and I shall never leave you. You do not see me because you look in the wrong place with the wrong eyes. Now be still. We shall eat, then you will lie in my arms and we shall sleep the sleep of darkness."

"Magnus Machina" by Jan Cox, p. 39