Food for Thought

Every invaluable greatness to sublime realisation to complete liberation is free, like a great vista from a vantage point, like a magpie ambling along a length of a paved path in a waddling gait, while cackling and croaking, like so many mundane beauties of this earth, but we get ourselves tethered to this shabbiness, especially to the root of every suffering, namely this narcissism, to this amorphous, dreamlike self-importance. It's so true it's all about not having a gist of knowledge about what a healing potion 'other instead of self' has in store. We happen to experience it in our little escaped acts, but we can't get it , or see it so. Yes, here in the West, or elsewhere in the world, every problem stems from it, only it. In the other word, it's hinted as 'respect', but it's just a part of it, like 'relativity' is just a part of 'interdependence'.

In loving memory of finding myself as a slacker yet enthusiastic

Shantideva's evergreen page-turner

In a split-second, so infinitesimally, way of leaving behind whatever we experience, despite having no such a concrete ground as to point out to as now, the present one, the nastiest quivering thread of the dream is our means of communication, the complex system and its representation through our language, especially in printed words, that outlives everything... Just with the help of it, despite being our own projections at last, we can connect to him and her, and to the lord who has left behind that many words, yes, so altruistic. Namo Gautam Buddha!

Yes, read, read

The importance of book-reading fever or passing remarks in the ongoing TPiE session, but not a single cast of light on the art of reading, especially a good book, namely a book with life, the life-blood of a master-spirit, namely a book of self-reflection laden with personality hues rather than just stacks of words and descriptions and banal narration or trite events. Yes, the book I am talking about is of literary work rather than study book. But just reading, having such habit of gong over what's written like on a matchbox cover, is itself great. And reading conventional novels, yes, known as thrillers, can be the ledge to more mature way of reading, namely knowing what to read. And, yes, I confess, even doing a thriller can be laborious so far, as a man of letters is more or less doomed. Then why not who does expose himself or herself, who paints real events injected with one's own feel, who presumes to express seeing through someone else's eyes.

Climate Change Fever of Now

Autism, mutism, selective mutism, incommunicado, as Arundhati Roy's words, 'deliberately silenced' are what I want to learn about, my sort of passion. Whatever is related with some form of defect in expressing oneself or lacking its means, other words 'lackadaisical', 'indisposed', 'discomposed', are my curiosity, for lacking a means of expression costs for a thinking being. From this piece, I think we Tibetans have much to learn, our struggle through the highly ambivalent, sensitive world of now, so much concerned about one's fleeting pleasures, not only for the political struggle of ours but for our cultural ones like preserving our mother-tongue and calmness defined by being mindful of something so transcendental. She, Greta Thunberg, could be said as ཕུལ་བྱུང་མི་སྣ་, one with a tangential way of expressing oneself. And doesn't it define ourselves?

For the struggle itself, Climate Change, it's nothing other than a complex precept, one's control over oneself, like a choice, despite being so exigent, to care it or not, this suspending life-supporting orb of ours, our home. Yes, complex, for it's related with home-planning or population control by being wise by each individual, with self-command over one's needs or greed, with individual responsibility on a daily basis, with enforcement of lasting legal force over this seemingly eternal consumerism drive. It's, in essence, nothing other than revoking each one's innate altruism or summum bonum the mindfulness of which is the question, really tough, like asking a junkie not to take to this self-destroying habit, like pinioning our core from being ambivalent. 

The 60th March 10 in Paris

Like the concept of meliorism, namely it does matter, that repetition, persistence, with a defining enlightenment on my own identity on a daily basis, with such passion in the concept of dreamy projection and the stark different reality, like 'specious', 'telegenic', 'chicanery', I am joining the historic event March 10, because I am a Tibetan. No more time to go into Nagarjuna's ideals here. Now I see my joining the mass does matter despite my being that insular, so off being diplomatic and servile, for not having a local (leave aside friend, thanks the sensitive world at large) acquaintance, a marketable one, to take with me there, to tell them the same thing over and again, like their presenting charade of asking the same question now and again. Their prejudice, our fate of always being on the receiving end, the sordid world and system, the quagmire that I have to wade through. Some form of solipsism has to be maintained despite being in stark variance with the great one's ideals, just a whit of it, to keep myself rolling on..., like holding on to a strange story.

Departure

A great oblivion of what lies yonder

Yet driven by such an indifference,

Thou made it, thy epithet-less innocence--

What followed were learning,

Leave aside those tiny pains taken,

For thou think thou can see how thou err as well.

Then the second one,

No more the security of such innocence,

Yet there the same indifference,

Lesser oblivion yet to the churning chase of now--

Running after, say, fleeting pleasures

Yet not having the leisure to have one at a time.

Thy ambivalence is such an abysmal vortex,

Thou art sick, dear.

The first for a genuine freedom,

As per her, dear mother, notion,

The pain-wrought notion,

Even here, at the remote hamlet,

With howling pines serenity,

Just a ledge in exile,

Yet vibrant with sentient human's ambivalence,

Like "What they're up to? Do we lag behind them?"

Thou seem to stumble on it, now,

The true shape of her notion,

When thou hath lost it already--

Amid the jumble of such life:

Cacophony and pre-empting and such running after;

Thou, despite being sort of cast about, art part of it.

And, so strangely, thou prepare for the third.

Oh, how ill-fated thou art, dear.

I wish if I were a magpie rather than being thee.

Sorry! That's thy life--

Leaving or willing to leave but where?

Is such really a sign of an inner revolution?

I Am Lagging Behind So

Consummation is all what you need, namely sensory level satisfactions and, if one step further, imaginative reverie, namely our discriminatory minds food. And it's consummated, or thought as, by a nomenclature attached to it, like 'the scarlet' of 'rose', and the vibes and the flow of imagination or whatever. Does it work greater? Maybe. And that's the underlining difference we human beings think as up and above, from an animal. But in the area of placidity and, maybe 'idle', mindfulness, in which we are in dire starvation, especially these days, an animal is many tiers above us. But we have our ratiocinating intellect expressed by a communicative behaviour and system, where we have gone awry so far and on as of our sickening indulgence in holding such magisterial confidence in what and how we communicate forth so, given there a situation that presents as identical to us, like a rose as a rose. So the blatant homogenisation and glossy ad posters, doing some work, but always lacking something, always there you and me gritting teeth and fuming and complaining. Because we don't care about our own way of seeing, especially being in some way familiar with our own discriminatory, narrow way of taking in and expressing so.