Referenceless white receptacle, jet-stream cirrus skull-bowl glowing in burning mi-lam bardo. You said:
“This is for you. I will not be needing it any more.” With cheer you pronounced “Long live the Queen!”
Then—on waking—telephone call from somewhere in Redland, Bristol, informs me of your parinirvana.
Some fire—almost like loneliness—plays in space like a Garuda that plays as spaced, with space, in space.
Imagery arises – diary of dying: in ‘Far-out Ati space’; in ‘ambiguous circumstances’; in ‘renal failure coma’;
In, Nova Scotia funeral arrangements; in riotous river of rainbow rifling and observatory ramifications,
Which lure themselves from nowhere. In life—as in death—enigmatic with immaculate enigmatic variations:
Tomorrow never knows. Yesterday was not certain about anything in particular – especially obituaries;
Opaque double mirrors, book reviews, opaque personages with so many ideas they ‘needed’ to express.
People generate such endless subjectivity, that subjectivity appears objective but—Chögyam wonders—
Why Did no one ever guess you were the direct mind Incarnation of Drukpa Künlegs – Dragon of Bumthang?
Memories—apparently—were diverted by London traffic; trafficing—it would seem—in one way systems
That either have you circling North and South or driving into Rene Magritte M25 spillages of frozen pea fog.
They came. They heard. They returned. Sat like pea pods in respective domiciles; projecting their illusions.
Dharma illusion. Illusory illusion. Duality illusion. Nondual illusion, duelling with nondual duality illusion:
Bad illusion; double-bind illusion; double entendre illusion, resentment illusion; disappointment illusion;
Entente cordiale illusion, sincere illusion, disingenuous illusion, grim masturbatory journalist illusion – but
Alf Vial (smiling sparkle eyed, white hair, cockney chuckling ruddy complexion) disciple of the Rigden King
Talks vajra turkey—quotes Myth of Freedom and wins the day– says: “Yer gotta dance with the situation.”
But – elsewhere: in shoulder bags; on buses; in cars; on book shelves; and, in the privacy of certain homes:
Attentive intellects—according to bank balance—attempt to research furtive applications of basic sanity;
In their traumatised love-lives; in the florid counterpoint of their domestic pain; in conceptual malfunction;
In, the somewhat chintzy decor of jaded collaborative confusion where they—almost—remember to sit;
In the ruptured vermillion bubble of their cunningly disguised appropriation of cosmetic contradictions.
Beneath marsh mallow acres of quilting, where conveyor belt garters of magnanimous perpendicular rain;
The bifurcation of dramatic irony secretes misconstrued deliberations concerning the glorious rising sun.
Leaving only déjà vu pâté de fois gras coup de’état, where every semblance of sense simpers ceaselessly.
Anyhow – Chögyam says: “Cheers! Here’s to you good and revered friend – even though I never met you!
Thank you for the sake bowl. I may well drink the poison, but I may only display a dung splattered tail.”