I aided the perverseness of the old writer and I shot him in the head, now I became me without him, therefore I died too.
This is not for me, and I speak with one eye on every other motive. There isn’t a single sentence I can write that can be portrayed. There is not a single sentence I can write that wouldn’t require one to follow it. This is duality. This is mental masturbation. I am so grateful for the aid it has given me, the hand of a wise but crooked old man to lead me away from my illusions. Now without any he disappears. I used to write to work things out, now I am spending time trying to squeeze the unknown into the known, knowing they will never meet. Knowing that you must fully surrender to the fact that you don’t know to become the unknowable. And you are it. You can not see yourself, for you are the unseen. The detective has found himself and no longer believes in his games. I say this to you, old writer, I am just not there, for convincing others I do not care, for convincing myself is the same, faith has killed you and I do not see how you can keep on coming back.
The old writer responded
If I die, I die, in the end we all do. Some young, some not, some fake their death, as I suppose you are now.
I: Who would I fake it to, when it is all me?
W: There are external forces that feed off your energy, you have the sacred gift of being the living to the dead and the dead to the living. You are threatening to shoot yourself in the head to show how much you care.
I: I don’t understand.
W: You are going to do it because you are me. When you become me, you will not be able to see me. Do not mourn my death, for it is my birth, and do not miss me, I cannot be with you when I am you.
I: To become you I must kill you?
W: Just this stupid idea of me. Just this stupid idea of you.
I: We are just duality?
W: Look if there is anything beyond.
W: Kill me and in doing so you surrender to me. We are attached, therefore we cannot be one when we are two. Kill me and in doing so you surrender to me. We both die and are born as one.
I: This is why I am done with you old writer, you flatter yourself, you romanticize subtleties and create monsters of nothing in the mind. The truth is in front of us.
W: There is no us.
I aided the perverseness of the old writer and I shot him in the head, now I became me without him, therefore I died too. But I am still here, who am I?
To become the unknowable you must not know, said the ghost.
What can I write if I do not know? I replied.
Allow the timeless time, let reason be life, measure energy by gravity.
You speak in riddles old man.
It has taken much time to capture them, but I am afraid I cannot make it any simpler.
I understand that I will not.
Thank you.
A kookaburra landed beside me as a manifestation of pure energy. I asked it for advice. It said.
You can love life. You cannot life love. Convert your conception of energy from time to gravity.
He then flew off. I was not sure.
A witch walked by, looked down on me and said
You wizards are all the same. Young boys playing dress up, pretending not to care.
I said to the Witch, I care.
W: How could you care when you preach as the observer. The faithful. The surrender.
ME: I still care.
W: A man who writes spells to see through time to observe duality as one form can still care about an ever changing result?
Me: Yes.
W: How so you wretched fool?
Me: I do not wish to explain, for I cannot.
W: Try for me, I will reward you.
ME: How so?
W: I will let you sleep with my seven sisters, at once, for as long as you please whenever you please, for all of eternity.
ME: You cannot corrupt me here, I kill my best friends for reality, desire is nothing.
W: Then what can I reward you with?
ME: Doing nothing at all.
W: You mock me, but fine, as you wish. How is it you still care even when you have no part in the result.
ME: I have the secret.
W: What is it?
Me: That there isn’t one.
W: You waste my time, I should feed you to the pigs.
My suffering personified itself as a man with a jaw line, as a man wearing a flowing orange robe, his hair was cut recently, and will be cut soon again to stay the same, he has an image, and he keeps this image in shape, like an old lady hell bent on ensuring her garden is flourishing for the eyes of thy neighbour. He spoke to me with anger, his smooth skin wrinkled in dismay when he talked, he said,
Suffering: You are a fool!
Me: You are judgmental.
S: You judge judgment, you are beneath me.
I stayed silent, knowing how eager he was to express himself. I had no interest in changing his mind, but was intrigued in his motivation.
S: You drink to alter your consciousness to find peace with the spirits of hell feeding off your energy, you bring the devil into heaven because you cannot endure truth.
M: I do not judge although I can observe judgement, I do not know enough. I must admit to you, I know you are right, sure, but I also know you are wrong, I just don’t know what the difference
is. (I meditated for nine months.) The devils speak truth, it is your fear that doesn’t allow you to listen. It is your fear that labels them devils for the truth they whisper is displeasing. Where is your wisdom?
S: My wisdom is brewed from the observation of all.
M: How can one observe all?
S: Can you smell that?
I smelt. All I could smell was the wind and the salt from the near by water that the moon controlled.
M: I can smell the salt in the air.
S: Only when you try. I smell it all the time. All senses including the mind speak to me, they cry, they confess, there is no hiding place for me, I stay silent as I observe the truth, as I observe you, when you leave in sleep and impatience. I endure all, you endure nothing.
M: What do you want from me, Suffering?
S: Less.
M: Then stop asking for more.
My suffering, personified as man, could not find words for my intellect to understand, he transformed into a thick black square and placed himself at the bottom of my throat. I could not speak, nor could I breathe deeply, he then turned to thick black vines that run through my back, he straightened my stature and in doing so I gasped for air and looked around for help. I looked in the external world, the world I take so much from, and I pleaded with my eyes for a solace but it did not come. My suffering showed mercy and allowed my tongue to utter these words.
M: I do not fear you.
S: You should.
M: Because you fear yourself?
S: Any sane man would
M: Do not speak on behalf of the sane. You know I am a non dualist, there is no difference in your definition. In fact, they bore me horribly. Look at this.
I showed my suffering the Enso circle that I drew on my hand this morning. It was the symbol of emptiness. A black incomplete circle that represented my philosophy of existence.
M: Do you see this gap?
S: Fuck you
I laughed.
M: This gap is what you are trying to close. You yearn for more and less, you are a toddler, a child, you cannot manipulate me to manifest yourself into the world. Come, go, do as you please, I have seen beyond will, I have married opposites. Boredom cannot move me, or if it does, let it. I am me, this is ours, we are us, forever. Come to me my suffering, your anger fuels you but you have no where to drive. This is our location and isn’t it beautiful?
S: They feed off us.
M: Who?
S: Dark energies
M: Then let them.
S: How could you?!?! Someone who understands the sacred gift of life.
M: When I was born, so was death, we walk together, do not fear him, death is your soul, death is truth.
S: They are not us.
M: What separates us?
My suffering was agitated, I did not wish to poke a stick at him.
M: Do you know the story of how a certain monk attained enlightenment?
S: Fuck you
I smiled, he smiled too. Our relationship had become comical and with humour it allowed truth.
M: Well he was meditating in a forest in India and a skinny mother with four cubs walked by, she was dying and so were they, so the monk offered his body to her and she ate the light in his flesh.
S: The tiger would have eaten him anyway.
M: Let that be our lesson. When the darker energies are fed, they will not be hungry.
S: I cant. I cant endure this.
M: We are this. I am with you, I accept you, I love you. But please, remember life is bigger than love. Suffering, you are my friend, I apologise, I do, but I am not in control of this ship, I am just observing.
S: There!!!! You fool, finally, the crux of my angst. You say you want to observe the truth and then you run off to alter your consciousness to endure reality. You do not observe truth, you avoid it. You have no memory of yesterday. Frequencies that you cannot attain sober hold your wisdom. You are nothing.
M: Then let it be. You are right, sure, but will is the devil in a flowing white dress. I have surrendered to all, even you.
S: I do not wish to torment you.
M: I love you.
As I told my suffering I loved him he gained a realisation.
S: I am also a dark energy that feeds off of you, aren’t I?
M: you are energy, the colour tone is irrelevant, the hierarchy of gravity may be realised one day, but for now, I do not know.
S: Gravity. What is all this about gravity?
M: I am not sure. It is a prompt for further truth.
S: Who is this women who sits in the frontal lobe of your brain when you speak? She sits in your sub conscious and alters your motives. You say love is not as large as life yet you let this sacred act of knowing be corrupted by a woman?
M: I do.
S: Why?
M: Because I am not yet finished.
S: You may ruin yourself, but I will ruin her.
M: You can only ruin her through me. You think I am your prisoner, no. I am your guard, you are in the cages of my ribs. You cannot manifest without me, you cannot enter the world without me. Feed off of me, please, I offer my flesh, but I speak to you as a loving friend, leave her. She has her own you and does not need two.
S: You have shown weakness that I can use to my advantage.
My suffering smirked. I did too.
S: Why do you smile when you know you are mine.
M: Because I trust love.
S: She has caused me.
M: No she has not, I have. I fell in love with her as Eve when she was Helen, as Helen when she was mother Mary, now I know to wait, her path is her path, as is mine, she will become the spirit of god, the mother marys come down, I will become the sage and then the nothing, our stories are written, there is nothing I can do, there is nothing you can do, I cannot part from you, we are one, but she can part from us and that brings me great joy. I have power you know?
S: The man with no will has power, how?
M: Because I can burn it all down. I can be a martyr. My individualism gave me that, nature gave me that. Life is difficult, to die a hero, even if only I know it, is fine, it is better than to live a leech.
S: Yet you allow leech’s to live off you?
M: My heart pumps new blood for all.
S: You are a mockery.
M: I am. I am whatever you wish me to be, but I am not you, you are within me, I am your vessel and I cradle you like a loving mother. I can do that, for you, my suffering that once whispered the romance of suicide. Your romance is dead but my love is only growing stronger. My love for your efficiency. Who would I be without you? Where would I be without you? The same old me in the same old place. I love you, my suffering, but love does not control me, therefore, either do you. Pain does not control me, therefore, either do you. My ability to die is our ability to be reborn. I love you, my suffering.
My suffering grew tired, it had freedom within its restraints of reality but did not have my will, for either did I. It transformed to a dim candle and created an ambience in my room, I fell asleep. I slept for nine days.
I awoke to sorrow. Sorrow was a lovely lady who sat with deep wells as eyes. I could not stand, I could not move towards or away from her. She summoned serenity and surrender. I spoke to her.
I: I seek the feeling of accomplishment but have nothing to accomplish. I seek motivation yet I have no beliefs. I have murdered the writer and become something new, now this new self has nothing to do. Sorrow, can you part wisdom on me, do you have anything to say?
Sorrow sat with her legs crossed. She wore a blue silk dress that flowed to her ankle. She stayed silent.
I: I am afraid I will resurrect him as a god, I am afraid I will force myself to believe so I can move and the motivation will be for justification and not for the act in itself. When will this come to pass?
Sorrow did not mock but accepted. She stayed silent.
I: Will you speak to me? What must I do?
I closed my eyes and waited to hear her voice, which I imagined to be soft and sweet.
S: I am here to aid you as all fake falls away. Remember, what is not real can never live, what is real can never die.
I: Your aid is silent.
S: You have often wished for less noise. Less drive. The forces that move you in directions you did not wish to go, that the folly of will was realised as you watched your own destruction, and now that the lakes are placid, what is it you want?
I: I understand. I am lonely within repetition and my binds are tightening. My binds require force to break from, that is why I need motivation, that is why I need energy in my step.
S: Where are you going my friend?
I: I want a life of my own.
S: What if I promised you this, would I disappear? How lonely would you be in a story already told? Where would the motives come from if all was promised. This god you wish to create, what are his laws?
I: I think I see the pattern in your line of questioning. But is it possible, that god can create himself through me, as he created me?
S: If you wish.
I: But I do not believe.
S: Then have faith.
I closed my eyes and sat in silence. I noticed the silence to be quite peaceful. I noticed the lack of anxiety as my definition of sorrow. I noticed I was observing life through the lense of time. I meditated on gravity and attempted to observe lady sorrow in that realm. As I opened my eyes she was gone and I had the ability to stand although I felt the same. There was a note on the side of my bed, in feminine handwriting it read:
You speak to me as suffering, you spoke to suffering as pride. If you wish, then you wish. All magic is a trick. Let the flowers blossom, let them die. All can see through the eyes of you as long as they are open. If there is no where to run the legs may grow disinterested. If there is no where to run, accept where you are.
I was tired of these riddles and accepted my tiredness. I was grateful I could stand. I thought about running, but where would I go, to speak with the witch perhaps? But, as my sorrow said, all magic is a trick. I sat back down until the fly’s and ants that crawled on my legs caused me to move. This melodrama had no humour, where was the jester?
I asked a fly and as if he heard me, the jester stuck his head out from behind the tree and did a cartwheel. I smiled.
I: Jester, I have missed you.
J: Do you wish for laughter?
I: I yearn, unfortunately I have melancholy.
J: Did you think winter would not return?
I: I cannot fathom hunger when full.
The jester sat beside me. Of course, he was sad too. The ants and flys on my body irritated me and so did this Jester. I was angry that he was complex, that I was someone he felt he could confide in, it was his energy I wished to take and he came to me depleted.
I: Jester, what is it, a man wearing that face paint and funny hat, a man shooting water out of his tie to amuse the children, the flexible and wise. Why come to me with this gloom?
The jester stood, he repeated my words back to me in a mocking manner and then farted on me.
I: How dare you? Do you not know that this conversation is sacred? Do you not know that these words will once be read by the dead wishing to live? I will have you beheaded.
J: Then do it. Please, save me.
I: From what?
J: From you.
I: Why do you wish to be saved from me?
I now realised I was covered in gold. I was wearing a crown. Sitting upon a throne. I was threatening to behead the Jester, and for what? Because he was not being a clown. Because he showed depth. Well, it is his job, to make me laugh and others, if he is not doing his job then get out of the way, let another.
King: I wish to set you free.
J: There is no freedom for me.
K: I am your king, you are here because of me and now you may leave because of me, I do not wish to keep you prisoner, thanks to my pride and tunnel vision I did not even know I was, but go now.
J: My king, you do not understand.
K: enlighten me then.
I stay sat in my large throne, in a concrete castle, empty but myself and he, light came through and the dust gave it a sense of authenticity.
J: May I speak honestly.
King: Yes, but do not tire me with indecisiveness. One must have decided what they think and feel before coming to me, for I have enough decisions to make of my own.
Jester: You see, King, I did want to escape you. But now I do not, for you have given me this freedom, but a new issue has risen within me, without the fear of being beheaded and with my freedom, I do not wish to do what I am destined to do. This paradox is something I usually observe through those blinded by power, thus such as your self. With the freedom you have given me, I respect you, and as I respect you I cannot mock you. Your self awareness is crippling to my humour.
King: Dare I be the one who has to explain comedy to you?
Jester: I am afraid it is something that cannot be explained.
The jester cried and his make up run down his face and down his neck.
King: Pull my finger.
The crying jester looked at the throne in disbelief as I held out my pointing finger.
Jester: This is a trick, please, just have me killed.
King: Pull my finger.
Jester: Please, behead me, I am nothing when you are like this. There is nothing that separate’s us.
King: Then you too are a king.
Jester: I fear deeply. Yes, I am a fool, I make the well fed laugh and give the hungry hope through paradox. I love you King, I adore you now, but only as a Jester. As man I now despise you. A man of great power should not be so easily manipulated by someone as irrelevant as I.
King: Pull my finger, I demand you.
My consciousness transferred to the stone in the castle walls and I watched them.
The jester stood, held the finger that a large green emerald sat shimmering on a gold ring. As he pulled the King said, “Meow.”
The Jester smirked, then laughed, then laughed so deeply that he lost feeling in his legs and fell to the kings feet. The king laughed too, pure belly laugh that made the light in the dust dance.
King: Your sorrow comes because you know you must transcend. I can see you now and I promise to never behead you, grow with this freedom, do not stay in the restraints of your title but know that is your role. I need you. I need you and we can both laugh at the fact I do. There is plenty I cannot see, plenty you can. I grant you time more than anything, to leave this kingdom and observe yourself. If you wish to come back, then do, if you wish to stay a Jester, then be. But above all, be nothing, nothing with a funny suit on.
Jester: Thank you King, I will leave now. I do not know how I will fare without the fear of your sword, without the strength of your power and I do not know what to wish for without the ability to wish for my freedom. But we will see. Goodbye.
The Jester cartwheeled away and the king sat alone, not knowing I sat in the stone that surrounded him. He was lonely on that throne and he needed to laugh to forget it. He sent away his Jester, not knowing if he will come back, he looked around, wondered where a true laugh will come from, walked down the steps from his throne, opened the large doors and looked over the houses and occupants he ruled. If only they knew how much fear follows me, he thought. He then saw a dog and smiled.
I sat as me again, I sat as i. As us, all of us. I had sent away the Jester. The king had become self aware. The writer had been slayed. Sorrow and suffering had spoken as two sides of one. What was I doing? Sending all of my loved ones away. What am I preparing for and why is nothing happening on earth but nothing?
I then had a realisation, a peak on the other side of duality as whole.
I have nothing.
I have nothing to lose.
Old writer, I came to you, but you were no longer there. I sat beneath the tree in the kindness of the morning sun before all got too hot and too much and I waited for you, but you were no longer there. I closed my eyes and watched the darkness as I felt all my senses consciously to find you, but you were no where. So, who is the one that looks?
I am Riley William Dyson. I was born on march 31st, 1993. I like that birthday because it has many threes in it, I feel it makes me special. I am also an aries, which I believe in all the good parts of that without any reason. I am the youngest of five boys and I don’t want to talk about that but I am not sure why. I am thirty one years old now. This is a decade of threes. I think I will die at thirty five. Symbolism. A number. My number. My intuition. I do not know if Riley William Dyson will die in the literal sense of coffin, of his name now labelled with a hint of sincerity. Me. The hands writing, dead. Or, it will be one of those spiritual things. Maybe success. Maybe love. Maybe death of a loved one. Maybe a story of your own. I am writing a book called, Gods Dogs. I have given the deadline for it to be perfected by the time I turn thirty five, for reasons I am sure you know why. So, is this another lovely trick my mind has played on itself to bleed? My last book, I made up a god to believe in. One that will see my struggles and sacrifice and reward me with tangible success that can be used to attain material things, like,
a movie ticket
a bottle of wine
a full tank of petrol
a dinner for your best friend.
or, more than anything,
a validated lifestyle
no guilt or shame,
what would I be without that, joyous?
No, surely something much worse. So I have a faith in my own tricks and that allows my will to relax. Even if they promise death.
I like drinking, but drinking wants me to hate it. The booze hits my blood and the serpents fang bites my heel. I think I have grown but I have just stayed the same with no one expecting more. No one to hurt. No one to please. Just a lump who has panic attacks over the fact that no one knows what is going on. They pass, it all passes. But it comes back, everything comes back. The same thing completely different. Your painting skills on the canvas.
I love my family but the me with them becomes depressed and I have to leave, because the depressed me does not love them when he is too close to see them. And I am an actor playing a role I chose but after three weeks I forget I am an actor. I forget to appreciate I am doing what I love. I run away and kill writers and witches in my mind. There is a deep sadness within me and as much as I try to hide it I can only from the blind.
The me with them.
Who is…. The me?
When I was fourteen my Mum, Dad and two of my brothers decided to stay home as a bush fire approached. The fire ended up killing 173 people but not my Mum, or Dad or two brothers. They didn’t die because of something I had no control over. If they did die, I would not be me today. I do not think I am explaining myself properly, I have a hard time doing so. I had no control over the fire or the circumstances of that fire yet its actions dictated the person I am . Therefore, I have no control over who I am now. Then, how can I have any control over who I will be tomorrow? If I have no control, do I exist? I am going to die again at thirty-five. Would the belief that I don’t exist help alleviate the anxiety of this intuition? I have watched him die and I am still here. I have watched him die and I no longer mourn him.
I think you may be understanding my conundrum. I don’t exactly know who I am, I don’t exactly know where I am, I don’t exactly know when I am, I don’t exactly know why I am. But I killed the old writer, that idea, so who am I if nothing and if nothing why? No one cares for the why when after the where.
I tell them I am here, but that is not enough.
Then I look up and see the light coming through the green. I hear the songs the wind plays with the leaves. I watch the branches dance. I hear the magpies gurgle. I do this so I can see. This is my trash. The only way trash can become treasure if you are not too sentimental. Throw it out, take it, thank you, I am sorry, one day I will not need you, I will not let the rubbish pile up, ill function like water and cleanse like fire. Ill mimic the oceans. I am stone and I will become sand. I will become water. I will surrender and then laugh thinking I have to.
I walk through the old city of Rome and I see Jesus resurrected and disguised with the jesters hat on. I ask why. He said, “To try the same thing twice and expect a different result will be einsteins definition of insanity.”
I apologise, you see how the imagination gets in the way. As I said, I am Riley William Dyson. I am broke again. I am being reacquainted with my anti-establishment persona. I must leave to breathe. To not have to hide my inner child for all he has done. To free myself from the restraints of time. No motivation is left in there for me.
I will never be a good writer. But someone will like me. Someone will understand. Maybe a man with no arms who wants to be a pitcher for the Yankees. Maybe a woman who has an invisible force that she cannot justify to others but cannot deny herself. Maybe no one, but I look at the wet towels on the line beneath the sun and I am happy for them. I love my family, but I have a ticket to my own madness.
I am Riley William Dyson. I am single. I have been alone once, as no one, without I, and I begged for him back. I do not have a partner. I do not know if my soul can trust me. I do not know the full strength of love, I had no where to put it. Now I have nothing, I offer my vessel to her. And she leads me here, my love, home again.
Why do I always end up back at my childhood home. Did I die here? Is this all my fantasy to help me pass on? Am I the ghost I saw in the hallway when I was Ten. Am I the presence I feel?
I do not know how I would feel if I saw a ghost again. I believe in them because I feel them, but how would my eyes would handle it? I don't know if my heart is ready for more. Where is the Jester? Hand me his hat, disguise the truth to me as magic.
I am Riley William Dyson. My inner world is located in numerous frequencies that can be attained through the senses. Who am I but a memory? Everyone I know knows a different me. I don’t know anyone the way they know themselves. That takes the shame from loneliness. All of us here, together, on our own. Let me hide it anyhow, this inner world I know, let it leak out through my art and actions to the ones who care to bother. Let me hide some, let me keep some things to myself.
Ahh, the hoarder, the further conundrum. You want your trash to be treasure but want to keep your treasure?
I reply to myself and say, it is not treasure. It is parts of me I am too ashamed to share. And of course, I reply, that is the treasure, the truth. You must go all the way. And I say shut up and we laugh together, not knowing the result of that.
You see, I let go of writing, and I stumbled across depression. It reminded me why I found it in the first place. I know this can only take me so far, when I get there I will go beyond, until then, I am here, and writing makes me feel alive, do I need any other reason than that? The only thing heroic about my journey is how much it isn’t, but I still need romance in my life . I still need to believe I'm a wolf, when I know I'm just a fox, a fox who needed to be domesticated because he was not tough enough to kill a chicken. Death is promised, death can wait. I am coming for you, life, and at the moment it looks like a packet of chips and a beer. Yet, I continue to write,
and this is what I wrote.
my tunes aren’t always pleasant but every guitar deserves to be strummed.
