by Charles Carreon
was at H.H. Dudjom Rinpoche's birthday party in San Anselmo, California,
in 1980, I fell asleep during the Yeshe Tsogyal empowerment. I dreamt that
I was looking at a pure white field of crushed pearl dust, and on that
white field, as if someone were creating a sand mandala, a red swastika
began to appear, pure red like ground rubies. When I awoke, having lost my
upright balance, I stuck out my hand sharply for support, which made a
loud thump heard throughout the large hall. Everyone turned to look.]
One would like to think that the business of writing is ordinary, that the
life of the printed page is simple and direct, but the truth is otherwise.
To be a child of language is to be a slave. A slave to the flow of
discourse, to the flow of meaningful sound. Should you fail to heed its
insistent flow, you will pay a price.
Nothing surprises one more than loneliness. Just when you think you are
insular and self-sustaining, you discover that you are no one when there
is nobody but you.
Still you have your words. You can wind meaningful sounds through your
fibers of being and seek in meanings transitory and broken the substance
of your ignorant knowledge.
The night breaks open like a stone to reveal a heart of emptiness, a tomb
of designless design, as quintillions of stars cascade through without
explanation or destiny.
You remain wandering in the distance of your precognitions. You persevere
in the toiling sands. You wash your water and mind your thoughts. You
break down into a tiny pile of ruby dust and frosting of diamonds.
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