Mason

[loves' the unjust]

whatever the mason says he is true.

[fuki]

whatever the mason says he is true.

“The blue mountain is the father of the white cloud. The white cloud is the son of the blue mountain. All day long they depend on each other, without becoming dependent on each other. The white cloud is always the white cloud. The blue mountain is always the blue mountain.”

Hooray to Mason.

[Mason]

I, too, am a narcissist.

[fuki]

Something far more brilliant then the walls we've built, an intimacy that even permeates our most blissful dreams, you are That.

[Mason]

I can't wait to find out!

[fuki]

I can't wait to find out!

Meh, isn't it about time to understand it is not and never of time, leave that to dreamers and scripture folks who talk about merit and ripening.
There is no other Nirvana then what you are.

[Mason]

Do you consider yourself liberated?

[fuki]

Do you consider yourself liberated?

Only prisoners do!

The question does not apply.

[Mason]

Ah, I see. You are indeed a bodhisattva.

[fuki]

Ah, I see. You are indeed a bodhisattva.

You can never know what I am, though in an offline setting everyone who "knows" me is afraid to hurt animals nor would they kill a fly or speak ill of a tree in my presence, and I have no issue keeping them in that illusion (whatever they imagine will be the consequence)

I don't do labels, but I'm happy to be represented/remembered as that.

This week mom stopped eating eggs, years ago she understood that sentient beings were more important then her cherished "flowers" so no more poisoning of garden life. But it doesn't matter what we gave up, all that matters is to see what (harm) is left to undo.

[Mason]

I have seen her flowers.
Almost forever ago.
Briefly, I taste them.

[fuki]

I have seen her flowers.
Almost forever ago.
Briefly, I taste them.

Too short for me to enjoy (there's always whiskey to fix that)

[SPOILER]

She is Seville Orange and Wild Maine Blueberry
She is strange, serene, surreal — an exotic marmalade
She is identical to the bodies of all women
She has many cloud formations, multi-hued
She is the metaphysical apparition, so brilliant
She is the supernal visualization of Vajrayogini
She goes by the names she chooses, laughing
She keeps pace with all things by not moving
She is the Triple Jewel — Buddha, Dharma, Sangha
She is the cosmic mother bestowing bliss and tranquility
She is the perfection of Heart Wisdom
She has all of those chirping birds in her hair
Her hair is all tangled twigs and wild vines, swirling
Her hair is an accumulation of bright shooting comets
Her hair wraps around you, you only want more
Her head is Bodhisattva-like, it is Arhat too
Her head holds all of the secret knowledge
Her head is empty space, filled with potentiality
Her head turns this way and that, silently
Her forehead is the gleaming monument
Her forehead cannot be imagined or forgotten
She has a forehead made for star gazing
She has the eyes of yesterday, today, tomorrow
She has eyes that see through your disguise
Her eyes cannot be fathomed or outshone
She has golden cobalt crimson eyes
She has the eye of destiny, twinkling
Her eyes are opening and closing
Her eyes are more than man can endure
Her tears are for the best of this world
Her limpid tears are like a desert mirage
Her tears drown the guilty, the wicked
Her falling tears become religion up above
Her ears can taste and touch all phenomena
She has the lovely elfin ears of yore
She has ears for the music of the spheres
Her ears are delicate, alluring, impossible
Her ears hear the cries of the invisible
Her ears hear the low rumble down below
Her ears are shaped like galactic forms
Her ears can reach beyond the known
Her nose can inhale all of the prophets
She has a nose to sniff out joy and sorrow
She has a nose for the hidden lies
She has a nose for happy trouble
Her mouth is not a secret
Her mouth can swallow the universe
She has a mouth made for one love
Her mouth is calling all angels home
Her mouth tells the truth by not speaking
Her mouth is the passport to eternity
Her mouth will make you forget her ears
Her mouth is the form God will be for me
She has the neck of a warrior goddess
Her neck is held high, above the fertile valley
Her royal neck carries kings and queens
Her neck is smooth glossy alabaster
Her neck draws you in closer, your mouth
Her shoulders bear our burden, our hope
Her shoulders are yoked to infinity
Her shoulders carry the bruised and weary home
She has the graceful arms of our delight
She has the arms that swing merrily
Her arms will sweep away our guilt and shame
Her arms are pillars that hold up the temple
Her arms wrap around us while we sleep
Her arms are raising up the extinct species
Her arms are holding up the exquisite illusion
Her arms are doing that job we feared to do
Her arms are embracing empty space
Her hands fashion the grand celestial display
Her hands are made just for this kind of work
Her hands reach out and touch the sacred spot
Her hands make the various creatures come alive
Her hands will crush the grapes into sweet wine
Her hands can make magic seem so simple
Her hands transmit the rare euphoria, that glory
Her hands hold the shy ones, gently comfort them
She has fingers that draw circles that become stars
Her fingers turn the pages of all holy scriptures
Her fingers can tap out the urgent message
Her fingers can match the means to the ends
Her fingers can twist the leaves from the trees
Her fingers can stir them to make amazing tea
Her breasts can feed the past and future saviors
Her breasts are the connection to the other world
Her breasts are filled with the nurturing light
Her breasts will draw you to the Great One
Her breasts are the earth, I am the hazy sky
Her breasts are the sky, I am the vanishing cloud
Her belly is the pillow for wounded animals
Her belly is the furnace where souls are made
Her belly is the ocean, I am the rolling wave
Her sex is the prism for the luminous Divine
Her sex the gateway entrance of the Dharma
Her sex is the promised heavenly abode
Her sex is the graciousness of homecoming
Her sex is a Buddha paradise, adorned with a red Buddha
Her sex is liberation of all conceptual designations
Her thighs are warm with genuine compassion
Her thighs are firm and steady like the sages’ resolve
Her thighs are the glad destination of all pilgrims
Her legs stride victoriously through dream worlds
Her legs run the good race, they are noble
Her legs are graceful as a gazelle or antelope
Her legs carry all sentient beings into quiescence
Her feet are the place of fervent devotion
Her feet walk amidst the pangolins and penguins
Her feet are roots reaching down into the soul
Her feet dance wildly atop the crown of creation
Her feet are walking towards you now
I will tell you about her
~Sir Bob

[Mason]

A monk asked Chow Chow,
"Anything left in that old dog?"

Joshu replied,
"Meh."