Nothing To Declare

Reads: 100  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 2

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic

Your chief limitation is the ringmaster you've given a home to.

YOU ARE READING THESE WORDS . . . But not if you're a neuro-typical person. Reflecting off the 'world condition' means you're neuro-typical. You can't HEAR what's being said - correction - you WON'T hear because you're too busy arguing or worse, quoting your own rehearsed opinions. And you're very likely to get clever or hiss out of fear. An extension of today's living, each generation sees less and hears next to nothing.


The following requires you to stay conscious. Hear me as I speak. Please - be serious. If you listen like most people do, you'll almost certainly want to leave a terse or reactive comment. Also, the accolades you have on the wall are going to lay claim to knowledge you've taken from books. And you're already in great danger of espousing what you've memorized.


Remember: it's not about what you see, but that you see. And that you see or hear with a CLEAR MIND.


So . . .


Are. You. Reading. These. Words?


Feel what's going on inside. The voice in there is a cheeky devil. It prods you between the ribs. It jumps to your defence - especially when there's a vacuum to be filled. It feasts on what's trending, with its foot on the accelerator. But we're not going anywhere. We're staying put. It's very peaceful where we are. No clutter. No noise - just the absence of subject matter.


This is not about converging your attention - by increasing the strength of your focus. When the national newspapers or TV channels do this, it's done at the expense of diminishing the bulk of your energy - headlines are a particularly worrying example.


So . . . what am I talking about? Notice how that voice wants to intercede again. It needs to have an object to define. And right now, it's convinced the narrator's being abstruse or using cant as a form of anti-language. The only thing here, on display, is the potential of seeing straight. The voice, however, needs to objectify its own existence. We, on the other hand, are not looking for obstacles. Because there ARE NONE. There's nothing to speak of. Zilch. This is, if you haven't already guessed, the practical version of a tabula rasa. And you be it - by doing it. This eliminates any theorizing. Any Greek or Freudian interpretation will only feed the appetite wanting validation - something the voice thrives on.


A tabula rasa, when practiced, is the observance of yourself not thinking. But you can never declare this, or else you'll be thinking, won't you? And the voice, wanting to assert itself, would've tricked you. Without its daily fix of self-affirmation, it can't survive. Alas, you've surrendered most of your time to an ongoing masquerade - of being a mouthpiece. Don't panic. Stay with me. The work begins with you observing the habits sucking the life out of you - such as all that scientific thinking you busy yourself with. And all of it, I emphasize, acquired from books. Do you, for instance, struggle to be original? And seeing it in others leaves you mortified? Pause for a moment. Feel those prejudicial pet peeves down there in your stomach - waiting for you to emotionalize and give them form. You'll soon be pacing the room, complete with migraine. You gotta wipe the slate clean. Let all those childhood jealousies go!


This exercise guarantees enough room in which to observe all unconscious behaviour. When all around you are quoting experts, you'll be still, quiet - potential unrealized. You'll see/hear everything with a lot more clarity. The phoney of the world condition will seek out others to sate. And the troublesome voice you've appeased for most of your life . . . will no longer be your jailer.

Submitted: February 02, 2021

© Copyright 2021 Jobe Rubens. All rights reserved.

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Craig Davison

Yes, I am reading this, but I'm thinking about about the women I've met online whom I think will eventually fuck me. Even poets dream. Yes, I am reading this, but I live in a small town whose occupants are married to their first cousins, like the Queen. Yes, I am reading this, but I ran into the Sooky Girl today, out of the blue, and I'd just published another love poem about her called 'Alone' in the local rag, which made me happy. Yes, I am still in love with her, even though she still lives with an alcoholic, drug dealing criminal who pays her no rent. Love is blind and mere poets cannot expect to ever be loved by Sooky Girls, however much they love them. Life is not fair, obviously, but how does one stop falling in love with beautiful Sooky Girls? That is the question.

Tue, February 2nd, 2021 11:45am

Craig Davison

I saw you seated alone
On your veranda today
As I passed by on a bus
Full of wet Year 6 students
We’d picked up at the pool.
I wanted to yell “Stop!”
And get off to talk to you
But I noticed the mobility scooter
Parked beneath your carport
And thought better of it.
I got off at the top of the hill
And walked home to be alone
With my ever-hungry cats
Wishing I could see you
Just one more time.

Tue, February 2nd, 2021 11:48am

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