Author: Douglas Wilton

Since viewing the photographs from Auschwitz in his youth, D. B. Wilton has pursued a lifelong quest to discover the roots of human conflict and foster a more enlightened world. To that end he has trained with both Tibetan and Zen teachers and has been both an activist for nuclear disarmament and a fund-raiser for environmental causes. He has also written and edited several lit mags, hosted durable reading series and is currently working on his fourth novel. He lives in Nelson, B.C. where he conspires with kindred souls to embody our global visions of peace on the ground of identification with all life.

Refusing Heaven

Bodhidharma tried heaven until he understood
that heaven is a mind enclosed by exclusive
concentration on the pleasures and woes
of its imaginary self. Ignorant and uncaring
about the servants or the victims
of its perfect world.

Zen is a mind that lives nowhere but
wherever you are at this particular moment
of your night or day and obviously it is
not confined to any particular social position
being a come as you are occasion.

Zen does not exclude itself from suffering,
heartbreak or death. Nor does it separate
from the bliss of remembering
how one funny, wise and imperfect soul once loved
your crooked heart.

If there is one primary choice to make
at any moment of your life on this circle of
dark moments and flashing days,
it is
whether to remember love
or not.

That about which nothing can be said

Mom and Dad gave birth to someone like you.

From Mom that someone received the nature of Eve

as a unique unfolding articulation of That

about which nothing can be said.

From Dad they received the nature of Adam

as a similar unique unfolding emanation of That

about which nothing can be said.


When that someone dies the dance they are

will divide

into an unbounded sea of particles and waves and

a fading sequence of physical and mental intimations

of That

about which nothing can be said.

A Parallel Earth

Gebtu was the most important religious center in the area. Its principal male deity was Min, a sky-god whose symbol was a thunderbolt. He became a male fertility deity, and also was regarded as the male deity of the desert region to the east.


The gods inhabit a parallel Earth

imagined by collectives of submissive minds,

an Earth abstracted from reality,

an Earth populated by imaginary species

including the one that imagines it is wise.


A collective dream puts the world to sleep

as it entertains us passengers on our unsinkable ship

serenely plowing thru the plasticated sea, the band playing

to distract us from thinking about the wretched

lifeboats overfilled with refugees

from smoking villages and sinking coast cities.


To distract us from asking why

this world of dreams and lies?

What is their source?


Our real brains of course

floating here in real heads atop real bodies

in our separate lifeboats, cabins and deck chairs.


But now we know

that the gods only think

if we think their thoughts

instead of our own,

only speak if we speak their words

instead of our own,

only have bodies if we embody them

instead of our own unique, unfolding natures,

yours and mine.

 

 

 

The Master Frequency

Page Two

All stories begin with a blank page

To remind us of the physical papyrus, palm leaves, paper, wax,

or digital circuitry of elements and electrons that

mediate the flow of language that carries thought

from mind to mind.

~

And page two always starts in the middle of the book

because that’s where the real story is actually unfolding

on both sides of the page you’re reading now

one side is memory, following right behind the next word

or the silence which follows the last word that vanishes

in fire, ink fade or dust.

~

One side is you and one is me.

I probably don’t know who you are, unless you are one of the physical few

who find their way to the Clear Light Cafe, but let us be of good cheer,

dogs can’t do this and neither can butterflies

but we can.

And neither of us knows what will follow the last word, possibly

in the middle of this particular moment of

Resonance—

the effect of different strings, voices, minds singing

on the same frequency.

~

Like the frequency I share with those who know

something of the Great Moment we call by many names.

The Red Monk calls it zen mind, I call it the master frequency

because the Red Monk tells me that when he enters zen mind

he feels like the Master is walking in his shoes.

~

The Red Monk tells me now that in their nightly meetings in Tushita he has begun to receive detailed notes of the master’s journey through China and India, which he calls his rahnāmag, a pilgrim’s guide to zen. We have been thinking about publishing it here in Dysutopia and, if you are actually reading or hearing this then we have not worked in vain. He tells me stories of visiting the master in his cave in Tunhuang, in an oasis in the great northwestern desert. He thinks it happens in a kind of dream because the Master has been gone for fifteen centuries. He thinks the Master is an eternal possibility that wakes in various situations, like dreams and roadside diners, laundromats and hospitals, anywhere a mind happens to let him in. Wherever there is an open door or a crack in the wall he passes thru, like an ocean. I tell him not to worry about the metaphysics, I just want to hear about the latest part of the adventure.

§

Selene and Dahma were in Egypt, he says, about 430 AD. They got out of Hippo just before the Vandals seized the harbour and burned or captured all the Roman warships, for their own fleet which would become a force of desolation around the Middle Sea. Such was all the talk in Alexandria where everyone was asking if Alexandria would also fall, the Roman garrison being so small. Now they were travelling south, up the Nile road in a small camel caravan. He had acquired some delicate objects of Etruscan gold and Selena had saved a little from her casual labour as a travelling scribe, a writer of other people’s letters in formal or elegant Greek script so, richer than they looked, they chose the relative safety in numbers and travelled with others in small caravans. They were taking the slow road to their spring rendezvous with The Captain at the Red Sea port of Berenike. Winter was warm but people were tired of the dull, sometimes sandy sky. Such is the weary world until the first flowers peek from the dead gardens and the dream of spring wakes to the dawn of its reality.

In each caravanserai they would rent a humble room then he would mind their stuff while she bought food or she would stay in while he went for a bath. They would trade information in the inn or bath house where a hookah might be passed around. Dahma found the effects of cannabis comparable to the entheogen the magi imbibed, the wondrous hom. Pounded into a liquor and drunk in rituals, the first haoma plant, created by Ohrmazd, the purest form so to speak, is a shining white tree that grows on a mountain in paradise and, being also a god, gifted the world with her seeds, carried to Earth by sacred birds.

Do you like this shit? asked a dark woman with long white hair who sat in the wide circular tub, between several other bathers who were also sharing the hookah, pouring water on their heads or sitting in deep appreciation of existence itself.

It’s fine, said Dahma, but it’s not hom.

Not soma either, said the other.

I have heard the Magi use something called hom, said the elder.

I’ve heard the Hindus like something called soma, said Dahma.

The elder poured a handful of water on her head and recited the following:

We have drunk Soma and become immortal; we have attained the light, the Gods discovered.

Now what may foeman’s malice do to harm us? What, O Immortal, mortal man’s deception?

Dahma smiled and in his crooked Greek said, this sounds a little Gnostic. They claim that somewhere in their scripture Jesus says, you are all Gods if you believe that I too am God.

We all God! laughed the elder. Our hands and minds in a world, Our sentient bodies, every word we sing, speak or write, every brain and each thought that informs each language. Where does a thought come from?

Maybe it’s a kind of flatulence, said Dahma, mental indigestion. From eating uncooked lentils. Or smoking hom.

They smoke it? In a hookah?

Sometimes they drink it, sometimes they burn it in a ceremonial brazier, said Dahma, and everyone leans to breathe it in.

Haha! laughed the dark bright elder, here’s another verse from the Rigveda:

Heaven above does not equal one half of me.

Have I been drinking Soma?

In my glory I have passed beyond earth and sky.

Have I been smoking Soma?

The Slow Way

The Red Monk appeared in the way he does, as if the Clear Light Cafe was a virtual reality show in which parts of the illusion are added or removed at the whim of its programmer. How do you do that? I asked.

We do it together, he said. I remember the first time it happened to me. I was in a deserted monastery near Ayodhya. As I meditated in the darkness I asked myself how Asanga was able to ascend to the Tusita Heaven where he encountered Maitreya and concentrated for an hour on that question until the dark room vanished and I found myself sitting in a sunlit mango grove, face to face with another monk and I bowed. He bowed back, asked my name and said he was Asanga. Where is this place? i said. How did I get here?

By slowing your attention, he said. The slow move further into solitude as they pursue not stasis but the stillness at the center of a whirling gyroscope.

The fast believe that heaven is almost full and want to get get there first.

The slow know there is no object so small but it makes a hub for the wheeled universe.

They also know that the miracle happens when beauty or danger slows the mind with urgent attention to the unfolding now.

Have you noticed, I asked, whether you slow others even as they quicken you?

Like warm bodies cool in contact with cold bodies which get warmer. Yeah, sometimes I cool and normal things seem to move so fast they become a blur, a hazy atmosphere around my own body and other solid things like rocks or tree trunks with boughs in a blur of buds and leaves.

He paused and said, as I get closer to people and other changing forms they change more slowly and slowly or suddenly come into focus, as if i had just awakened in some public scene. Objects become more detailed as I slow to see them and they slow to be seen.

But even a normal person can sometimes invest such detailed attention in a second of clock time, I said. When everything seems like a scene in slow motion.

Sustained attention means more information and less blur, he said, so a mind that lingers on an object or thought or scene records so much detail per moment it feels like the load it normally takes on in an hour. And you think, after it passes, that the second of clocktime must have passed more slowly.

So this slowing and concentration of mind must have consequences.

Yes, he said. One consequence is that a patient mind receives a lot more data about the objects of its curiosity. And develops deeper knowledge of them than a swift skimmer does. Skimming to and fro in search of something that does not require patient, respectful attention.

But the full flowering occurs when the slow begin to see each other thru the blurry world of the fast, to tune in other beings who are also radiating and receiving accessible wavelengths of inner light. When that happens we naturally collaborate in the enterprise of helping ourselves and others wake from the Great Sleep.

Do you think all humans will one day wake to this freedom?

Probably not, he said but when we don’t keep focussed on that objective we fall back into complacency, followed by loss of faith and vision, the light fades and darkness rises again.

It has to do with density, he said. During an hour I may process the same amount of data, whether I dwell or skim. If I skim I know a little about many things. If I dwell I know much about one thing. Like war or gardening or my mind.

To attain knowledge of my own nature I reserve some attention to an ongoing observation of my own mind. Which leads me to observe the mind of humans in general. A mind of many gods, some at war with others, some at peace, working together or alone in observation of our personal and collective journey to desolation or biospheric life.

Elephant Mountain 2020

March 26 for more precision

tho neither the mountain nor i are

precisely anywhen but forever now

even when my dust is finding work

in grasses, the silky sails of dandelions or

the milkweeds of my small Ontario towns and

in clots of snow that litter the flat lawns

of yesteryear from which green stems begin

to appear by warmer lanes farther down

this cold morning hill from which an

approximate I eyes the still snowy crown

of my morning mountain over there

beyond the river and the town.