Brown Studies In A Yellow Dining Room

I. On Writing

The ink collected in the dry white beds of the paper creating

rivers of ink. The ink came together in thin loopy lakes which

formed bodies of divine words on the page.

By consciously moving your pen in conscious words, you obscure, the

pure form. Let the ink from your pen run down the page; let it

roll into the indentations of pure thought; you are naturally

unknowingly, embedding on the page. Protect your original incloyed

thoughts onto that blankness and let your pen roll into the furrows

of your mind.

II. On Living

You open your closet door one morning and are presented with a hall

of many doors, each door opening to a hall of many more doors.

Each door in the secondary halls opens to a closet which has in it

seven suits and seven ties. Each tie, each suit projects the

wearer into a different existence; each combination of suit and tie

is a distinct experience.

How many days could you go to work, to that nine-to-five office

job, wearing a suit and/or tie you had never worn before in a

combination you had never used? What would it be like going to

work each day wearing a different existence, sitting in your tiny

office with your incoming/outgoing piles while your mind doesn't

leave your suit and tie's boundaries.

III. On Reading

The black and yellowing pattern filters into the mind. The binding

of someone else's writings permeate rooms. The collection says the

same thing regardless what volume you are reading.

The normal ideas are foreign to the reader. The sidewalk is made

up of pavement blocks which lead to a deadly intersection; step off

the end in any direction you, the reader, face a mortal

consequence. Turn the page, and the tome tells exactly the same

story. Close the BOOK, for the end is too near. Pick up another

and it starts again.

IIII. On Dying

You sputter up the last remaining remnant of your life force. Your

life force is dying. Your body follows. The doctor notices that

he has lost you and is racing for the switch to keep you alive.

However, this time, the doctor is too late. Your body is left

outdoors to decay as crowds honour you with tears and floral

bouquets.

You recline in state beneath a tree as a Forest King, with a clump

of earth your orb, a cattail your sceptre, and a piece of bleached

driftwood your crown. Or a sea enraptured hermit on a high rocky

crest conversing with the wind. Perhaps a galleon on the ocean

floor, remembering when you were a tree and your roots reached far

and deep into the soil.

* * *

Would those existences differ to you from your existence in your

office? Would they hold any more wonder for you than your job

does? Could you ever distinguish? Or are your perceptions dulled,

your life and mind so static, that being a ship dissolving into the

seafloor would be no different to you than going each day in a suit

and tie? If so, you might as well be dead!

BUT.

If you make sure that your perceptions of life and the world never

fall into stagnation and doldrumery, if you make sure that you

always look inside and around you with a fresh, bright and sharp

eye, like a scalpel, that can delicately cut and peel away the

infinite layers of all things, an eye you can see all the manifold

variations of Existence on the Earth, if you avoid falling into

these traps that The Mass, beckons you to, then all the suits and

ties will hold wonder for you. Find awe in your life and you will

be awed by the infinite variations on life everywhere.