Forty Immutable Parables

01 - 02a - 02b - 03a - 03b

The parable of Gross Concussions: The view from GR 222-BM3

I'm living in this mind Universe near downtown Osaka with the fugitive wombs and with these wild mothers and their dizzy lovers, this is the wrathful initiation into the hungry Japanese mind: it's another pilgrimage with all kinds of secret navigations. It's just this travel between multiple dimensions and, I'm just going round and round in that doggone RINNE TENSHO; it's this reunion of dialogues with these jittery intuitions and these dark shades of meaning. You see, there's a crisis here.

It's AH SO DESKA. It's crazy you say. This play of forces and queer alignments, this breezy release. It's just a Noh play and the rushing energies are stripped down to their most darkest essence; they are being tracked in this silent and abstract space, yes, this haunted space where karma furiously circulates.

And there's this mind war and there's this delicate mind play. You can see the psychic evolution along with a few of its historical cycles; it's a sort of uneasy encounter now, this Shinto linguistic rapid fire with its butchered pauses, and you surrender because you really need this ferocious concentration.

Japanese Television

You see, Japan is just this echo process, and it's all about that mysterious thing called ki, and it's often good, bad, big and small, and this ki needs to be swiftly replenished and then furiously circulated, and it's simply about getting ki just right, as the misty elements start to collage in these cryptic poems and these preliminary paintings, and in the utterances of this abstract kind of photograph.

You see, you need discipline now and also this exquisite patience, and this refined sensitivity and this courage that just get's cultivated over many lifetimes, until this process then leads you slyly to this still-like beingness that's quite miraculous, and you see the ki is this playful kind of thing and it's so delicious in October….

Hiroshima Bomb and Memorial
It's like watching the silent bunraku and these ghosts; and these drums; and the sticks and these low moans with their sinister masks; and I smell now some incense, and I see this ghostly lake near Nishinomiya; and the kamis are now coming for some tea in the evening.


And it's just this habitual siege, and you know, things seem fuzzy now, and sometimes you don't get either a YES or a NO, only some sake and maybe sizzling omiyaki. And the smiles are hiding this funky stress; and I'm gazing at these Nintendo games; and I'm smelling the rice balls and looking at these babes in their streaming colors, they look good in browns, reds, and blacks.
Nintendo Game & Rice Balls

And I'm now on the Hankyu line with the family; and this juku society is driving me crazy; it's just so hard and silent, and you need this reserved seat, do you get it Miyumi-san? You say everything is broken. It's these puzzling eyes and the black hair and these bewitching mirrors inside this bardo where you can get completely lost in this pressure cooker of tight conformities, and the cost of living can be high. It's a single snapshot of psychic process and structure. This strange black and white stress.

I think it's a critical juncture for the Japanese and there's this endless love as I sit, reading and staring now; can you just give me some ki. I'm going to this vortex and there's genius here in this chilly isolation. So domo arigato.


I'm just doing this ki cleaning in that giant atomic cemetery ….

It was just this crash, like German artillery, and I'm doing this Hiroshima chod because there's this fucking ki that's now CLOGGED in this psychic minefield; it's just this violent kind of acupuncture, you know. It's just this big mess in the global mind wind; and something quite sinister has been dislocated here. Something charred and burned; it's this searing atomic puja that's growing; and something seems to be missing here; it's just this invisible psychic thing; and it's still pretty mutilated and bleeding, and these mind things are twisted in this rice dust. So konichi wa.

Hiroshima Bomb Memorial

And it's an offering to Japan. And to the kids with their black cameras and all these heavy suits, here in this dust bowl. You see, there is only holy ash in this epicenter and it's still a bit weird. The ki is cooling slowly here in this Japanese Auschwitz, and I'm still in a state of profound shock.

It's this burned out geisha SATORI and it's in that green tea and those sizzling leaves. You see, it's in everything. It's inside this meaty sea food, and I'm seeing the rushing ki in this haiku of rice and fish. And a child's kimono becomes a bento of twinkling flows and colors, and I'm a stumbling yostebito, you know, this homeless mischievous wanderer. I'm an American samurai just jumbling around in these psychic fields, and I'm this fancy calligrapher of the unexpected flashes and flows; you know, they just seem to spring up now wherever you go. It's pretty intense.

And I'm having all kinds of mind encounters with these Eastern geishas and with all these familiar consorts, and it's a kind of international Tantra; and it's this stew of American English and these delicious kinds of sushi; and it's also millions of these spindly kabuki plays, and it's about Akira Kurosawa and listening to the Walkman straggle while popping in the dark, karmic tapes. That will soon reveal to me these multiple snapshots of psychic process and structure; and this is the glory and challenge.

And I'm feeling the wintry wind, you see. I'm this silent kamikaze inside the Earth's fierce mind streams, first flying in; and then out into these weird dreams of this ancient past, not far from Okinawa, and really not far from the Tokyo babes and those Kansai dakinis holding and steering those wheels of the ancient steam ferries nearing Awaji-Shima; and you see, they're not far from Atlantis now. It was all simply a single cycle of time, mind, and matter.

Skyline Shanghai
And it's this glowing November day; I've landed briefly in modern China not far from the seldom seen meteorites; and I'm near the gigantic, sleek city of Shanghai; and it's been over eight dreary years since Tienanmen; and old Deng is buried and dead; and it's been over twelve years since I last saw Tibet with its surprising psychic planets; and I'm coming back to the swirling Himalayan vortex; and it's this lift-off! There's no time to say nihao now. It's just mother's will….


01 - 02a - 02b - 03a - 03b

All contents of this site © Finberg Books 2000-2004 by Michael Arthur Finberg