ON E .

THE IMPOSTOR
A WA L K I N T O T H E S U N S E T
RAZING THROUGH THE FORESTS
NO END OF NIGHT

D ays are no longer my own. Time flows sweetly, not

toward an accomplishment, or more likely disillu-
sionment — but a living thing of its own. There are many in-
tersecting nodes, stories — uncountable. The following collec-
tion of essays are meant to be wild, appearing as they will from
whatever circumstance I find myself in. I find in nature the
best experience when things are left to go their own way — the
natural pattern that emerges. If there is a movement forward,
and there must be, and all of the ancient forms abandoned,
still there will be a pattern to our activities, inner patterns. It
beats its own rhythm, dazzling, the scope of it. Who says we
can only see so much, feel so much? Truly there’s no limit,
only how much you’re willing to burn.
This season a mad amount of work if I’m to make winter
kyol–che in Korea with some old Zen dogs who ring like tun-
ing forks this whirling poem of existence. If I don’t make it,
then another retreat of solitude in the Louisiana wilderness,
when conditions allow. There’s no problem anywhere.
The rocking of the subway pulls me from this, across the
bay, into the silver light of San Francisco. The shipping con-
tainers rise in pale blocks of orange and blue, the cranes in the
distance quiet. Down to the depths! The razing blackness of
the tunnel pulls at me as if I were falling out of the sky. How
many thousand pass above us, unaware? There are so many
here. I wonder if anyone else on the train can feel the weight
of it, the intensity! Yes, all of them.. they all know.
A meeting with a sword master, unique in the world. He
instructed me for an endless time — for the next phase of prac-
tice beyond the wall. It can’t be repeated here. Of this I must
remain silent, but the miracle of this time, on this I will write
volumes, the pattern repeated again throughout my days here.
The meeting was a sword cleaving me in two halves. I remain
destroyed, out of necessity.
Outside of his careful work, I was to meet a Zen Master
about rejoining the lineage — but he was away in Alaska, and
otherwise busy. I suppose the lineage can wait? I did have a
marvelous night with a Christian minister of great depth, an
old friend. We spoke at length about forgoing the Zen/Chris-
tian convergence in favor of a pagan one.
“Why on earth… what about Father Kevin Hunt? He’s a
Roshi now.”
“The contemplatives are on a different path. Regardless,
Christianity has is its own line. It doesn’t need or want Bud-
dhism. Do a long retreat alone in the wilderness — before long
you’ll have a mound of dirt, a clearing, a bonfire. You’ll be pay-
ing close attention to the phases of the moon, the movement
of the animals.”
He didn’t respond to this, but the Christians and Pagans,
not a lot between them. The crab retreats into its shell. The
onslaught, the source of breath, is so compelling in its razing
through the forests just outside, out there. What’s the point of
protecting against it? To endure a tattered daydream life that
begs to be snuffed out? From sheer exhaustion!
How much meaning can there be? How much frenzy is
optimal here? The years are few, perhaps too many, but the
end is certain, and so what use these observations? It’s hard to
judge, so transient and illucid. Who is the victor? The one who
clamors to the top of attainment to see into the tangled cord
of life, or the docile citizen? If it comes to the same result, the
struggle would seem pointless, except for the small matter of
enlightenment, and passing on the torch. How many images
pass through the cortex, yet without the careful work of the
mother, of raising the child in the bosom of modern society,
the hard work of our forefathers, the human strain would turn
feral in a single generation.
What is the value of human life? I’m pressed to divine it
from every glimmer of an eye, every hot breath. It’s difficult to
convey what I’ve seen, for the answer is such a long equation
one has to detach completely from the world before the words
can be discerned, and they pass like lightning!
The rising, there is the real mystery. How can the ran-
dom movement of particles produce the witness? The more
I stare into the origin of things, the more quiet I become, and
less hopeful, less desirous, more independent, driven… give
me the onslaught, the wild thing unknown that I must weld
myself to, give up my blood and bones for — for there is the
only solace. The cycle begins anew with contact with society,
the dissemination of what has been trammeled out. The bond
between the unseen depths of phenomenal life and what is
shown in its reflection — on the surface.
If there’s such a thing as knowing with the whole body, that
is how this thing must be perceived, as it rings, pulses, sings
through every cell, every thing. A mind is lost in it, held lov-
ingly, sweetly. The mystery, the press forward, the wellspring,
the magnetism of the atom, the dark matter, the beehive, the
core of emotion, the only true love — as it excites every cell of
every living thing, every mineral, spore — to forever expand,
move forward, assimilate, learn, adapt to the light, to produce
a new, stronger seed. It’s evident uniformly in all directions,
behaves with perfect equanimity, with a uniform purpose that
reduces one to silence, terror, silence. There’s a great sense
of urgency — to lean into the onslaught with the full bear-
ing, so that one can remain unperturbed. Otherwise there’s no
chance. Things only increase, the ground quickly lost.
There is no angel. There is flight — but no end of night.
This blissful thing that wanders the streets, building tolerance,
solace, tolerance — there’s no hope for me. This is madness.
Something — some occasion has rended the fabric to the un-
derlying truths of phenomenal existence. To say that the Zen
monk alone is capable of this sort of insight is preposterous.
For one thing, there are quite few of them, and not all are cut
from the same cloth. I know firsthand. And that humans aren’t
built of imperceptible attainments, but a steady aggrandize-
ment of wisdom, to the degree that there is no forward move-
ment at all without some stimulus — only decay.
To be immune to the ceaseless building up of things, one
must become a craftsman. The intent is what determines the
success, as in nearly all respects you would appear to be as en-
gaged as anyone. On careful analysis you would find the sage
doesn’t actually build anything, every fragment of his work
a reflection of the void. There’s nothing to grab hold of that
doesn’t leave one with the feeling of freedom and liberation.
When one is driven by this conviction, it’s quite far down the
path, something peculiar from the society of our day. There’s
a constant danger of falling short. It’s a difficult thing to turn
life back on itself. Dangerous currents form that pull all but the
most ardent back into a half–realized, half–baked restlessness
that often takes the guise of spiritual fervor — and wreaks its
own havoc. There are few who remain faithful to the origi-
nal intent, who refuse a position here or there from which to
preach a long line of drivel meant to stave off the inevitable,
unknown, Godless ground that was once sought with such rel-
ish. To live the faultless life of the sages may require one to
forever remain unknown, unproven.
Stranded between lives, scenes, I watch a bee collecting
nectar — so quiet. The thoughts I carry overbearing like a
storm cloud, are not threatening to him. Instead he instructs
me. I stop and laugh loudly at the way things are. When I was
young, friendship was the most important thing in the world.
Now that I see the wires underneath, I’m more likely to avoid
any sort of intrusion. What for? At the same time, I don’t mind
walking alongside you. I can see the difference between us,
but it doesn’t mean I understand it. I don’t believe it. You’re all
beautiful creatures inside, every one of you. If I could, if I had
the time, I would record the vital moments between events,
the play of things, the gaps between reasoning and the various
methods of suffering the abysmal conditions you face — be-
tween these the familiar bliss and wonderful rapture, yes? But
you wouldn’t believe me.
Still, I’ve seen the most rapacious of you radiant on the
floor of a Zen hall after a few solid weeks. It’s one of the mira-
cles of human life, the process of stilling the mind enough that
the true nature emerges. The first hint of it and my life was in
shambles.
The fire of life, the noise of life, the miracle of things ap-
pearing, the shuffle of feet on an endless street — the sound
captures me. I can hardly continue. I sit here, alone but not
lonely, not a moment of this! Hungry, but I need nothing —
not now! The pigeons walk into the sun, and I am freed.
To pursue things on the surface is a quagmire that robs
one of the wild, untamed fields. Wasn’t this important in your
youth? Do you remember this thread? It doesn’t matter if I sit
or stand or walk farther. There’s no place to stop, no end of
subway tunnels, long corridors of cement, passengers on the
way somewhere and me along with them, the impostor.
The winds abate, and I’m left on the ground like drift-
wood. I don’t know how long I was out, but I’m much lighter
now. I only speak the truth, if I speak at all. Some days there
is only the sound of the wind outside. I’ve found something
there. There is no friend like the sound of the wind through
the trees. No more need for anything, only to wander through
this holy place on the side of the street, vibrating with the
thousand nuances, to glide effortlessly over the cement, nearly
lost to the rapture! Past the long rows of luxury cars, magazine
stands, electric cables strung twenty high on poles planted in
the ground like skeletons, no life singed tar and glass and the
smell of pitch. I live for no one, hardly anyone knows of me.
Better, for the anonymity, the ability to stand in line with the
rest of them.
To put the great Void in the center of your life, not the mil-
lion other things, people included, that require one to hoard
one’s affairs as if there were some sort of happiness to be
gleaned from them. The thing we fear most is what is required
to liberate us. Not that there is some special meaning to con-
vey, but that the unborn, unknown thing from which all things
arise, and return to, is the only true thing — and I live for truth.