PIERCING the NIGHT SKIN (notes for Nocturnes)                                    



I wonder if all these stars may be like our thoughts.  Every thought and experience we’ll feel is connected to a star.  And so we can gaze up and know it’s useless to hold on to any one, though we may create constellations from the brightest ones and remember them and pass them along to our friends and children, calling them, big dipper, little dipper, Orion, and on and on.  Let the scientist label them and study them, M31, the closest spiral galaxy to our milky way, still remains untouched, though they may look upon it daily and even perhaps become Apple’s default screen saver.  No mystery unmasked, but only made more apparent how little we know and how much we can feel.   


Nothing new in the spiritual realm just a funny irony of where we let go, and where we resist the letting go, like sitting under stars by the ocean vs. not letting go of an anxiety about work or money or self-esteem, and trying to figure it all out in our head, all the problems; as if of our experience of thoughts and emotions aren’t as equally mysterious but somehow not to the point where the belittling quality of the sky is actually comforting.  We are so insignificant under the Milky Way, but why not our endless mental chatter, the mirror of mind?  So anxieties and fears rather than being like the stars to ponder on but always out of our reach of concrete definitions, and so we get stuck.  Has anyone gotten stuck (besides religious fanatics) that the night sky is pretty much endlessly indefinable, though we gladly play with facts and mythologies veiled over it, all the constellations we build, and theories we rediscover, but somehow it never succeeds (grateful for this) in diminishing out or compressing our experience.  We are united with it.  Dust again.  When fears come up in ourselves, we usually don’t unite, we feel we are burdened by them, at least in how we have been conditioned to label and accept pleasure vs. pain.  “Our” (egoic) fears, and obsessions, joys and wonderment feel - in terms of sensations - so close to one another at times.  Perhaps, the French were referring to this and knew that in the "le petit morte" reference to orgasm the irony was present beside ourselves.  Everyone is assured orgasms and death, literal and figuratively, simultaneous and removed.  If a “little death” = ecstasy, the death of self = ecstatic union.   And on and on.  The more I try to figure things out it’s as if metaphorically, I may drill more holes into the “problem” I’m trying to figure out but beside myself, and thank god, it’s only piercing the dark membrane, adding another little dot for light to come through, among the many other little dots, added by a communal collection of thoughts. These dots we call stars sometimes, and my singular possessed insight simply gets lost in the cosmos, indistinguishable from the countless suns.  The more holes, the more stars, grander the sky becomes; so we are belittled even further, and return to being insignificant but united again, under our own thoughts, baffled by the immensity of being held under the canopy of everyone’s mind at once, looking upwards, looking for a constellation where we see our interwoven thoughts and traces of how the mind plays beyond our body.