88 bar steep fall 29.48 3mph SE dew-point 73 Summer, hot and sticky
Waxing Gibbous Thunder Moon
Passion. A violent word. One thunder storm of a word. An Angel Falls and Victoria Falls of a word. A 500 mile race, first-lap pile up in the first curve word.
from the Latin, patior: to bear, support, undergo, suffer, endure
Latin words bad, anglo-saxon words good. To bear. To burn. To bind.
Buddha cautions us against passion. Desire. It binds us to our weird. Throws straps around our hands and feet, lashes us to the pillar of the material world. To move toward nirvana, extinction, we must move away from passion. Eliminate desire. Exist in the moment. The self, the passionate self confined to a moment, gone in an instance.
The world for now exists in me in two: the passionate one who would bear burdens, burn with the fire of action, bound to this world for I love this world.
The calm one who watches. Observes. Lets things pass by. Become old or yesterday. Who lives right now. Here typing, interactive with the screen and the keyboard.
These two have me locked in an inner dance, twisting up then down. Around a helix shaped stairway down into the my soul and up into the Self. Opening a gothic iron gate into heaven. Wielding a hammer to crack apart the bonds of oppression and injustice. A whirling, sitting dervish in my own body.