Beyond the Spin Factor
By Michael Erlewine
Memory deep down can surface. Not memories, but ‘memory’ itself. Churning. The “widening gyre’ of the Yeats poem, incapsulating ever more of our attention. Distracting.
More and more we are caught up in the spin of things.
Painstakingly, like the old game of Pick-Up-Sticks, we carefully pick apart where we are stuck and try to free ourselves.
Like the Gene McDaniels jazz tune, and its refrain “Trying to make it real, compared to what?” That’s it, compared to what?
Dodging the spin factor or trying to.
Everything’s cycling, spinning. And we’re caught up right in the middle of it.
Trying to extract ourselves as best we can from the spin factor, we miss the point. There is nothing else. Wield the spin or be torn apart by it. Use it or lose it.
The spin is nothing other than change itself changing. Otherwise, everything would be the same. And it’s not.
All there is only the merry-go-round called ‘Samsara’.
We can’t extract ourselves because there is nothing there and no one to extract. I wrote this poem some 60 years ago for Parmenides and his truth “Being alone is.”
PARMENIDES
Each to each the sorrow tells:
Find another.
Alone is borne the pain,
Alone the sorrow,
Alone the joy,
Todays' tomorrow.
It’s like searching for substance in an hourglass of sand. Time runs through our fingers.
Winter turns into spring.
And we turn with the turning,
With the spin. No choice.
[Midjourney graphic prompted by me.]
EMAIL Michael@Erlewine.net
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As Bodhicitta is so precious,
May those without it now create it,
May those who have it not destroy it,
And may it ever grow and flourish.