A Psalm for the Pure Land (V3)

A Psalm for the Pure Land in Fourteen Sonnets. By Maxwell MacArthur. In two acts. [[Prelude]] Act I, Scene I: [[Childlike Faith]] Act I, Scene II: [[Library of Endlessness]] Act I, Scene III: [[Out of Shadow For a Time]] Act I, Scene IV: [[Library of Endlessness, Reprise]] Act I, Scene V: [[Vanity of Vanities]] Act I, Scene VI: [[Two Roads to God]] Act I, Scene VII: [[The Face of God]] Act I, Scene VIII: [[Anthology]] [[Intermission]] Act II, Scene I: [[Hallucinations of Reality]] Act II, Scene II: [[Illusions of Reality]] Act II, Scene III: [[Visions of Reality]] Act II, Scene IV: [[Misperceptions of Reality]] Act II, Scene V: [[Understanding My Reality]] Act II, Scene VI: [[Looking Forward to Reality]] [[Postlude]]

When Faith stood up and turned to walk away (She took her ball, which meant the game was done) And Doubt came round to see if I could play (He brought a game, but one which wasn’t fun), I looked at all the statues as they stood And watched us all throughout that lonely night, For we were children. Doing what we could, We tried our hardest to arouse delight. Then ultimately, Faith returned to me, And Doubt went home to play his games alone. In Faith, the circles die and I am free. In Doubt, the circles sit upon their throne. Now, playing games with Faith, I hear a sound And wonder if it’s Doubt come back around.

The carpet, grey by color, under me And underneath the bookshelves all around, Contrasts against the freedom of the sea Where ice from in my mind has run aground. On eighteen islands, ice from in my mind Is melting by the fever of the sun. With Shinjin in me, I cannot unwind. In fevered heat, the ocean has been won, But I can’t see the sea from where I’m at. The only things I see are books and shelves, A place where all the wise have fallen flat, And Faith and Doubt who dance around themselves. I cannot read these many books with ease For they are penned in Greek and Japanese.

“A flower grows beneath the shining sun, Achieving nothing on its own,” they say. The flower, growing in its special way, Assumes the sunlight couldn’t be outdone. Until the night, it seems the light has won. The sunlight always shines throughout the day, But, through the night, begins to back away Until the dawn when darkness comes undone. Now, finally, the flower wants to know: “From where does sunlight come; where will it be Tonight when sunlight goes and darkness thrives? Perhaps it comes from Heaven or below. Perhaps from Jodo. Maybe it’s in me.” Perhaps it’s failure when the flower strives.

While walking through an endless library, I come upon a book that’s crystal clear. It tells me of the Buddha’s primary And only reason for his coming here. It tells me why he came to Earth to teach. The book, which sits upon a pedestal, Is open to a picture of the beach. The sun, the sea, it’s all incredible. Then, looking up again, I see the sea Because a window seems to have appeared As I was pondering the book's decree. The ocean washes clear the things I feared And so I jump beyond the window’s brim. Now, in the ocean, I must learn to swim.

I once took time to sit and write about The things that have been done in history And to this day I don’t have any doubt: They’ll be below the sun in misery. I don’t know why I can’t have that belief In him who’s name is Jodo Shinshu now. Now Faith and Doubt are dancing in their grief. Now Jesus comes to formally avow That he is true and Jodo Shinshu’s fake. I know it’s true, and Jesus says the same, Although I doubt because of what’s at stake. Since he is true, I cannot say the name. Now Jesus, why have you forsaken me? For it’s in Jodo Shinshu that I’m free.

When traveling along the road one day, I came upon a fork, a choice to make. Do I go left or right upon this way? Well, neither; I bent down to pick it up. In doing so, I drank from Jesus’ cup, But was the fork’s existence a mistake? Explain, and put an end to my dismay, Because I chose while knowing what’s at stake. When I picked up the fork, I made a choice, But now I’m hearing Jodo Shinshu’s voice. I’m listening and trying to rejoice, But I am settled in the choice I made. I think I’m settled, but I can’t rejoice For now the fork of Faith begins to fade.

No matter what my changing faces say, I will forever be the same inside. A permanent and never changing way Resides inside, despite my outer stride. My self remains the same forevermore. I know it’s true because they told me so And also told me of the cosmic war, Of love, of lust, and evil down below. I’ve always taken it as being true, A truth for me to take and them to give, But is a self just something I construe? It’s possible, without a self, to live Again beyond the time this life is worn. Without a self, I’d always be reborn.

Now Faith and Doubt are dancing at the bend. I cannot read hyperboles with ease When they’re for me to take and them to end, Or when they’re penned in Greek and Japanese. So now I’m hearing Jodo Shinshu’s voice While Jesus comes to formally make known- As I have listened, trying to rejoice- That Doubt went home to play his games alone. What happens, though, when Doubt returns to me? Then will I be the same forevermore? Then Faith kills circles so that I’ll be free And also tells them of the cosmic war. I am not settled; I cannot rejoice. As I put down the fork, I doubt my choice.

Mephistopheles fell into Hell. The reincarnation of God is now. God died and on the third day rose again; I forgot all about that.

Ahura Mazda versus Ahriman: Fighting forever. Will light destroy the darkness in the end? Fire forever.

When in a dream, the strangest things are real. These things will always and forever be Below the changing sun in mystery, And I, no longer needing to appeal To books or knowledge to achieve my zeal, Believe that Jodo Shinshu makes me free, For he is breaking down the door and key That separate my dreams from what is real. I dream of buddhas, bodhisattvas, and One hundred thousand notes of music played Amongst the flowers made of gold and jade. The foolish beings in that buddhaland Will surface where the dharma is displayed. They will not abdicate or be dismayed.

To see a tree is not to know it’s leaves; To see the leaves is not to know a tree. When one is many, everybody grieves, But trees are never one or two or three. I’ve seen the lotus flowers made of gold, But haven’t known this thing that I behold For one and two seem separate in my eyes And yet I know: not one nor two are wise. “Not one, not two” is wise, but tell me this: Can someone like myself know what that means? Now Jodo Shinshu dances like machines To bring me to the Land of Utmost Bliss. For that I’m grateful. Why must it be so That there’s still knowledge I don’t get to know?

A river flows from here unto the sea, But reaches into Heaven, to my home, Before it falls back down to where I’m free. The ocean, filled with former ice, awaits The rivers of us all to keep our fates. Forever, rivers have sufficed to roam, But now this river won’t suffice to be Eternally behind the ocean’s foam. Now, being in the river, I don’t know How long I must stay living here below. Where was this river seven years ago? I look around to watch my soul’s release Into the sands of time, the river’s flow, And, standing in the water, feel at peace.

From Jodo Shinshu, Amitabha moves And reaches out to those who don’t have skill. My eighteenth meditation cushion proves That ice from in my mind has run aground, For Amitabha Buddha is around In every evil way and all good will. Now Amitabha’s skillful way improves Conditions in my mind that keep me still. I cannot chant sincerely in my mind, But feel it’s wrong when some are still behind The walls that keep myself and others blind, But can I make them see what I have seen? For in my mind, no skill has been refined And I don’t know what knowledge I will glean.

I’m thankful for the flowers in my life That grow in green and blue and tones unknown And, for a moment, take away my strife. The people that I love are made anew As bodhisattvas shaped by green and blue, For Amitabha shows that he has known That they are mahasattvas every life, And those I do not know are also shown. I wish I could express my gratitude, But every time I try I must conclude That my compassion, every time, is skewed. I want to give compassion where it’s due, To give, in every moment, gratitude. I wonder if there’s something I can do?

The music from this organ gives me pain. Yet here I sit and dance upon its keys, Afraid of breaking from the golden chain, But asking Amitabha if he may Accept me, notwithstanding his dismay. A note and then a chord, though without ease, Are brought together when I can’t attain Compassion in the manner I would please. Although, perhaps it’s on those grounds alone That Amitabha never could condone Samsara being all that I have known. It is Samsara that is his dismay And he has grasped me never to disown. I wonder if there’s something I can say?

And in that moment Amitabha contemplated for me The setting sun Up to Amitabha, Avalokitesvara, Mahasthamaprapta. At the arrival of white ashes Compassion is perfected. [[Until then->stories]]: Namu Amida Butsu

Welcome to Stories of Psychosis Stories of Psychosis is an installation of 5 poems by artists with schizophrenia each of which discusses symptoms of psychosis and, to an even greater extent, religion. Several of these poems were written in the midst of psychotic symptoms. Upon closer readings, it is revealed that each poem merely uses psychosis as a metaphor to bolster the meaning behind the religious themes. In this way, each author has also demonstrated that psychosis is a tool to understand religion which is so integral to human life. Psychosis, on the other hand, is given the lesser station as separate from the self. Please enjoy these poems and the statements given by the authors which are included. Sincerely, The team at Alliance for Art [[Confucianists]] by Olivia “The Hebephrenic” Fitzgerald [[Artist statement->Olivia]] of Olivia “The Hebephrenic” Fitzgerald [[The Sky is Angry With Me Now]] by “Schizophrenic” Sam Avoli [[Artist statement->sam]] of “Schizophrenic” Sam Avoli [[God is Gone]] by Sarah “The Religionist” Dymphna [[Artist statement->sarah]] of Sarah “The Religionist” Dymphna [[Untitled]] by “Nonconformist” Nathan [[Artist statement->nathan]] of “Nonconformist” Nathan [[Poem of Persecution]] by Maxwell “The Delusionist” MacArthur [[Artist statement->maxwell]] of Maxwell “The Delusionist” MacArthur

Confucianists are wearing tiny hats Transmitting language where they say hello. From poetry to China’s salty flats, This sonnet makes eleven in a row. Humanity rejoices at this verse. I’ll write this poem and I’ll be secure From those who say, “Upon you be a curse.” Confucianists have never been so sure. Confucianists are all around me now So I will put this poem on my wall To show the whispers they can’t have me now. I’ll tape them to the wall and if they fall This sonnet makes eleven in a row So I will write another just for show.

Can I just say it? And you’ll write it down? Thanks. Fitzgerald is a pen name. I don’t know if Zelda suffered much from disorganized symptoms. I actually don’t know much about her at all only that she was diagnosed with I don’t read a whole lot. Well I read one book. It was a good book called House of Leaves where a maze shows up but it’s unclear if the documentary is real or not. I like to describe hebephrenia as a maze. I actually quite like corn mazes but hebephrenia isn’t a fun one. Anyway, at least according to my therapist, incoming information and meaning can be disorganized by hebephrenia as much as the stuff that comes out. So I sometimes get um… confused when I read. I write though. I love to write. I don’t care if it doesn’t make sense to anyone else. Here’s another um… poem: Showing front, Showing back: The falling maple leaf. Perhaps the leaf was a hebephrenic like me. The simulations can show hallucinations sure but no one can simulate thinking. If they could perhaps we would be able to understand one another. Just um… just… try is all I can um… ask for a task. I think that’s all I have to say.

The sky is angry with me now Because it knows I don’t know how To write a poem anymore. This avolition’s killing me And all I want is to be free And make it to the other shore.

I’ve been asked what this poem means. Let me explain it line by line. //The sky is angry with me now// Peng is dead. Kun never stood a chance. You want to understand this poem? Try picking up a book. Now try picking up the same book, but your hands weigh a thousand pounds. Free and Easy Wandering my ass. It’s easy to get angry. It’s difficult to be happy. //Because it knows I don’t know how// Teach me, cook Ding, teach me the Way. Can you? Can an avolitionist learn the Way? Can anyone? Actionless action: I’ve mastered the first part. I can sit and do fuck all for a thousand years. Teach me action. //To write a poem anymore.// Emphasis on anymore. Hundun’s untimely death came at the hands of a society that thought it was doing him a favor. Who the fuck caused my death? Society certainly doesn’t do schizophrenics any favors. //This avolition’s killing me// If a road is made by people walking on it, what makes avolition? Is it me sitting on my ass all day? Zhuangzi says, “Making it so makes it so.” Is that so? Avolition is avolition because it is called avolition. It’s true, but why is it killing me? //And all I want is to be free// There’s Crippled Shu. There he is. Right there. See him? He can’t go to war. He can’t go to work. He can only wuwei. But is Crippled Shu truly free? What if he wants to go to war? What if he wants to go to work? What if he wants not to wuwei? Where is the freedom? I want to get off Crippled Shu’s Wild Ride. //And make it to the other shore.// As I stand here at the base of Mount Tai and try to see its peak, the only thing I can think is this: //Fuck you, Zhuangzi.// I’m the one who’s little, and you can’t convince me otherwise. The other shore isn’t big; it isn’t little; it is non-dual. But there are schizophrenics and those that are not. I don’t know how to see it otherwise.

Religionist Sarah wasn’t even sure why, but there she sat inside a circle of others who screamed and screamed and screamed at her. The things they screamed at her were horrible and pierced into her soul. The things they screamed at her were horrible and broke down her identity. And God watched. In fact, it was God who started the incident. When God performed the mudra, the residents gathered and God said a name. The ritual was the same every time. Eventually, religionist Sarah forgot who she was. When she remembered that the man wasn’t really God, she realized there is no god.

I’m told that poetry cannot be prose. Poetry is Nirvana and prose is Samsara. Nagarjuna spoke up and this poem was born. And yet, and yet, and yet I wonder when I will see it. God makes the mudra but if there is no god then where is my suffering coming from? But that’s not what you asked me to write about. What’s the point of it all if I can’t make sense of it for myself. Myself; or, my self? So here’s what you want to hear. I came from adversity but I rose to the occasion. My mom was poor and my dad was an alcoholic and yet here I am writing these poems and even though I’m no Shakespeare or Wollstonecraft Shelley I can continue to make my poetry better to make my mom proud. Too bad none of that happened. Adversity never ends. We can work together to start to end it when we get to know each other. I am not better than others and no better than adversity. So, what does this poem mean? I don’t know either. P.S. Schizophrenia can get fucked.

God is dead and so is the ubermensch. Zarathustra told me so. Now listen here and listen there To me as I tell you the story Of things past and things to come In the eternal history of return itself. In the beginning the Word was divine. The Word spoke and made the world And then overdosed on ecstacy and died. History started in a cave When the cave flute was created And people began to sing along. They sang against one another And wouldn’t have it any other way. Eight thousand miles away there was another one. If God is in a gentle whisper, did the Word die? And speaking of God, Is God 33 or 33 million? No matter when 33 million join in song together. Improvising monophonically, the Silk Road began. The Roman woman, Gregory, sang to her Lord Without instruments, for those are devilish. Beyond the Himalayas, 33 million still sang together, While One alone sang in the north And each praised the one God who breathed And swallowed pills. Polyphonality and contrapuntality gave way to homophonics. When music came to everyone’s house, Electricity boomed and people watched. Britain came to America. Lou Reed, our Godfather, was born. And I am expected to take my seat Next to Joey on the Lotus Throne, But that too has its own history From seven steps to gate gate, From Mount Tiantai to Mount Hiei To Namo Myoho Renge Kyo. But what of the other histories? When Abraham goes up to Zion And down to a golden calf, Why should Buddha be there? From mene mene to tekel parsin, From Palestine to Persia to Palestine to Rome. Why should Jesus be there when the people migrate? From the Orient to Palestine with gold and myrrh To see the child who died. From Gnostics to Nicaea and then they split in two. Martin Luther split the church again And now I have to hear about it every Sunday. And why should Krishna be there when the magi come? From One to 33 to 33 million and back again. The invasion was actually peaceful migration. From Hare Krishna to Rama Rama And from Indra to three kings. And why should Zoroaster be there when One is 33? From prophecy to the Avesta to the Zend Avesta Until Alexandria wiped out history. But the fires still burn and the ropes are still tied. And why should Muhammad be there when fire burns? From Mecca to Medina to all Arabia. Five times he spoke to God and five times again And again and again for days and days. Twenty nine or thirty times he didn’t eat. Today they walked around him. When Buddha, Abraham, Jesus, Krishna, Zoroaster, and Muhammad speak, nothing gets done. What does it all mean? What can it mean? Nothing, nothing. The only one who knew it well Was Solomon. But even he did not know that there is no God, No meaning, Or love, Or happiness, Or joy, Or wisdom. No dharma. No paragate. No 84,000. No calf. No temple. No second temple. No creation. No sustaining. No destruction. No manger. No cross. No 144,000. No thoughts. No words. No deeds. No Mecca. No peace. No circumambulation. And wisdom never was, but for the Heart. So come to the temple and we will chant from the Heart On seats made for comfort in a burning house Where six fathers promise us toys If only we would go out the correct door. The other doors lead to death if you’re lucky, If not, fire forever. What else is left to do but scream into a microphone? Drum machines are the opiate of the masses. I’ve screamed into a microphone for three years now And all I hear about are sweet dreams of west Germany Where, time after motherfucking time, The girl from uptown has her fun Until she drops the ninety nine, Eclipsing the Heart Sutra And wearing out every place. Have I already had all my fun? I am expected to take my seat Next to Joey on the Lotus Throne, But if Johnny knows the girl from West Germany Then why would I? The girl dropped her balloons and the world died. Without a world There can be no ecstasy. Without ecstasy There can be no overdose. Without an overdose The Word cannot die. Thus is the Word and the Word is divine. And so the Word spoke and made the world And then overdosed on ecstacy and died. Again and once more And another time and again And again and once more And another time and again. And the only way out is to spike your hair And scream into a microphone Until your words are part of the problem. Electric guitars are the opiate of the masses. And I am expected to take my seat Next to Joey on the Lotus Throne. I wish someone would tell me how. Has anyone asked Joey where he wants to sit?

Nathan has refused our offer to include an artist statement from him related to this poem. Untitled was originally published 1 January 1984 in an independent “punk zine” by the name of Pop to Hardcore. We believe these details to be relevant to the avoidance of misinterpretation of this poem considering Punk Rock’s unequivocal opposition to religion. -The team at Alliance for Art

I spoke with Guan Yin. She told me to take a photo every day Of the fireplace’s sin. I cannot grin For because of the sin, somebody must pay. I spoke with Guan Yin. I’ll have a drink of gin And drown away the thoughts of how I will allay Of the fireplace‘s sin. My next of kin Are on the frontline of the coming decay. I spoke with Guan Yin Of the fire within Which will burn the whole world on the day Of the fireplace’s sin. The photos of the sin Will hold back that day until I can allay. I spoke with Guan Yin Of the fireplace’s sin.

My name is Maxwell MacArthur. Some of my favorite things are poetry, music, and art installations that tell you what they mean rather than letting the audience interpret the art for themselves. Artist statements are never meant to explain the meaning behind the artist’s work which is why they asked me to write an artist statement. If you want you can get to know me though. I wrote this poem in the midst of a delusional episode in which I believed the Bodhisattva Guan Yin was speaking to me. I remember once, before my diagnosis, looking at the art of Louis Wain. Believed to have suffered from schizophrenia, Wain most often painted anthropomorphized cats which, as his disorder progressed, became more and more abstract until they no longer resembled cats at all. It seemed to me that the cats were the real art created by the real Louis Wain. I always felt that mental illness wasn’t part of the person. Fast forward to after my diagnosis when my family speaks of the things I do during my episodes. “That’s not you,” they often say. It’s not the real me. Right? But it is. I can’t deny it. Schizophrenia is part of my identity. Art from psychosis is art as much as any other. Meaning is meaningless sometimes. I often think of religion too. I am someone who follows Jodo Shinshu Buddhism. If religion is something that affects my entire life, my entire way of thinking, then schizophrenia, which does the same, is as much a part of who I am as is my religion. Artist statements are never meant to explain the artist’s work which is why they asked me to write an artist statement. To explain my intentions for this poem would mean explaining all my own thoughts and experiences to you, but you will always have a different perspective. So do with the poem what you will. All I ask is that we try to understand each other. I am the author of this poem. Did I just proclaim my death? Don’t forget that this statement is part of the poem. If you want to interpret my poem, please do so in a way that will [[benefit->sutra title]] you or others, whether that takes my intention and biography into account or not.

Maxwell MacArthur’s Words from his Heart (or ‘for the Pure Land’ perhaps): A Commentary on (which says nothing about) the Heart Sutra (which says the profound words of Buddha) [[Begin->sutra 1]]

//When Avalokitesvara Bodhisattva was practicing the Pranjnaparamita, he illuminated the Five Skandhas and saw that they were all empty, and crossed over all suffering and affliction.// <h>When Maxwell MacArthur played the organ who’s keys made the music he hated so much, it was only because Schizophrenic Sam told him to. Perhaps one day the two can meet. I am //not// schizophrenic. I //am Schizophrenia.// If Maxwell MacArthur could meet Schizophrenic Sam, he would say “Yes, there are schizophrenics and those that are not. “Not one, not two.” Avalokitesvara attained awakening eons ago and now she’s attaining awakening. In one hundred thousand million years, she will attain awakening. Not one, not two. </h> [[Continue->sutra 2]]

Double-click this passage to edit it.//When Avalokitesvara Bodhisattva was practicing the Pranjnaparamita, he illuminated the Five Skandhas and saw that they were all empty, and crossed over all suffering and affliction. Sariputra, form is not different from emptiness, and emptiness is not different from form. Form itself is emptiness, and emptiness itself is form. Feeling, perception, volition, and consciousness are also such as this. Sariputra, all dharmas are empty: they are neither created nor destroyed, neither defiled nor pure, and they neither increase nor diminish. This is because in emptiness there is no form, no feeling, no perception, no volition, no consciousness. No eyes, no ears, no nose, no tongue, no body, no mind. No color, no sound, no scent, no taste, no sensation, no thinking. No field of vision up to no realm of thoughts. No ignorance nor elimination of ignorance, up to no old age and death, nor elimination of old age and death. No suffering, no origins, no cessation, no path. No understanding and no attaining.// <h>When Maxwell MacArthur saw the walls that others are behind, of course he thought of Olivia The Hebephrenic. Walls make mazes and so does thinking. How can I understand when everything becomes disordered? But if there is no understanding and nothing to attain then what can I learn? How can I understand? I am schizophrenic. I am a person with schizophrenia. Of these two, each statement is true for some people. Perhaps I can say what they want me to say. I don’t know perfect compassion yet, but I can try my hardest too. One day compassion will be perfect. Until then: Namu Amida Butsu</h> [[Comtinue->sutra10]]

//When Avalokitesvara Bodhisattva was practicing the Pranjnaparamita, he illuminated the Five Skandhas and saw that they were all empty, and crossed over all suffering and affliction. Sariputra, form is not different from emptiness, and emptiness is not different from form. Form itself is emptiness, and emptiness itself is form. Feeling, perception, volition, and consciousness are also such as this. Sariputra, all dharmas are empty: they are neither created nor destroyed, neither defiled nor pure, and they neither increase nor diminish. This is because in emptiness there is no form, no feeling, no perception, no volition, no consciousness. No eyes, no ears, no nose, no tongue, no body, no mind. No color, no sound, no scent, no taste, no sensation, no thinking. No field of vision up to no realm of thoughts. No ignorance nor elimination of ignorance, up to no old age and death, nor elimination of old age and death. No suffering, no origins, no cessation, no path. No understanding and no attaining. Because there is no attainment, bodhisattvas rely on Prajnaparamita, and their minds have no obstructions. Since there are no obstructions, they have no fears. Because they are detached from perverted views, their final result is Nirvana. Because all buddhas of the past, present, and future rely on Prajnaparamita, they attain Anuttara Samyaksambodhi. Therefore, know that Prajnaparamita is a great spiritual mantra, a great brilliant mantra, an unsurpassed mantra, and an unequalled mantra. The Prajnaparamita Mantra is true, not false, and can relieve all suffering. Proclaim the mantra saying:// <h>When Maxwell MacArthur stood at a crossroads and remembered Robert Frost, he realized he was only one traveler. What about the life after next or the life one hundred thousand million years ago? What’s in a conjugation? Exactly what Nagarjuna said. The road is the traveler becoming the destination. Forever and ever amen. What’s in a conjugation? Quite a lot when it’s only present tense. I am schizophrenia. I am a person with schizophrenia. When two become one or one becomes two, categories are born. Buddhism is the religion of non-categorization and copious amounts of lists. Look at the moon and forget the hand. Indra’s net reflects us all. The Lotus Sutra tells us of the Buddha’s expedient means. The Heart Sutra tells us no. Robert Frost went down a path just like the other one. He told us as much. The paths were one and so was the traveler. There are no lists, no moons, no hands, no nets, no Lotus, and no means. How can I understand? The only thing that is just so happens to exist a unicorn reaching out to me, inspiring me to write, to understand myself. The unicorn is blue. Thank you.</h> [[Continue->sutra14]]

//When Avalokitesvara Bodhisattva was practicing the Pranjnaparamita, he illuminated the Five Skandhas and saw that they were all empty, and crossed over all suffering and affliction. Sariputra, form is not different from emptiness, and emptiness is not different from form. Form itself is emptiness, and emptiness itself is form. Feeling, perception, volition, and consciousness are also such as this. Sariputra, all dharmas are empty: they are neither created nor destroyed, neither defiled nor pure, and they neither increase nor diminish. This is because in emptiness there is no form, no feeling, no perception, no volition, no consciousness. No eyes, no ears, no nose, no tongue, no body, no mind. No color, no sound, no scent, no taste, no sensation, no thinking. No field of vision up to no realm of thoughts. No ignorance nor elimination of ignorance, up to no old age and death, nor elimination of old age and death. No suffering, no origins, no cessation, no path. No understanding and no attaining. Because there is no attainment, bodhisattvas rely on Prajnaparamita, and their minds have no obstructions. Since there are no obstructions, they have no fears. Because they are detached from perverted views, their final result is Nirvana. Because all buddhas of the past, present, and future rely on Prajnaparamita, they attain Anuttara Samyaksambodhi. Therefore, know that Prajnaparamita is a great spiritual mantra, a great brilliant mantra, an unsurpassed mantra, and an unequalled mantra. The Prajnaparamita Mantra is true, not false, and can relieve all suffering. Proclaim the mantra saying: gate gate paragate parasamgate bodhi svaha// <h>Maxwell MacArthur stood in his river and asked: Where was this rivier seven years ago? Where was this river twenty five years ago? Where was this river one hundred thousand million years ago? Where was this river eons in the future? Maxwell MacArthur was not born with the name Maxwell MacArthur. The river was always there and I will always be in it. When I have become white ashes, time will slow and Amitabha will show me the following. There is I. There is I who cannot stand to be on Crippled Shu’s Wild Ride. There is I who shouted "beast" at the heart of the world. There is I who named myself after Zelda Fitzgerald. There is I who wrote a poem. There is I who wrote fourteen sonnets to tell how I came to rely on Namu Amida Butsu. There is I who lost all faith in religion and society and then wrote the world’s best punk rock poem. There is I who went online. There is I to whom God made the mudra. There is I who proclaimed the death of the author. There is schizophrenia. There is schizophrenia who will not let me pick up books. There is schizophrenia who told me what the book and series meant. There is schizophrenia who told me all about Confucius who lives in Brazil. There is schizophrenia who colored a poem. There is schizophrenia who wouldn’t let fourteen suffice. There is schizophrenia who makes me want to ride with Crippled Shu. There is schizophrenia who disordered what I said. There is schizophrenia who would not let me see God. There is schizophrenia who told me of Guan Yin’s rebirth in India. There is I and there is Schizophrenia. Not one, not two. And yet Amitabha Buddha, who does not discriminate against anyone young or old, man or woman, educated or not, schizophrenic or those that are not, continues to work tirelessly to bring all into enlightenment. There is I and there is Amitabha Buddha. Not one, not two. When I have become white ashes, I will understand the preceding statements. Perhaps I’ll even understand the Heart Sutra. Until then: Namu Amida Butsu And still thereafter: Namu Amida Butsu Namu Amida Butsu Namu Amida Butsu Namandabutsu Namandabutsu Namandabutsu </h>