Тональность: D major
Verse 1
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F#m
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F#m
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Autumn and
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self -reflexive awareness.
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It's that time of year,
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crushing ineffable beauty
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in the few fleeting moments
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as Godhead moves it s footless foot
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from summer to fall.
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Who knows why or what,
but this time of year feels so tender,
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so achingly rich in myriad emotions,
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longing, ecstasy, comfort, uncertainty.
I wake up, walk outside,
and feel a crisp bite
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G#
in the dry Colorado air ,
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with the first breath taking in through
the nostrils.
It is incredibly bittersweet.
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Something about this time of year
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and infuses each moment
with the sober understanding
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of how transient an d precious it all is.
It's in the way the golden light catches leaves,
mountains, clouds, grass,
or the hood of my car
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in that magic hour before
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the sun goes under.
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It rains and the fallen
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leaves and cut grass
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grow moist and begin to rot,
releasing that intoxicating
Ab
Makes me wish I had three
to inhale every atom,
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my entire body, olfactory. history.
My sensate swooning under the spell of autumn,
isn't that a fucking awesome word, autumn?
It even sounds like it feels,
is undeniable.
But I'm not a hippie,
earthy type by any measure.
My favorite places in the world
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are at the center of the busiest parts of Manhattan,
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Am sterdam, on the weekend, Berlin,
three o 'clock in the morning,
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New Years in Hollywood.
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Any night of the week,
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I like cities, concrete, steel,
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skyscrapers,
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the smell of exhaust from
I taxis and trains.
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I like real restaurants, real cafes,
museums, theaters, and clubs.
Most of all, I like the wild variety of cultures,
perspectives, and typology.
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I don't like hiking in the woods,
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but I'll walk around Cent
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ral Park all day,
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because it's in the middle of a metropolis,
like all nature should be.
The outdoors should be preserved and protected,
not encountered or experienced.
Natural beauty is an ugly affair,
and we've got no business
in the bushes.
That's the whole goddamn point of evolution,
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the post -industrial informa
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tional achievement.
I can't wait for the day
I can upload my entire consciousness
into a nano -rocket
and fucking check out of the rest of the exterior cosmos,
yo!
Anyway, my point is just that the incredibly
vulnerable orgasmic feeling
that sets in with autumn,
starting in the belly,
Bb
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warming its way out of the torso,
throat, limbs and head,
has nothing to do with tree
-hugging naturism. them.
It's archetypal,
more universal than that.
I think it has to do with
the impermanence
and brevity of human existence,
like those three or four weeks between summer and fall trip
all the tethers between our body and our soul.
For a while, each breath we take in
Ab
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acts like a somatic reminder of
our fragility and mortality.
The technicolor world
that erupted in numinous hues
a few weeks ago
will soon disappear.
Each life is that way.
From some unknowable no one,
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an unknowable someone emerges.
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It's a total mystery
how or why that is.
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what we experience
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to be a time, a period,
perceived as a sequence of events.
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The history of events, episodes,
occasions,
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the way we respond and interpret it all,
forms an incredibly convincing
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house of cards we call me.
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It's total fucking bullshit of course,
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and indescribably miraculous.
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Somehow in the last million years,
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discrete entities, sentient beings,
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ushered in one of the cosmos' greatest innovations,
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self -reflexive identity.
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We're not just aware,
we're aware that we're aware.
And we reinforce identity
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by locating our self in relation.
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It's called subject -object relations.
Whatever is inside of I is me.
Whatever is outside of
me is an object.
Could be you, could be it, they,
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Of course, this is a repeatable,
provable fact
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in the relative realm,
and that's all cool,
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as long as we stay in the relative domains.
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The problem is that much the way
Ab
F#
the universe is 96 -98 % dark matter,
which is science speak for what
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-the -fuck -isn't -that -shit,
reality is 99 % inscrutable enigma,
at least from the perspective
of an ego.
Our identity, the filter through which we sift
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all seen and unseen reality,
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G
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is a feature of the illusion.
But we are not just subjects
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in the relative flux.
The relative part of reality
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evolves and changes. is.
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G
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The ego is part of that.
Ab
In re lative reality,
You're born.
You disappoint some folks,
then you die.
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However, there is also Absolute Reality,
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which is an unmade, unborn,
unknowable.
The Absolute has no qualities.
It does not develop or evolve.
It's so deep it's not even
boring.
Hard to say anything meaningful
about the Absolute, as meaning
Brain is a feature of relative reality.
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To get an idea of the absolute,
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unzip your throat, take off your head,
throw it into a paint mixer,
Bbm
then use your gyrating, decapitated brain
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to imagine a no -not -something
issued as an all -is -nothing,
and you'll still be
fellating the phallus of futility.
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The real you is ab solute and relative.
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Both. Neither. Either. Or...
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Now listen, this part is important.
Ab
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The absolute is the relative.
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The relative is the absolute.
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It's called non -duality.
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An d when it gets down to brass tacks,
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you are this impossible simplicity.
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Beingness is the game of differen
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tiated unity.
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Get it? Got it? Good.
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I might as well remind you,
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you're the one who wrote this
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message.
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F#
You're the one reading it.
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You're the one hearing it,
and recognizing its veracity.
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You're already dead.
That's no metaphor,
no poetic license.
The part of you that is aware,
that you are aware, is dead,
literally excarnated,
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anchored in a placeless place.
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Now put your foot through
the gateless gate.
You have always been dead,
because you are unborn.
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And that's the nice thing
about unborn and undying.
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You can afford to be born and die.
No big deal.
What's the risk?
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Let's party, motherfucker.
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Which brings us back to autumn.
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The relative I, the smaller self
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that we understandably
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mistake for an identity,
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is a fragrant bloom,
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a scent which passes like vapor
in a matter of moments.
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And this is the moment of death.
We are born in the present,
we live in the present,
we die in the present.
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Where are we now in the present?
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When will we die in the present?
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Where will we be after death
in the present?
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But there is no such thing as two times,
mofo.
Autumn is one breath. breath,
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sweep another season through the lungs.
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