IV
When thought is understood to be vibration,
There is the potential to perceive, to discern,
The movement need not translate into identity.
XV
What is any existence but a conditioned projection;
Every moment translated by the filters of consciousness,
To which, through habituation, you have become so attached.
XIX
What you hear another say, is ever your own translation, your own projection.
You must discern your own way in the dreamtime passing before your awareness.
XLI
Capacity does not necessarily translate into interest.
LXXV
How the spiritual impulse translates into daily living
Depends on the motley permutations that have shaped
The illusory individuality into the quest for indivisibility.
LXXV
What’s the point of philosophy if it does not translate into daily living?
CXLV
Yet another war of translation.
CXLVI
Anything can be translated accurately or inaccurately; frame of reference is all.
CXLVIII
With any interpretation, with any translation, with any paraphrase, with any summary,
How can one not alter, change, revise, amend, modify, lose, some meaning, some nuance?
Even with a common language, every mind is harbor to its own frame-of-reference rendition.
CLI
Can any translation ever fully capture the original meaning, the original intention?
CLXXII
Unlikely any translation can ever completely grasp any given author’s exact meaning.
CCI
Beware of the figurative being translated literally.
CCXIX
Every mask, every body, ever donned, has fallen off, again and again.
Consciousness incarnating, consciousness imagining, each and every character.
Ever-remembering, ever-forgetting, within the illusory kaleidoscoping of the space-time matrix.
The mind-body, ever changing, ever morphing, even as you translate these words.
It can never be more, it can never be less, than the unchanging moment.
And yet, through it all, imagination ever imagines it all tangible;
The same entity, the same identity, from birth to death.
CCXXXVII
Poor translation tends to sow the seeds to a bountiful harvest,
Of confusion and ignorance and dogma and conflict,
Down the winding yellow brick road of time.
CCXXXVIII
How much has been lost in translation.
CCXXXIX
You wonder what others think of you,
And again and again, it ever ends up being,
Whatever judgment you project into the translation.
* * * *
From the moment any thought is expressed, any moment is experienced,
It undergoes a translation within the mind of the perceiver.
Who knows what human history would be,
Had so much not been altered in all the renditions.
CCXLII
There may be nothing new under the sun, but it is all new in your translation.
CCXLVII
Be very wary of translations, including your own.
CCXLVII
Individual universes being the dreams they are,
There is always something lost in any translation.
CCXLIX
How can any translation ever be at all accurate?
There are far too many differences in any given mind,
To ever completely fathom another’s perspective.
CCLI
The Bible, originally spoken and transcribed in Aramaic,
Then to Greek to Latin to English to who knows how many others.
An extremely challenging, complicated thing, translation.
Never quite the same as originally said or written,
No matter how scholarly the intention.
CCLXIII
Insightful thoughts, whether spoken or written,
Do not readily translate into the articulation intended,
In minds not cultivated, not nourished, for serious inquiry.
CCLXXVIII
Is there anything that cannot be distilled, translated, into some form of wisdom?
CCLXXX
Wisdom translates into all languages,
For those with the hankering and capacity,
To appreciate the incalculable number of insights,
Offered across the dream of space and time.
CCLXXXI
Humankind is incapable of tolerating, much less loving one another.
Or was that commandment from the past: Love One in another?
So many languages, so many writings, so many translations.
How can anyone ever be sure, what they are reading,
Is at all close to what the author really intended?
CCLXXXVII
The first seer, whoever it was, whenever it was, wherever it was, awakened, unaided.
His translation of the universe, his translation of the mystery, fostered realization.
Your universe, your mystery, your translation, is very much the same process.
CCXCII
Consciousness creates the notions of family, lovers, friends, acquaintances, strangers, adversaries.
Everything kaleidoscoping, everything forming and unforming, everything translating,
Into a cosmic tapestry, woven together by the dreaming of imagination.
CCXCIII
Why leave any teachings up to the potentially
Error-filled translations of oral traditions,
When so many modern conduits are now available,
For anyone to delve into full Monty versions for themselves.
CCXCV
Any translation is only as accurate as the frame of reference of the translator.
* * * *
Every eye, every ear, every nose, every tongue, every skin, every mind, creates its own translation.