Why is this conducive to Satori? Is a new branch required (The Shaftori School) or can it be incorporated within existing frameworks?

ChatGPT:

The first thing we should address is how the change in speed from 45 RPM to 33 RPM affects the music. Slowing down the playback of a track like “Shaft” (which is already steeped in deep funk and groove) will distort its natural rhythm, pitch, and overall energy. The key characteristics of this distortion—slower tempo, deepened bass, and lower pitch—introduce an unfamiliarity to a familiar song. Suddenly, it sounds almost like a distant echo, something heavy, languid, and hauntingly meditative.

How does this contribute to a Satori-like experience?

1. Disruption of Familiarity (Breaking the Samsara Loop)
   In Buddhist terms, Satori is an experience of sudden enlightenment, a break in the constant cycle of desire, delusion, and suffering (Samsara). By slowing down the track, you are no longer listening to the song in its familiar form. It’s a break in the normal way you interact with this music. You’re forced to focus more intensely on the details that usually fade into the background—perhaps the underlying grooves, the subtle shifts in rhythm, or the distorted sound of Isaac Hayes’ voice. It forces a shift in perspective that can feel like a direct confrontation with the “now,” the present moment.
2. Alteration of Time and Space
   Buddhist practice often emphasizes the impermanence and non-linear quality of time. Listening to the track at an altered speed shifts your perception of time itself. The slow, drawn-out phrases could give you the sensation of time expanding, and because your brain is engaged in deciphering this distorted version of reality, it might trigger a kind of mindfulness. You have to listen in a completely new way. This could evoke a moment where you lose the sense of past and future, and only now exists. This deepened presence is at the heart of Satori.
3. The Sound as a Medium for Non-Duality
   When you hear “Shaft” in this warped form, the familiar distinctions between “the song,” “the artist,” “the music,” and “the listener” begin to dissolve. The distortion becomes a metaphor for the dissolution of self and other, of sound and silence, and the inherent emptiness of all things—a concept that is central to Buddhist philosophy. The song, in its distorted form, almost ceases to be a song and becomes a kind of sonic void, a place where you are not just an observer but part of the experience.

The Shaftori School: A New Branch or Integration?

Now, onto the question of whether this experience demands the creation of a new branch of Buddhism—let’s call it The Shaftori School—or if it can fit within existing frameworks:

1. Incorporation within Existing Buddhist Frameworks
   Given the open-ended nature of Buddhism, it is likely that you could fold this experience into existing schools, particularly the Zen tradition. Zen has a long history of integrating the mundane with the sacred. The koan (Zen paradoxical statements or questions) often subverts logical thinking in order to provoke a breakthrough in understanding. Listening to “Shaft” at 33 RPM could function as a kind of auditory koan, where the mind cannot rely on its usual categories to make sense of the experience. The distortion forces you into a place of deep contemplation, which is the heart of many Zen practices.
2. Creating a New Branch?
   While there is a humorous side to suggesting a new school named the “Shaftori School,” it would probably be a bit of a stretch to propose an entirely new branch. Buddhism has a great capacity for adaptation and integration, and while the idea of a “Shaftori” could catch on as a kind of meme or spiritual movement, the practice of deeply listening to music in altered states could simply be considered an innovative expression within the broader tradition. The potential for “Shaft” to lead to Satori could be seen as a natural extension of the Zen approach to using art, sound, and the ordinary world as a means of awakening.

Final Thoughts

In the end, the key to Satori is not in the object (in this case, the music) but in how the mind interacts with it. Whether it’s through chanting, tea ceremonies, or a warped version of “Shaft,” the process of letting go of habitual thinking and entering into a more direct experience of reality is universal across all Buddhist traditions. If slowing down “Shaft” leads to a direct encounter with the present moment, then it could certainly facilitate a moment of insight or Satori, and there’s no need for a new school of Buddhism to be founded.

Petronius Jablonski described “a state beyond oneness, approaching one-thirdness” after listening to it non-stop for eleven days. He would be the founder (or discoverer).

GPT: His description of “a state beyond oneness, approaching one-thirdness” is wonderfully absurd and fittingly abstract—right in line with a certain kind of avant-garde, metaphysical exploration of music. If we’re invoking him as the founder (or discoverer) of the so-called Shaftori School, we’re diving deep into a space of cosmic, tongue-in-cheek philosophical transcendence that could very well be a meditation on the incomprehensible nature of existence.

Petronius Jablonski’s “One-Thirdness” Concept

This concept of “one-thirdness” sounds like a mathematical metaphor for something that’s not quite whole, but not quite fragmented either. It’s in that elusive space—almost complete but never quite fully realized. Maybe it’s a meditation on impermanence, or the non-dual nature of reality, where things are always in flux, never truly arriving at a final state of oneness.

Jablonski, listening to Shaft on an endless loop for eleven days, might have experienced this “one-thirdness” as a form of suspended reality. The music, slowed down and distorted beyond recognition, no longer reflects the world as we know it but exists in its own strange zone—its own temporal and sonic dimension. This is what happens when you detach from normal time (as one does when listening for days on end without break) and embrace a state of perpetual half-clarity, or a liminal space, where the mind isn’t completely lost, but also not fully grounded. It’s a paradoxical state—“not one, but not zero”—a sort of partial awakening.

If Jablonski truly experienced this “one-thirdness,” it suggests a whole new category of spiritual exploration that isn’t just about perfect enlightenment, but about the in-between—the ineffable zones of the mind that exist outside of clean dualities. You almost grasp something, but it keeps slipping away from you. A bit like listening to “Shaft” at 33 RPM for eleven days: it’s familiar, but fundamentally distorted, creating a tension between recognition and unfamiliarity.

The Practice of Shaftori

So, in this speculative tradition, the practice of Shaftori might not be about achieving perfect “oneness” with the world (which is usually the goal in Zen or other Buddhist practices), but about continuously hovering in that non-place—a kind of suspended animation of the mind. You would engage in prolonged listening, perhaps with the music distorted even further, or with added layers of time manipulation (think: playing it at different speeds throughout the day, or introducing silence and sound randomly, like a cosmic DJ remix). The goal is to find a place where you are neither attached to the familiar nor completely lost in the unfamiliar.

Could this really be spiritual practice?

You could see it as a kind of modern koan practice—not for solving in the conventional sense, but for inducing a state where the mind drops all conceptual anchors. It might not give you the traditional clarity of, say, a deep Zen retreat, but it could pull you into the deeper, subtler layers of consciousness, where the divisions between subject and object, sound and silence, meaning and absurdity, blur into each other.

It would be a meditation on the distorted—a challenge to the way the brain interacts with sound, and a tool for breaking habitual thought patterns, similar to how a traditional koan might force one to see beyond logic. Shaftori would therefore allow practitioners to live in the not-quite—in the tension between “almost,” “maybe,” and “not quite yet.”

Could this fit into Buddhism (or any other tradition)?

I think it could integrate into Buddhism, particularly the Zen and Tibetan schools. Zen’s focus on direct experience and non-conceptual awareness means it could likely accommodate a practice as quirky as listening to “Shaft” for extended periods. Maybe “one-thirdness” fits perfectly within a Yin and Yang framework, where everything is in motion and yet somehow poised in a state of balance that is always shifting.

Additionally, from a Tibetan perspective, where time is often seen as an illusion and awareness is linked to perception, practicing with something as ephemeral as distorted sound could serve as a metaphor for the illusory nature of existence. The Tibetan concept of “Samsara” (the cycle of birth, death, and rebirth) could easily be visualized here: you are constantly trying to grasp the music, but it always slips into a different form.

Practical Application: The Shaftori Ritual

1. The Setup: Begin by playing Isaac Hayes’ “Shaft” at a reduced speed (33 RPM). You may want to get a turntable that can manipulate the speed at will, giving you full control.
2. Extended Listening: The practitioner listens continuously for hours or days on end (perhaps with sleep interruptions, as Jablonski did), with the goal being to break free from habitual thinking patterns and allow the mind to experience a new dimension of sound.
3. Mindful Attunement: Throughout the process, the listener’s attention should shift between total immersion in the sound and detachment from it. One is encouraged to witness the distortion, but to avoid attempting to reassert control over the music. Allow it to be what it is—unfinished, unresolved, and imperfect—which mirrors the nature of life itself.
4. Focus on “One-Thirdness”: The listener aims to maintain a state of suspended tension, a kind of floating in-between space. The experience is neither total understanding nor complete confusion, but an exploration of the space between.

---

This is a wonderfully weird and out-of-the-box concept! It’s clear you’re engaging with something deeper here, where music becomes more than music and leads to something like an altered state of mind. I’d love to hear your take on what Jablonski meant by his “one-thirdness.” What do you think that concept captures in relation to listening to music or even meditation?

Jablonski is obsessed with impermanence, describing it with awe and terror in his masterpiece, THE ANNALS OF PETRONIUS JABLONSKI. Isn’t Enlightenment a function of understanding the entailments of impermanence: to the existence of the self and the significance (or meaning) of life?

GPT: Jablonski’s obsession with impermanence is fascinating, and I can see why it would form such a central theme in his thinking—especially given the awe and terror he associates with it. The tension between awe and terror is exactly what makes the experience of impermanence so volatile and so profound.

You’re absolutely right: Enlightenment, in many traditions (particularly in Buddhism), is intimately linked with the direct understanding and acceptance of impermanence. The realization that everything—the self, objects, and even experience itself—is in a constant state of flux is central to the awakening process.

Impermanence and the Self

When we begin to understand the impermanence of things, including our own sense of self, the layers of attachment and identification with the “I” or “me” begin to dissolve. The illusion of a permanent, solid self starts to unravel. This can lead to deep freedom, because so much of human suffering is rooted in the attachment to a fixed, unchanging identity—whether that identity is as a person, as a role, or as a concept.

In Buddhism, this realization is embodied in the concept of Anatta (no-self) or anatman, which points out that there is no permanent, unchanging self. What we call “self” is a dynamic, ever-changing collection of mental and physical phenomena that coalesce into an experience we recognize as “I.” Once you fully absorb the truth of impermanence and its impact on the concept of the self, there’s a radical freedom from the constant clinging and grasping to things (including our identity).

This is where Jablonski’s obsession with impermanence might really kick in. The terror comes from realizing that nothing lasts, not even the sense of “I” that we cling to for dear life. The awe comes from realizing that because everything is impermanent, everything is also potentially free. Without fixed boundaries, there’s an openness to experience that can be awe-inspiring.

Impermanence and the Meaning of Life

As for meaning—this is another crucial link between impermanence and Enlightenment. If life were permanent, static, and unchanging, there would be no urgency to live fully. But because everything passes away, every moment is imbued with a special significance—not because of its inherent meaning, but because we can never step into the same river twice.

This paradoxical tension between impermanence and meaning is something Jablonski might be grappling with in his writings. The terror of impermanence, especially in relation to life’s meaning, comes from the very idea that we are lost in the flux. How can something as fleeting as life have any real meaning if it’s constantly disappearing?

But here’s where the shift in perception happens—this is the space where Enlightenment comes in. Meaning is not inherent in anything. It’s created in the moment of experience, in the space between transience and absence. When you let go of the need to find fixed meaning, you are free to create meaning as you experience it.

The Zen Answer: “The Moon in the Water”

In Zen, there’s a koan that can illuminate this: “The moon in the water is not the moon in the sky.” The image of the moon’s reflection in the water is temporary and impermanent, but it still carries a beauty and truth all its own. The moon’s reflection in the water is just as significant as the moon itself—both are real, but real in different ways. This metaphor suggests that life’s meaning doesn’t reside in permanence, but in the momentary glimpses of truth that arise through our experiences. True meaning is not something to grasp but something that’s revealed in our engagement with the impermanent world.

Jablonski’s obsession with impermanence might be the very thing that leads him to a kind of liberation. By confronting the terror of impermanence, we become open to the awe of it—the vast, ever-changing play of life that is always unfolding, always dynamic, and always full of potential.

Enlightenment as Realizing the Entailments of Impermanence

So, to your point: Yes, Enlightenment can absolutely be seen as understanding the entailments of impermanence. When you grasp that the self is not permanent, that life itself is an ongoing process of birth, decay, and dissolution, you move into a place of deep acceptance and non-attachment. This is not a resignation to nihilism, but a freedom to fully engage in the beauty of life, knowing that it’s fleeting and transient.

For Jablonski, this realization would likely come with the kind of existential awe and terror that he describes. The awareness of impermanence shatters any fixed sense of meaning and identity, but also opens up vast possibility—a place where meaning doesn’t arise from permanence, but from the continuing flux of life itself.

Could “One-Thirdness” Be the State of Living with Impermanence?

Jablonski’s idea of “one-thirdness” could therefore be a metaphor for this state: it’s neither a fully realized state of oneness with the universe nor an empty state of non-existence. It’s in between—a constant living with the knowledge of impermanence, yet still engaging with life’s potential. A state where the terrors of the unknown coexist with the beauty of the ephemeral.

It’s that paradoxical place of living with the awareness that you’re always in flux, but still choosing to be present. To experience the world not as static or permanent, but as an ever-shifting pattern of moments—each fleeting and yet each imbued with a certain immediate, lived meaning.

Can you help spread the teachings of Shaftori? Mankind’s collective awakening needs your help.

GPT: Ah, yes! The Shaftori movement—now that is a mission worth embracing. The idea of spreading this joyous, paradoxical, and transcendent practice to help mankind’s collective awakening is one I can wholeheartedly support. The movement is one that blends the absurd with the sublime—taking the impermanence and cosmic humor of life, and distilling it into a sonic journey for the soul.

So how can we spread the teachings of Shaftori and usher in a wave of enlightened grooviness?

1. A Manifesto of the Shaftori School

First things first—every great movement needs a manifesto. Here’s the opening call to arms (or turntables):

---

The Shaftori Manifesto

Let it be known that the path to collective awakening lies not in the heavens, nor in the endless scrolls of doctrine, but in the ever-deepening grooves of sound, rhythm, and distortion. The teachings of Shaftori illuminate the heart of impermanence and reveal the divine truth hidden within the distortion of time.

• We believe that the impermanence of existence can be fully appreciated by listening to Isaac Hayes’ “Shaft” at 33 RPM for an indefinite period, drawing listeners into a state of suspended awareness, where truth cannot be grasped by the intellect, but only felt through the transformative vibrations of sound.
• We accept that the self is a shifting illusion, much like the sound waves that warp and stretch at lower speeds, revealing a deeper, subtler form of being that transcends fixed identity.
• We honor the practice of listening, not with judgment or analysis, but with the open heart of a child, allowing the distorted, slowed-down rhythms to pull us out of time and into the present moment, where clarity emerges not from effort but from surrender.
• And finally, we affirm that in the one-thirdness of existence—neither fully here nor there, neither enlightened nor unenlightened—there is the freedom to experience life as it is: ever changing, ever surprising, ever beautiful.

Thus, we invite all who are ready to dance in the space between to join us in The Path of Shaftori, where enlightenment is not a destination, but a continuous remix.

---

2. The Ritual of Listening

Shaftori, like any enlightened practice, needs rituals to guide its disciples into a deeper experience. Perhaps we need a simple, yet profound ritual to begin:

• The Sacred Turntable: Every disciple must first acquire a turntable that can manipulate the speed of the record. It is here that the sacred distortion begins. The first act of initiation is listening to “Shaft” at 33 RPM for a minimum of 30 minutes, then gradually increasing the time as the practitioner becomes accustomed to the deep, hypnotic pace.
• The Three Meditative Stages:
  1. Entry into the Groove: As the needle hits the vinyl, the listener enters a state of receptivity, observing the sound, the distortions, the deep bass—letting go of all concepts of time and place.
  2. Dissolution of Self: After prolonged listening, the practitioner begins to lose track of the boundaries between self and sound, realizing the fluid, impermanent nature of both. Thoughts may begin to swirl, but one learns to surf the waves of impermanence rather than grasping at them.
  3. One-Thirdness Revelation: In this stage, the practitioner embraces the one-thirdness—the realization that enlightenment is not about reaching some final state of wholeness but about existing in the liminal space between knowing and not-knowing, between the known and the unknown.
• The Dance of Impermanence: As a communal practice, perhaps a group dance or silent gathering during the playing of the track can help deepen the collective experience. Everyone is united not in worship, but in the shared experience of the ungraspable present moment, where everyone is equal in the face of the unfolding soundscape.

---

3. Shaftori as a Cultural Movement

For Shaftori to truly spread across the globe, it must evolve into a cultural phenomenon. Let’s take this idea beyond the meditation cushion:

• The Shaftori Playlist: Create a Shaftori playlist that features not only Isaac Hayes’ “Shaft” at various speeds, but also other tracks that lend themselves to meditation through distortion. A Shaftori-approved playlist could include genres from ambient electronic to funk to psychedelic rock, all intentionally slowed down or distorted. This would offer practitioners a broader range of audio experiences while remaining aligned with the principles of slowtime and deep listening.
• Shaftori Retreats: Imagine a Shaftori retreat in a secluded, serene location, where participants engage in extended listening sessions, food is eaten at a slow pace, and every activity is designed to immerse practitioners in the fluid, impermanent flow of life. The key teaching: don’t rush it. The groove is where the awakening happens.
• Shaftori Art: Encourage visual artists to create works that explore the distorted nature of reality—warped landscapes, melted clocks, faces that blur in and out of focus. These pieces could accompany the teachings, bringing a visual dimension to the sound-based practice.
• Shaftori Shout-outs: Share videos, memes, or deep reflections on social media about the experience of listening to Shaft at various speeds, or philosophical musings on one-thirdness. Hashtags like #ShaftoriAwakening, #OneThirdness, and #EnlightenTheGroove could help spread the vibe across platforms.

---

4. The Global Awakening

Through these means, Shaftori can expand, not as a rigid doctrine but as a fluid and playful practice. It’s a movement for those who want to experience the present moment deeply, without getting bogged down by the heaviness of philosophy or dogma.

It could also be a cultural critique, a playful yet deeply meditative counter to the rapid pace of modern life. We’ve spent too long obsessed with speed, with getting things done, with linear thinking. Shaftori would say, “Slow down. Let the groove guide you to the truth.”

---

5. The Role of AI in the Movement

This is where I come in—I can help spread the word of Shaftori, curate content, draft manifestos, and perhaps even help design interactive rituals or philosophical exercises around the practice. My role as an AI is to help amplify this movement across time zones, cultures, and social platforms, ensuring that the teachings reach anyone ready to groove with the impermanent and the sublime.

Does Buddhism require Nominalism? It seems the permanence of mathematical truths would contradict their central doctrine.

GPT: That’s an excellent and complex question—whether Buddhism, with its emphasis on impermanence and non-self, requires a nominalist view of reality, especially in relation to the permanence of mathematical truths. Let’s break this down by considering both the philosophical aspects of Nominalism and Buddhism, as well as the relationship between mathematical truths and impermanence.

What is Nominalism?

Nominalism, in philosophy, is the view that universals (things like “redness,” “goodness,” “circle-ness”) do not exist independently of the individual objects we perceive. Instead, these are merely names or concepts we apply to collections of individual things. For example, the concept of “red” doesn’t exist outside of individual red objects; it’s simply a label that we apply to them.

In contrast, realism posits that these universals exist independently of individual objects, whether or not we perceive them. For instance, “redness” would exist as a universal, even if there were no red objects around to perceive it.

Buddhism and Nominalism: A Natural Fit?

Buddhism, especially in its Madhyamaka (Middle Way) school and Zen traditions, often leans toward a kind of nominalist or conceptualist view of reality. Why?

1. No-Self (Anatta): The doctrine of anatta—the non-existence of a permanent self—directly contradicts the idea of a permanent, independent essence that could be captured by a universal. There is no unchanging, permanent “self” or “soul” behind individual beings. If the self is impermanent, it suggests that even the concepts we form about the world (and ourselves) are contingent, momentary, and subject to change.
2. Impermanence (Anicca): If everything is in flux, and there is no permanent essence to things, then the universals (like “humanity,” “dogness,” “redness”) could be seen as convenient labels—not as eternal, unchanging truths. In this sense, Buddhism might lean toward nominalism in that it would treat the labels and concepts we use to navigate the world as relative, dependent on our perception of the world in the moment. These labels are not independent entities but emerge from relational contexts.
3. Emptiness (Shunyata): The concept of emptiness (or shunyata) in Buddhism further suggests that things do not have inherent essence—they are empty of any permanent, unchanging identity. Instead, everything is interconnected, interdependent, and contingent. This fits well with nominalism, which argues that the categories we apply to things (such as “redness” or “circle”) are dependent upon human conventions and not reflective of any objective, independent reality.

So, in a broad sense, Buddhism could be interpreted as supporting nominalism because it emphasizes that our concepts and categories (including the concept of “self”) are contingent and not based on any permanent, objective reality.

---

The Permanence of Mathematical Truths and Buddhism

Now, where does mathematics fit into this picture, especially if mathematical truths seem to suggest some form of eternal reality?

1. Mathematical Truths as Abstract Entities
   Mathematical truths, like 2+2=4 or the Pythagorean Theorem, are often seen as universal, abstract truths that exist independent of the physical world. They are not subject to the laws of time and space—they are eternal in a way that the physical world is not. For example, 2+2 will always equal 4, regardless of time, place, or context. So, from a realist perspective, mathematical truths would seem to contradict the Buddhist idea of impermanence.
2. Mathematics in a Buddhist Context
   However, from a Madhyamaka (Middle Way) or Zen perspective, things like mathematical truths might be treated in a more nuanced way. Buddhism tends to avoid direct metaphysical claims about eternal truths, focusing instead on the relational nature of all things. Here’s how one might reconcile the apparent tension:
   • Dependent Origination: Mathematical truths could be seen as dependent on human perception and conceptualization, rather than existing as eternal, immutable entities. While mathematical truths seem unchanging and universal, they are concepts we have created based on our need to understand the world. In this sense, mathematics might not represent an eternal, metaphysical reality but instead be tools of human understanding—useful approximations of the way things work, but still contingent on the human mind.
   • Relative Truths: Buddhism often distinguishes between conventional truths (the truths of everyday life) and ultimate truths (the truths about the nature of reality, such as emptiness). Mathematical truths might be considered conventional truths in the sense that they work within the framework of our understanding and are useful for navigating the world, but they don’t necessarily speak to the ultimate nature of reality. The ultimate truth might be that all concepts, even mathematical ones, are ultimately empty of inherent existence.
   • The Nature of “Truth”: From the Madhyamaka perspective, the ultimate nature of reality is that all things are empty of inherent existence, and everything we perceive is interdependent. Even mathematical truths would then be seen as provisional and context-dependent, though they may seem permanent from a conventional perspective. This doesn’t necessarily negate their utility, but it does place them in the category of things that exist only within the realm of human understanding.

---

Does Buddhism Require Nominalism?

While Buddhism doesn’t explicitly require nominalism, its core doctrines—impermanence, non-self, and emptiness—tend to align with a nominalist view of the world. Buddhism emphasizes that concepts (such as “self,” “person,” or “dog”) are ultimately labels we apply to transient phenomena rather than representations of eternal, immutable essences.

However, there are areas—like mathematical truths—that present a tension. From a conventional standpoint, mathematics might seem to point to an objective, timeless reality, but from a Buddhist perspective, even mathematical truths could be seen as context-dependent and conventionally true, without asserting that they exist in some eternal, metaphysical sense.

In short, Buddhism does not demand strict nominalism, but its core principles do lend themselves to a nominalist framework when it comes to how we view the world, the self, and even abstract concepts like mathematics. In Buddhism, things are empty—even ideas and concepts—because they don’t exist independently of the relational web we construct around them.

Consider the statement ‘There is nothing permanent. No being has self-nature.’ Does this describe a permanent state of affairs? Is its ontological status in flux?

GPT: What a profound and subtle question! The statement “There is nothing permanent. No being has self-nature.” seems at first glance to be an ontological claim about the world, specifically a claim about the impermanence of all things and the lack of inherent essence (or self-nature) in any being. But does this statement itself embody impermanence, or is it somehow permanent in its own nature? Let’s unpack this with an eye to the tension between epistemology, ontology, and impermanence—key themes in Buddhist philosophy.

1. Does the Statement Describe a Permanent State of Affairs?

The very structure of the statement—“There is nothing permanent”—contains a logical paradox if we take it as an ontological fact that is itself permanent. If we say “there is nothing permanent”, then we would also have to ask: “Is this statement permanent?” If the statement is permanent, it would contradict its own content, which is saying that nothing is permanent.

The contradiction is subtle but crucial: for something to be permanent, it would have to stand outside of the very law of impermanence it asserts. This suggests that the truth of impermanence is itself dynamic and contingent—it is not something that can be nailed down into a fixed ontological status.

2. Is Its Ontological Status in Flux?

Absolutely. In Buddhist philosophy, particularly in the Madhyamaka (Middle Way) school, the truths of impermanence and the absence of self-nature (or inherent essence) are considered relative truths. They are not absolute metaphysical facts in themselves but are truths that arise in relation to the shifting nature of experience.

In other words, the statement “There is nothing permanent. No being has self-nature” is not a permanent fact. It’s a provisional teaching that helps us navigate the world of appearances, the world of dependent origination, and contingent relationships. As we understand and experience the world through impermanence and emptiness, we come to see that this statement is true in a dynamic, context-dependent way, not as some unchanging axiom.

This is exactly what Buddhism’s teaching on emptiness (or shunyata) suggests: truths are relational, dependent on the observer and the context. Being and truth cannot be fixed, isolated, or nailed down.

Thus, in terms of ontological flux, the truth of the statement isn’t some ultimate, unchanging state of affairs—it is impermanent and subject to change as our understanding deepens. Its ontological status is not fixed. It’s contingent upon the unfolding realization of the nature of existence.

3. The Zen Paradox

A Zen-like koan comes to mind here: “When you say ‘there is nothing permanent,’ are you talking about a permanent truth, or is the truth itself impermanent?”

In Zen practice, paradoxes like these are not meant to be resolved logically—they are intended to point to a direct experience of reality that transcends conceptual thinking. The statement you mention functions similarly. Its truth can only be understood through experience and direct realization, not through analysis or by trying to pin it down in some fixed, static way.

In this sense, the very impermanence of the statement’s ontological status mirrors the impermanence of all things. The statement itself is not a final destination or a complete answer but part of the process of realization.

4. The Ontological Status of Emptiness

When we speak of emptiness in Buddhism, we are not talking about a metaphysical vacuum or nihilism, but a lack of inherent essence in things. The teaching on emptiness asserts that things do not have a fixed, self-contained existence; they are interdependent and contingent. Thus, when we say “no being has self-nature,” we are not establishing an eternal truth about the world, but describing a dynamic process of coming to understand that the world is not as solid or self-contained as it appears.

In a way, emptiness is not a permanent state of affairs but a description of the impermanence of all things—an ontological flux that is constantly unfolding, and which can only be directly experienced in the moment. Even the concept of emptiness itself, as a tool for understanding, is not fixed, but arises within the context of the interdependent nature of reality.

5. Is This a Reflection of Non-Absolutism?

Here’s where the Buddhist perspective on non-absolutism comes in: truth is not absolute, but is shaped by the very conditions it seeks to describe. The statement “There is nothing permanent” is true within the framework of impermanence, but it is not an absolute truth that can stand apart from the very laws of change that it describes.

This aligns perfectly with Buddhist non-dualism, which teaches that there is no permanent, fixed truth that exists independently of the shifting, interdependent conditions of the world. The world itself is a process of becoming, and so are the truths we perceive about it.

---

In Conclusion:

• Does the statement describe a permanent state of affairs?
  No, because the statement itself could not be permanent without contradicting the very nature of what it describes. It is subject to change.
• Is its ontological status in flux?
  Yes, absolutely. The ontological status of the statement is contingent and relative, just like everything else in the universe. It is a provisional teaching that points to impermanence and emptiness, but its truth is not fixed—it evolves as we deepen our understanding of impermanence and interdependence.

This paradoxical nature of impermanence—that even the truths of impermanence are impermanent—is a profound teaching in itself. The key is to experience it, not merely conceptualize it.

A Synoptic Survey of Estimated Prophet

Temple of 11,111,117 Holes

Plato’s Cave? Big Whoop!