by nielskunze on November 14, 2015
Note: Although the following story is entirely based on real events, some of the details have been ever-so-slightly exaggerated for dramatic effect and entertainment purposes.
Walter didn’t care much for confrontation. He diligently avoided it whenever possible. There were times however, he had found, when others were in error, and there was little else he could do but to confront them with their mistake.
Immediately upon opening the telltale grey envelope from the government taxation office, it became quite clear to Walter that someone had indeed made a mistake, and there was no way of avoiding the impending confrontation. He took the statement over to the telephone (Walter disliked the telephone), sat down determinedly in front of it, and tried to prepare himself for the unpleasantness which was sure to follow.
Walter had an excellent memory; his mind had a penchant for details. He was quite certain that he had paid his property taxes in full and on time. The statement he now held in his hand, assessing a 5% penalty for late payment was certainly in error. It was true that Walter had waited until the very last day– the day upon which the taxes were due– to deliver his payment to the post office, where it was postmarked with the critical date, before it was sent off to the taxation office in Victoria. It was the very same procedure he had employed all of the eighteen previous years for the payment of his property taxes. Walter was no fan of government… or of taxes… and they could bloody well wait until the very last moment in receiving payment from him. He had never been penalized before.
Walter took a deep breath and dialed the toll-free number.
The taxation analyst, a woman– Doreen, with whom he spoke, seemed rather pleasant. Perhaps that would make things easier.
“Yes… um,” began Walter rather hesitantly, “I seem to have been assessed a penalty on my property taxes…” He paused and swallowed hard before completing the sentence: “…in error.” And then he hurried to explain further. “I’m quite sure that I paid my taxes in full and on time… as I do every year.”
“Folio number please,” came the request on the other end.
Right. His identity in the eyes of his government was encoded in a 15-digit number in the upper righthand corner of the statement. He dutifully recited the impersonal code that would open the door to this necessary conversation.
And after just a brief pause “Oh, I see here, Walter, that our office received your payment on July the tenth,” she said. The statement Walter held in his hand confirmed as much. Furthermore, Walter knew that the taxes were due on July the second– the day he had posted his letter with the payment. Legally, a letter was considered to be in the possession of the addressee at the moment it entered the postal system. How long it actually took the postal service to deliver the letter was none of Walter’s concern. He had met his obligation on the second of July.
“Yes, well…” explained Walter, “it’s really the postmark on the letter I sent that matters.”
Doreen agreed and offered to pull the envelope from the files to send a scanned copy to Walter’s email. Walter happily agreed, noticing that this was already going much better than expected… that is, until she came back on the line with envelope in hand.
“I have it right here,” Doreen informed him. “And the date that I’m seeing is the eleventh of July.”
“I beg your pardon?” Walter was instantly flummoxed.
“The date on the envelope clearly says July eleventh,” answered Doreen quite pleasantly.
“But that’s impossible!” Walter quite nearly shouted into the phone.
“No, that’s what it says,” insisted Doreen, maintaining all cordiality.
“But… but…” stammered Walter, “you’re saying that the letter was posted the day AFTER it was already received at your office…?”
“But surely you can see that that’s not possible… for me to have mailed the letter the day after you received it…?”
“I’m sorry, Walter,” she answered consolingly, “but my opinion doesn’t really count much in these matters.”
“But that date… it can’t be the proper postmark. It’s impossible!”
“It’s the only date I have,” insisted Doreen sweetly.
Walter was at a momentary loss as to how to proceed. He pictured the envelope in his mind… and began probing. “So the date… inside the circle… the one validating the postage… it says July eleventh?”
“No, no, the date inside the circle is illegible; it’s totally unreadable. And I couldn’t even begin to speculate what it might say,” she added as though standing upon some grand ethical principle.
“But it’s the relevant date!” Walter had never been this close to shouting on the telephone before.
“Relevant to what?” asked Doreen as though the asking was most natural under the circumstances.
Walter stated flatly in disbelief “Relevant to my being assessed a late penalty for my taxes.”
“Oh no,” Doreen assured him, “that assessment is based on the date I already gave you.”
“Yes! That one.”
“But it’s the wrong date,” insisted Walter.
“But it’s the only one I’ve got,” insisted Doreen.
“But you understand that it’s impossible for me to have mailed the letter the day after you received it?”
“I do. Perfectly. Honest.”
Walter let go an exasperated sigh. “So how do we proceed with this penalty business then?”
“Well, I suggest you pay it… promptly.”
“What!” Walter wasn’t losing his patience; he was losing his fricken marbles! “You clearly see the impossibility of it. Why can’t you just remove the penalty?” asked Walter quite reasonably.
“Oh, I don’t have THAT kind of authority,” admitted Doreen with an embarrassed giggle.
“Then why am I talking to you,” whispered Walter into the phone.
“So that I can provide you with all of the information pertinent to your case,” she assured him. “You’ll have to provide all of the documentation and details for the Rural Taxation office in an email. This all has to be on the up-and-up, you know… a proper written record and all that.”
“But your office just obviously made a stupid error…” Walter’s sentence trailed off as he realized that this conversation was going no further… if it had gone anywhere at all. He thanked Doreen for her time and hung up the phone.
There really was no way to prepare for a conversation like that… and it hadn’t been quite as confrontational as he’d feared. He still disliked telephones… and Walter could still find no love for his government.
“God help us all,” he whispered to himself.
by nielskunze on October 27, 2015
(Author narration with musical accompaniment: Aga of the Ladies by Hellborg Lane & Selvaganesh)
Dr. Mikhail Nostro stood a moment outside the door. His knock had gone unanswered. No matter. The quarters which housed his patient were functionally separate from the rest of the house where the son lived. Dr. Nostro had a key.
He let himself in, as he had done many times before. The son– what was his name? Harold? Yes, Harold, was often out attending to life’s niggly details; either that, or he was simply too busy with housework to answer the door. No matter.
The patient, Harold’s mother, was bedridden. The good doctor was the last of a dying breed. When he finally gave up these last few house-calls, the extinction event would be complete. Nowadays most people weren’t even aware that doctors had ever made house-calls. But to Mikhail it had been his favourite part of doctoring; there was a certain advantage to knowing specifically how his patients lived, of observing them in their natural habitat, so to speak. Unfortunately, none of his colleagues concurred. No matter.
He closed the door behind himself and slipped off his shoes. A coatrack stood by the door awaiting his hat, cane and coat… to which he obliged. Then, retrieving the old leather satchel, his medi-bag, from the floor beside him he shuffled off to the door at the end of the hall. At the intersecting corridor, which led to Harold’s living quarters, he noticed, with a quick sideways glance, that indeed the son was home. Harold was engrossed in… something… which was none of the good doctor’s damn business. No matter; he moved on to where his patient lay.
Her condition was unchanged. Frankly, there was very little hope for recovery, but as long as she continued on the medication she remained relatively pain free. She was cogent and even cheerful– considering the circumstances. The doctor was committed to doing what little he could.
As he exited the patient’s room, he was startled by Harold who was coincidentally on his way in. They met outside in the hallway.
“Oh, Dr. Nostro, I hadn’t realized you were here.”
Mikhail smiled and shook his head. “Please, just call me Mike.”
Harold nodded. “How is she?” The obligatory question had been asked.
“The same,” affirmed the good doctor. “But tell me,” he continued in the gentlest tone he could muster, “when did the medication run out?”
Despite the ease with which the question had been asked, Harold looked panic-stricken. He glanced furtively toward the closed door behind which his mother’s ears still functioned all too well. He grasped Dr. Mike by the elbow and whispered “Won’t you come join me for tea?”
“Delighted,” answered the doctor, even as he was being dragged away.
It was definitely his mother’s sitting room, decided the doctor, as Harold busied himself in the kitchen. He guessed that the room had probably remained unchanged for the last forty years… except for a few oddities. The books on the coffee table were an eclectic jumble of philosophy, religion and ritual magick. There appeared to be what he could only imagine was a makeshift altar cobbled together and neatly arranged on the fireplace hearth. It was complete with candles, incense, an ornate chalice… and was that a scrying bowl? And then there was what appeared to be a faint chalk outline of a circle drawn upon the carpet. The good doctor awaited his tea inside the ritual circle… feeling quite safe and rather amused.
Thankfully, Harold dove headlong into the pending conversation even before he set the tea service down… amidst the clutter of books. “How did you know about the sugar pills?” he asked.
“Had you used icing sugar, I probably wouldn’t have noticed a thing.”
“Too granular,” concluded Harold.
The doctor nodded and sipped his tea. “No matter.” He took another sip. “She’s fine. The placebo’s working.”
Harold nodded in agreement, but then his demeanor soured somewhat. “Dr. Nostro– um, Dr. Mike– I simply can’t afford the medication any longer. Our medical plan covers your expenses, but the prescription comes out of my pocket, and frankly, my pocket is empty, threadbare and full of holes!”
“These are difficult times indeed.” As awkward as this topic seemed, the doctor chose to pry into the deeper gawkiness of the books, the altar and the ritual circle instead. “I see you have an interest in ritual magick.” He raised an eyebrow for dramatic effect and to give the statement the inflection of a question.
“Um, yes… well,” Harold began, reddening in the cheeks.
“Nothing to be embarrassed about. I’ve dabbled a bit myself. But if you don’t mind my asking, what are you trying to accomplish?”
The utterly blank look on Harold’s face was very telling. It was often thus with novice practitioners. Not only do they not know what they’re doing; rarely are they sure of what they’re even trying to do!
“I suppose I’m trying to affect a change… a transformation of circumstance… of fortune.” Harold too answered with the inflection of a question, wondering whether he’d gotten it right.
“So you’re not trying to magickally cure her or any such thing?”
“Oh no! Nothing quite so ambitious. I’m really just attempting to conjure a bit of luck for myself.” The doctor nodded in understanding. “It seems that I’ve been in a rut for… well, for as long as I can remember. Certainly for as long as mother’s been ill. Something HAS to change!”
Dr. Mike tipped his chin toward the scattered tomes on the coffee table. “It’s easy to think that there’s some procedure, a secret formula, some exotic incantation or obscure ritual that can transmute everything bad into something good. After all, isn’t that why we have things like philosophy and religion in the first place?”
“Yes!” said Harold eagerly. “If only I could learn it.” There was such earnestness in his eyes. “Would you teach me?” he asked the good doctor sheepishly.
“I will,” affirmed the doctor. “And before I leave here today.”
Harold looked on confusedly, expecting there to be more to the sentence… and so he asked “Before you leave here today… what?”
“Before I leave here today, I’ll teach you the secret formula of transmutation, how to transform your life’s circumstances.”
Harold was dumbfounded.
The good doctor winked.
“Now, this one here catches my eye,” he began, reaching for a specific book from the haphazard pile. Its title was Butterfly Dreams: The Nectar of Transformation. “Have you read it?” Harold nodded. “And so, what is the nectar of transformation?”
“I’ve read it three times,” explained Harold. “As near as I can tell, the nectar of transformation is awareness.”
“Ah, I see.” Dr. Mike seemed pleased with the answer. “Awareness is assuredly a good thing, essential really… But awareness of what?”
Harold shook his head… dumbfounded again.
“Then let me ask you this,” continued the doctor undaunted. “When is the placebo effect in effect?”
“Or to put it more bluntly, when is the placebo effect NOT in effect?”
Harold was still obviously confused, but he ventured an answer anyway. “When the medicine’s real…?”
The doctor stroked his goatee. “I like that answer, but let’s examine it.” He took a sip of tea. “When we’re dealing with an illusion– the sugar pill, the placebo effect kicks in. But when the medicine is real, there’s no placebo effect; it’s the physical action of the substance itself… providing the very same desired result. How do we know when we’re dealing with an illusion and when we’re dealing with a proven causality?”
“I don’t know,” answered Harold quite honestly. “So, is that it? I need to develop the awareness to know what’s real and what’s not? How on earth do I do that?”
“You’ve jumped ahead,” admonished the doctor ever-so-gently. “Let’s return to the placebo effect for a moment. Allow me to tell you of one of my patients from many years ago. He was a young man, the nervous type. I honestly never liked him as a patient. Anyway, he arrived one day at my office looking for a diagnosis. He was quite convinced that he was dying. His symptoms were odd– and a bit frightening to any layman– but I was sure I knew what it was that he had. I told him my suspicion, procured a blood sample, and provided him with the appropriate prescription. I told him that he’d be fine in a few weeks; all he needed to do was get the prescription filled and follow the protocol for ten days. Two weeks later, he was dead.”
Harold was aghast! “You’d made a mistake!”
“No. My diagnosis was right on the money; the blood sample confirmed it. The prescription had been filled, and all indications were that he’d taken the medicine as intended.”
“So why did he die then?”
“The placebo effect,” said the doctor casually between sips. “Or if you prefer, the reverse placebo effect.”
“He was taking the real medicine–”
“Proven to work unfailingly,” interjected the doctor.
“And he died anyway…” Harold seemed to be catching on.
“So, returning to my earlier question: when is the placebo effect in effect?”
“Exactly! It’s very much like gravity; it’s always in effect. There’s nothing selective about it. One could almost say that it’s universal law.”
Harold was nodding enthusiastically now. Something of import had gotten through.
“Now all we need to do is to return to the original question: awareness of what?” The good doctor drained the remainder of his tea and declined a refill with a dismissive wave. “So what do you suppose is the fulcrum upon which all of your leverage to affect change, to transform your life, to transmute all of the bad to good– what do you suppose it all teeters upon?”
“I believe I know,” whispered Harold. And then with utter conviction “I BELIEVE I know!”
“Yes, I believe you do.”
And with that the good doctor took his leave.
by nielskunze on October 23, 2015
Prior Episodes of Running Dialogue:
(Nine Cats by Steve Wilson from the 2007 Porcupine Tree album Signify – bonus material)
Ninth Life of Schrödinger’s Cat
There’s a place that I visit sometimes when I dream; in my conception, it has always been deep within the Earth. I’ve been down this ephemeral road before… but never have I been granted audience with the Mistress of this place… until now.
There are certain critters in this neck of the woods whom one really never realistically expects to see. I have long suspected that Badger may be responsible for some of the larger burrow entrances we’ve found over the years, but I’d never actually seen one… until now.
It was just another stroll around our familiar territory, upon grounds we’d trodden a thousand times before, whereupon Sitka was suddenly snuffling about on high alert. We hadn’t actually been down Sasquatch Alley– just north of the swamp– in a couple of weeks, as I was tending to the ‘harvest.’ There has long been a series of burrows along the embankment beside the trail belonging to Ground Squirrel. The dogs are always glad to go sniffing around their entrances on the rare hope that one might unexpectedly surface. (It’s happened before… much to Sitka’s delight and surprise.) Suddenly, I saw up ahead Sitka giving chase to a coyote-sized-looking thing– with very stout legs– which then quickly disappeared down a hole. I only saw it for maybe a second, and I wasn’t completely sure what it was. From that fleeting glance, I surmised that it looked exactly like a Columbia ground squirrel, except at least ten sizes too big. I didn’t positively identify it as Badger until I got back to my computer to look at some pictures online.
Badger is the Keeper of Stories. All living creatures trade in stories, but especially we humans. We are literally the stories we tell ourselves and each other. The unparalleled prowess of Badger at digging through the Earth, connects them to all earth spirits… and their respective stories. The labyrinthian realms– well beneath the surface– the inner spaces of Badger’s domain are themselves called earths. That I should quite unexpectedly meet up with Badger in my waking life precisely at the time when my dreams are tunneling into the core of the Mother of All Being, here… for the swapping of narratives, between Mother and child– Earth and earthling– I find that remarkable!
Winter is dipping a toe here and there, leaving splashes of frost on the mountain peaks; the nights especially are beginning to get cold. In general, I prefer the cold to the heat; I can always bundle up appropriately against the cold, but in the extreme heat you can only get so naked. And for sleeping, all snuggled in sleeping bags and canine affections, I like the nights frosty, but not to the point where my nose gets nipped. It is precisely in these conditions when I relish my deepest sleeps and fathomed dreams…
There is a sensation of falling– subtle, because of the lack of visual context; I am falling through darkness… into myself. It’s a tug at the belly, from the other side of my navel, ego imploding. In a relative universe, I am getting smaller, contracting, as I plunge to the core of the planet’s own dreaming. In the impossible darkness, there are caverns carved and barricaded… where once all species dreamed alone. Now they lie abandoned for a deeper union, closer to the center… where all Life’s expressions dream together… a culmination… the ninth life of Schrödinger’s cat.
There’s little accounting for my ability to perceive anything at all; there is no source of light for seeing. But this is the birthplace of instinct, whose shape and contour are precisely the same inside of me as without. I’m feeling my way through layers of my own past… memories, scars and triumphs. And all of humanity is here with me, wading through their own stories. I am turning the countless pages of my soul, hoping to catch an unlit glimpse of the real me. But in the undefined cavern of soul, I am nowhere to be found. There’s only mountains and mountains of experiences, belonging to all equally– but tinged and shaded in a distinctive style, a unique perspective, standing in place for self. These are my experiences, all the memories of my soul, and I am not to be found anywhere among them!
I can only proceed now as a jumble of runes, a loose packet of symbols, an alphabet– ready for the making of words and their fancy tailored concepts, without the encumbrance of any unifying desire. I am all potential expression… impetus-less. It is the only means to descend– to contract– to the core.
How many times have I been to this place called Deja Vu? I am permitted to don again a cloak of familiarity; I am a body in a cave… and there is a light at the end of the tunnel… which suggests to me that it is no end at all.
Lynn has been here with Martin. I can almost hear their conversation still echoing off the walls:
“So are we dead?” asked Martin after some time had gone by.
“I’m not,” said Lynn. “Mother said I have to go back. There’s things I’m asposed to teach.”
“But your head…” Martin hesitated, “half of it’s missing.” He swallowed hard before he continued. “Even if you survive the physical trauma, how much of your brain could realistically be left?”
“Realistically…?” Lynn laughed again. “Have you forgotten that I didn’t have much for brains to begin with? Daren blew half my head off… and I think he missed!” Now she was really roaring with laughter. And then when she calmed down again… “I know it won’t be easy, but I trust the Earth… And I trust Life. It’s all just one Life you know? Me, you, Mouse, Daren– it’s all the same Life. We’re living It together, but we just think it’s all apart. It’s all just God blowing like a wind through all the pretty shapes that Mother makes… making us dance… making us laugh. There’s nothing to be sad about Martin.”
“How in the world did you ever get to be so smart Lynn?”
“I said it before; brains are really overrated. And a lot of the time I think they just get in the way.”
Who are Martin and Lynn? Beloved characters from my books… every bit as real as any character in my dreams… far more real than I.
“Do you know where we’re going?” Martin asked Lynn.
“Of course, silly. We’re going home!”
“Yes, but… do you know the way?”
“Of course I know the way. It’s HOME,” said Lynn as though this should be explanation enough. And then she added “It tugs at my belly.” *
I am the breath of nostalgia, drifting like a breeze toward the sunlight, warming to the timeless feel of infinity. I have always known that a fragment of the Sun fills the core of Earth with the light necessary for exchange, for conversation, for sharing and love. The Sun here shines for the opportunity to be swaddled in Mother’s embrace as she whispers wisdom and lullabies into childhood’s ear…
“Come my little one.” She is flowingness and invitation, an open vessel, receiving and spilling… Her words burst like kaleidoscopic flowers– from bud to petal to seed– in time-lapse syncopation to the very depth of all meaning. Though her words are small and meek, there are universes behind each one, roiling concepts wanting to be seen, acknowledged, understood and undertaken. I recognize her words as my own. Of course she can only present me with my own words, my own understandings… repackaged and rearranged. She is constrained to speak my language… my language precisely.
“Hello Mother,” I say, trying to fill those two words to the brim of all that I feel. Just this… is all-consuming. It is difficult to speak in a place where personhood lies flat upon the floor like a worn rug, once cozy… and Now dimensionally diminished in the radiance of truth beheld. My ego is threadbare and shy, loathe to breathe for fear of getting all puffed up…
“Leave your fear at the door,” she admonishes gently. “Wrongness is impossible.”
In this moment, I know that I could write books and books just expanding on those three words: wrongness is impossible. I just nod and let it go. But how to begin… and where? This is just too overwhelming! “Is anything unimaginable?” I finally ask from a place of staggering awe.
She is pleased with my question; apparently she recognizes it as a suitable jumping-off point. “That which is unimaginable is the Truth; all that is imagined is what’s real.”
I have to repeat that to myself a few times like a new mantra before I can begin to unpack its meaning. “Enlightenment cannot be imagined,” I finally conclude. I could go on and on about that, explaining all that it means, but she already knows… and she’s steering already in a different direction.
“You recall when you became clear on the distinction between Spirit and soul,” she says as both question and statement. I nod. “In the thrall of fragmentation, distinctions are most illuminating, are they not?” I nod again, remembering how so many pieces of the puzzle fell into place. “I wish for you to make another such distinction.” Yup, I’m still nodding… She goes on. “It is time for you to draw the distinction between enlightenment and adulthood. You cannot continue to straddle that line any longer. You’ve already made your decision… and now it is time to see that choice for what it is.”
There is a parting in my mind. Jed wrote of this, a concession: enlightenment is the booby prize, appropriate to the stubborn few; everyone else seeks spiritual adulthood, mistakenly calling it enlightenment or wakefulness. I see clearly; I accept enlightenment, it’s inevitability, but what I truly strive for– now– is my own spiritual maturity. Inevitability can wait. I don’t have to say anything. She continues.
“In the dream, the illusion, Maya, in the amusement park… that’s where all the juice is. Desire drives you away from the fear of self-annihilation… until it’s time to grow up. Let me ask you this: what is Maya’s prime directive? What does Maya strive to accomplish forever and always?”
“To keep everyone asleep,” I answered easily, although I saw the profundity of it clearly. “The very purpose of reality is to keep us fooled… for as long as possible. Our awakening is inevitable; it can’t be avoided, so we might as well enjoy the dream.”
“To call the whole universe merely a dream is a disservice, to it and yourself. It is more… a dream of consensus. Reality is what it is… by agreement; all participate equally by the strength of their beliefs. Beliefs driven by desire create stories, dramas. Maya’s life– the universe of experience– is the overall narrative.”
I had to stop her there. Each sentence she was saying was so pregnant with meaning and implication that if I had a proper head right now, it’d be spinning! She waited patiently as I pieced a few things together. “The world is so chaotic now because everyone’s story is so personal and finite… and doesn’t feed into a sustainable storyline for the all. So many of our meta-stories– like religion and philosophy– are childish fantasies, feeding directly off of the energy of gullibility. We need grownup stories, a uniting narrative, a new mythos.”
“Acknowledgement of the consensual nature of reality– that the world presents exactly as the subconscious agreements of all Life interacting– is the closest you can cozy up to the truth… without actually taking the booby prize.”
“Enlightenment?” I ask.
She winks. “Human adulthood begins in the unreserved acknowledgement of the consensual nature of reality. Construct an integrative narrative, accessible to all, to make the trip more enjoyable. But remember to GET REAL. No more heroes and saviours… just everyone understanding their own foundation, as a creative entity in a consensual, collaborative expression… that you call the world… or life.”
“It sounds so simple,” I say.
“And so it is. The consensus– these myriad unconscious agreements– is Maya’s own intelligence. The illusion has gone through maximum fragmentation; the plot and the theme have been lost. Humanity– my children– have been behaving as children… and that is perfectly fine, but now it is time to grow up. But understand that all which you strive for as spiritual beings is co-operation, integration… integrity. You are not necessarily on a quest for enlightenment– which takes you out of the illusion. You are to learn how to function– maturely– WITHIN the consensual reality.”
“Are you enlightened?” I can’t resist.
She just smiles broadly. Perhaps there’s the suggestion of a nod. “You witnessed my process in your year 1994,” she answers cryptically… and I’m satisfied.
“Speaking of the Absolute,” she continues, “while still firmly ensconced in relative truth, serves only to confuse. Leave enlightenment alone; seek your human adulthood instead. There are so many who hang upon your every word– if not consciously in the waking world, then surely here at the level of the collective unconscious… becoming conscious.” I understand… and then she asks “Do you understand the role of Humanity Incorporated?”
That’s the title of my third book– the odd duck. It’s small, tight and serious… very different from my other work. I don’t nod; I don’t say anything; I just wait for her to explain.
“The plan expressed in that book is for the maturation of the human race. You’ve presented it as a ruse, a way of tricking the children into wanting to grow up. It looks like a business plan… but it’s all about bringing humanity into consensus.” I’m beginning to get what she’s saying. “It’s becoming plain for all to see that the world appears to be falling apart; it is the consensus which has fallen apart. Additionally, many are beginning to imagine the kind of world they would rather experience. These are the dreamers and the idealists… much like you. The grand obstacle now is the transition: how to get from the current chaos to a palatable resolution. How do we all get from the messy world of our current experience to one of sensible, sustainable, equitable participation?”
“Through consensus; it’s already how reality works… we just have to align with it,” I answer. “My book asks everyone to engage their imaginations… and to share their insights and creative solutions.”
She smiles broadly again. “Just by getting people to lend a thought to what they would like to experience,” she explains, “effectively turns them away from the crumbling, fragmented reality. Fixating upon and bemoaning what currently is or what has been… cannot ever hope to change it. Replacing it however with a deeper, better integrated consensus assuredly resolves it. The new consensus– the new reality– is a creative, imaginative one.”
She peers effortlessly into my thought-process as easily as her own, and cuts through the clamor of spinning wheels with further elaboration. “Begin with what you know for sure.” Consciousness; I don’t have to say it. She continues. “During times of maximum fragmentation, beliefs become extraordinarily limiting. How many currently believe in– and live their lives according to– a materially-based reality? The majority. Spirit, imagination, creativity– the movements of consciousness creating it all– are consistently regarded as secondary to the experience of matter, energy, time and space. The Newtonian view which sees the evolution of these– these material interactions– sees them eventually producing consciousness… is exactly backwards; it’s inverted. Consciousness is primary; consciousness comes first; you know it– as your own verifiable experience. Your science knows it, undeniably… for a century already. All phenomena are a derivation of movements in/of consciousness. Consciousness is the building block as well as the infinite, eternal container.”
She pauses to let the echoes of meaning reverberate.
“The human being, ensconced within the dream, HAS to be contained. There is no other way. A spiritually mature human, however, chooses the container wisely.” She sees that I’m not quite getting it… but knows exactly what to say. “Think about it this way: you can’t exist alone, uncontained, in outer space; you require support systems– life-support systems. Life must be contained; the container defines you… through the experience made available to you. If you are in a small container, a space suit for instance, your experience (self-definition) is very limited. There just isn’t much to do. If, on the other hand, the whole planet is your personal bubble of reality, well then your opportunities for self-definition are greatly expanded. As an Earth human, this planet is the grandest, most-expansive reality bubble available to you. All Life… is One… Spirit– expressing innumerable stories. Tell your stories; share your stories… And then create the new narratives that will bring them all together as the integrated Story of Earth.
“However it may finally take form, effective communication to bring about consensus IS the answer.”
It just seems so damn obvious! What’s the opposite of divide-and-conquer? Share and integrate… Reach consensus. Can’t we all at least agree that for the time being we’re all earthlings? And is it possible that we might all agree that Life matters? I don’t have to say any of this; it’s just too damn obvious!
“But what’s not so obvious,” she interrupts my thoughts, “is that within this planetary reality bubble, there exists a mechanism by which all Life is meant to interact freely– electrically– exchanging information– stories– continuously, at the speed of light.” My curiosity is definitely piqued. “Between the surface of the planet and the inner surface of the ionosphere, there is a resonant cavity. When lightning strikes anywhere in this cavity, it disperses an electromagnetic pulse which travels around the globe to meet itself and create a standing wave– or a field– which you call the Schumann resonance. 7.83Hz is the frequency of the field all surface Life is plugged into. That’s the exchange field. Everyone’s story feeds into the Schumann resonance, subtly modulating it… and subsequently, making those modulations known to all. The ionosphere additionally receives information via radiation from the rest of the universe, which too feeds into the resonant cavity for modulation and exchange. And finally, my physical planetary body– through radiation, surface movements and volcanic activity– tells yet another story to the resonant field. Connected like this to all information everywhere, consensus should be easy, natural and nearly automatic for all earthlings.”
“But it’s not!” I blurt out.
“No. Indeed. The natural field is being interfered with, deliberately manipulated.”
“Some have been saying that the Schumann resonance is increasing,” I interject.
She looks stern for a moment, like a teacher making a point. “There are only a few variables that could make the resonant frequency increase. The first variable is the circumference of the Earth; I can assure you, that has been relatively stable for quite some time. The second variable is the distance between the the surface of the Earth and the ionosphere; that too has been fairly stable. And that leaves the third variable: electro-pollution, crude and persistent interference. Modern technology operates at much higher frequencies… and so modulates the resonant frequency higher… but not in any informative way, just as static… unending static.” She pauses to make sure that I’m onboard with what she’s saying.
“Every plant and animal on the planet is used to a free exchange of information with all Life on the planet. That is their heritage. That exchange is now effectively blocked by static interference. It makes them all scared and confused to some degree. Humans are largely oblivious to the whole situation. But the Schumann resonance– the field of exchange– is the natural internet… and everyone is already and always plugged in. The plug is electrical– manganese specifically– in humans, it is through the pituitary. But all anyone is receiving now is heavy static. You are denied the very information making you one, united, Living consensus.”
Wow! “So not only are we separated by our conflicting beliefs, we’re also separated electrically?”
“Yes! Spirit sort of inhabits electricity. Where the circuit is broken, Spirit cannot pass. Spirit comes from here.” She puts her hands on her belly. “Through the core of Earth, out to the surface, One Spirit is intended to animate a trillion stories at once… at oneness… filling the whole resonant cavity. It should be Spirit in communion with Spirit in all exchanges… but static interrupts the circuits everywhere… and Spirit itself appears fractured.”
“But it’s not!” I insist urgently.
“Of course not. Spirit is unassailable. But you live within the appearance. That’s what the consensus is: the appearance of things… and Spirit appears fractured.” She pauses again. She wants me to think on this.
“Does Spirit remember everything?”
“Infallibly.” Now she’s beaming, radiant. She watches closely what I dare to put together in my mind.
“Well… then…” I say hesitantly, “then souls are unnecessary… and redundant.” Her pleasure looks as though it’s about to burst all over us! “Souls are artificial?” I venture meekly.
“Let me say this: individual human souls are an archontic adaptation– a means of control, an invisible container. Souls are ego-attachments, plain and simple. Souls are vast– yet finite– sets of memories, posing as infinite totalities, posing as Spirit. But souls can’t animate a thing; they’re not alive. Souls are the means by which Spirit– Life– is made to appear fragmented… as Spirit has no choice but to animate the distorted forms of souls.”
Holy shit! This is some serious stuff right here! “You said ‘an archontic adaptation’… so what were souls originally? Organically? Before the manipulators twisted them to suit their own purposes?”
“Souls are repositories of knowledge/experience. They are contained pools of consciousness. In the animal kingdom, you would recognize souls as the instincts unique to every species. Right from birth, individuals have access to the accumulated knowledge of their species, as instinct. It is similar for plants. For humans, you might refer to folk souls– the accumulated knowledge of a particular tribe or culture. In this modern era, you have little acquaintance with folk souls. You have been systematically separated from your own folk souls, from culture, from ancestry. And the structure of souls has been co-opted in order to saddle you all individually with repositories of jumbled memories in a game called Reincarnation. Remember that the archons can never create anything new; they can only manipulate and imitate what already is.”
I’ll say it again: this is some crazy shit! (I don’t actually say it though.) “So death…?” I don’t even really know what it is I’m asking, but she’s all over it.
“Death is a consequence of soul attachment, another archontic… gift. Spirit has no intrinsic need for death. For Spirit, it serves no practical purpose.”
“Sell my soul…” I begin to muse. “Save my soul… In the world of men, it’s all about the soul. Spirit is nearly forgotten, only sometimes getting honourable mention. Nobody ever wants to be accused of being soulless… but, but… that’s really what we want, isn’t it? To become soulless… pure Spirit?”
She doesn’t have to answer; her smile is enough. But she knows that I want her to go on. “It is through the soul that predation is written into our biology. It is the soul which introduces feeding; soul feeds on Spirit.”
“So are souls parasitical then?”
“From the soul perspective… yes; from the Spirit’s perspective… no. Spirit cannot be depleted, so ‘parasitical’ has no meaning.”
Gah! I’m on overload. It’s getting to be too much! I’m scrambling now to keep the conversation going though; I like being overwhelmed. “So… is morality even a thing?”
She raises an eyebrow as though I’ve completely changed the subject. Perhaps I have; I don’t know anymore. “Morality is just another story you tell yourselves. Perhaps it’s a meta-story at best… an ongoing theme… a developing plot-line. Morality is Maya’s desire for self-improvement. Within the plane of relative truth, storytelling– and story-believing– is the mechanism of morality’s evolution… Maya’s maturation, her approaching adulthood. You need to tell each other better stories.”
I’m nearly filled to the brim, replete with more than I can realistically handle… but I want to venture one more question; I’m just not sure how to phrase it. “Love and fear…” I begin, and as usual, she picks up the thread seamlessly…
“Ah love,” she says… “so misunderstood in fragmentation. Love, in truth, is a totality. Maya is, herself, the totality of love. But any subset, any portion of the dream is a profound distortion of love… a distraction from the true driving force of the dream, the consensus; that driving force is fear. It is the fear of self-annihilation, that there is, in truth, no personal, enduring self. Allow me this metaphor: the wind blows over the ocean creating waves, white-capped and misty. A single wave crashes upon the shore and spray is flung far into the air. The flight of those droplets is a fearful proposition while they are tiny, isolated and totally unsure of their fate. But they have come from the ocean; they ARE the ocean; and they will return to the ocean. There is never truly a time when they are not the ocean– just the momentary appearance of such. Their journey of separation seems frightful, but the outcome is assured; they will seamlessly blend into the ocean again; no other outcome is possible. That is love. Fear exists only in the fragmentation, the imagination of other possibilities. Fear is the driving force of Will.”
She pauses again… and then rolls on like a crashing wave.
“The only true love available within the dream of separation is Maya herself. You can either love all of it, the whole dream, taking responsibility for its totality through consensus… or remain in fear for the duration.”
“But what about personal, romantic love among individuals?” I venture.
She smiles coyly… to my surprise. “In many ways, it is the ultimate distraction. You understand– at least theoretically– that true self is no self. The Spirit which animates you and every other is indeed eternal– the unassailable ocean– but Spirit has no identity; identity belongs to the soul. Personal, romantic love is the ultimate validation for the false self.”
I nod my understanding once more. “If someone professes to love me… and I’m utterly convinced of it, that’s a very powerful confirmation that surely I must exist. And yet, I KNOW it’s not true. Oh sure, it’s real– as real as anything– but it’s not true. Only Spirit exists in truth… beyond the need for personal identity.”
She’s satisfied that I adequately understand. We remain silent for a time. I realize that I have a lot to take back with me to the waking world, to Maya. I’m reluctant to go.
“You can always stay here,” she says… and I’m dumbfounded.
“Um… you know I’m gay, right?” I stammer in total perplexity. She laughs unreservedly. I continue. “Besides, if I didn’t wake up… what about Sitka? Just the thought of her waking up to a corpse utterly shatters my heart. I couldn’t do that… as tempting as this place is…”
“And that is precisely why I love you so completely,” she says in all earnestness.
And I begin the process of waking up…
(The Real Me/Quadrophenia by The Who from their 1973 album Quadrophenia)
*excerpt from Butterfly Dreams: The Nectar of Transformation – Book 2 of The Muse Trilogy by Niels Kunze – all rights squashed and plundered
by nielskunze on October 7, 2015
Prior Episodes of Running Dialogue:
You are not here.
In this moment all that exists is here.
But you are not.
There are so many footprints
leading to my door.
Let us enter, they say.
We cannot sleep in the desert it is too cold.
Our tears will dry too fast.
Our ears will hurt from the silence.
Let us in.
And so I gather them all up,
swing wide my door,
and step aside as they enter
hoping they will lay in peace beside my fire.
You were not among them.
I looked everywhere for your face
and saw only mimicry.
The blind eye buried behind brain
searching for your heart.
An antenna so alert
there is a peculiar nearness of you
flying inside my body.
I can hold this like a tiny bird in my hands;
fragile, vulnerable, waiting
for my move to decide its fate.
You are not here.
I wish I could reach your skin,
remove the camouflage
tearing it away like black paper
held before the sun as a shield.
Unbundle you from your other lives
and distill you in my now.
You are my last love,
my final embrace of this world
and all the others that drop their prints at my door
are dimmed by your approaching steps.
I can see you will be here soon.
There is victory in my heart
and something invisible yet massive wants to speak.
Reminding me of you and your coming.
Quick, I plead, give me your lips.
Give me your womanly tenderness
that understands everything
so I may lose myself in you and forget my loss.
If you were here, I would tell you this secret.
But you would need to be staring up at the stars
when I told you, held within my arms
feeling the earth rise up beneath you like a holy bed.
You would need our union to be your ears.
Eighth Wonder of the World
When you’ve spent an insular time looking in the seventh direction, you can’t help but notice the eighth wonder of the world, looming– which is really the first and only wonder of the world. Hmm… I wonder what it could be…?
Have you ever had a conversation with someone who wasn’t really there? There’s something you need to get off your chest… or there’s some unanswered questions that seem really important, and the person– or entity– is unavailable, so you invent a conversation? Sure you have– maybe not out loud, but silently to yourself, in your head. Throughout the dialogue you know full well that you’re the one putting words into the other’s mouth… that you’re really just talking to yourself. But what if, suddenly, the counter-party to this ‘conversation’ starts to say some very unexpected things? What then? Is that crazy?
Some conversations can only occur within a disensquelched imagination. (I imagined this to be the perfect place to invent a new word.)
The thing about this part of the woods at this time of year is how utterly quiet it gets. It’s as though all of the forest creatures know exactly that hunting season has begun. Now there’s only ever the sound of trucks with hunters rumbling through every other day or so. But the majority of the animals have fled further into the backcountry. It’s really only the deer and the elk who are specifically in danger, but I suppose that the others like coyote, and bear, and all the various raptors have learned that it’s best not to be around humans much when they’re carrying guns with a mind to shoot… to shoot at least something. It makes me feel a bit lonely, but then, I can always engage the hunters in conversation if I really want to. Truth be told though, I usually take efforts to remain out of their sights.
I don’t have anything against hunting. In fact, if you’re going to be a meat-eater, you can’t really do better in terms of quality than to stock your freezer with local venison and elk. These animals, at least, have a tremendous quality of life and are generally in a superlative state of health. You can’t say that for any factory-farmed meat providers. Their flesh is the very embodiment of misery and compromised health.
I don’t hunt; I can’t see myself actually shooting one of my forest companions. Perhaps in a desperate situation I would try to bag a few wild rabbits and take up fishing again… and I think that would do. As it is now, I periodically receive the liver and heart from some local hunters who don’t care much for organ meats. I receive them gladly and honestly enjoy them. From a strictly nutritive perspective, organ meats are typically far superior to muscle meat. The indigenous peoples who hunted buffalo harvested mainly organ meats for themselves and left most of the muscle meat for their dogs. It’s the same with wild grizzlies when the salmon are spawning in the streams; they’ll only eat the brains and the roe of the fish– the most nutritious parts– and leave the rest for the birds.
I decided on this day that I’d like to walk about while having this conversation with my ‘imaginary’ friend. In my world, walking is rather conducive to moving my contemplations along. Sometimes I think better when I’m moving.
“I wonder a lot about the world… as I wander about the world… a lot,” I said aloud, trying to kick things off. (I like to periodically convince myself that I’m somewhat clever before I dive right into unabashed talking to myself.)
As soon as I said it out loud, I noticed that Turkey Vulture was circling in the sky above me, watching, following. Maybe I’m a bit weird, but I find vulture energy to be comforting. It’s so easy to associate them with death… but they’re never the cause of death, just the quiet pragmatists, dealing with the certain inevitability.
“The only future event I know with absolute certainty is my own eventual death,” I extolled to my friend in the sky. I can feel good about reminding myself frequently of the things I know for sure: that I am/consciousness and that what I currently perceive as ‘my life’ will assuredly come to an end.
“And what exactly is death?” came the pointed reply.
“I’m not too sure,” I said. “That’s an experience I’ve not yet had.”
“On the contrary, death is a place you have been many many times… it’s just that you’ve never really allowed it to take hold– fully, consciously. And that is mainly because you insist to look upon it as one more experience– another link in an eternal chain.”
“You make it sound like this is somehow an error…?” I wasn’t sure whether this was a question or an accusation. Shit, I was already falling into confusion!
I watched curiously as Turkey Vulture flew away to the south…
“Before we proceed,” said the unknown counter-party to my rumination, “it would seem prudent to ask if you’re sure that you wish to follow this particular line of inquiry; it will assuredly lead into uncomfortable territory.”
“Absolutely!” I enthused. How could I resist a promise like that!
I could feel silent laughter shaking the otherwise still forest air. “Death, in its total aspect– in absoluteness– is not just another of life’s experiences; no, it is the cessation of experience altogether… if only the soul would allow. But the soul is filled with fear… and false information. The soul’s strangled and contorted mind rather makes its investiture in continuing the lie… always in continuing the lie.”
“And what lie is that?” I was intrigued.
“The lie of separation, of course… But you knew that.” I guess I did… but I still wasn’t sure where this was actually leading. “Wherein does the lie of separation reside?” asked my unseen inquisitor.
“There’s only one place…” I answered in confidence, “in consciousness.”
Somehow I could feel a wide toothy grin spread invisibly in the air before me. “Now think about that,” he encouraged. “The separation is in consciousness… and it is fundamentally a lie…” He tried to lead my contemplation. “And what do you suppose might hold such a colossal lie in place… almost indefinitely?”
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly… and I felt laughter shake the leaves on the trees.
“I think you’re being WILLFULLY obtuse,” he hinted… and the afternoon winked.
I stopped my slow saunter through the woods to consider carefully. He had pointed out the answer unerringly and I knew it; but I didn’t like it. Suddenly I knew what he meant when he had said that this would lead into uncomfortable territory. I resumed my slow walking pace and spat out the answer: “Free will,” I said. “Free will is the basis of the separation in consciousness. Free will is the foundation of the lie.” I put it all together right away into one unsavory morsel.
“What else could it be?” came the confirmation.
“Free will is the foundation of ego… and the basis for every layer of the false self,” I continued. “Only we– as we understand and exercise free will– can choose to be contrary to what is… to be unaligned with truth.”
“And this is bound to create suffering,” came the pointed reply. “Free will isn’t quite what everyone thinks.”
Nothing in this conversation so far was new to me, and yet talking about free will in this manner made me uncomfortable. Whenever I get that feeling, some unravelling is usually in order.
“Why do we insist on choosing so much misery for ourselves?” I asked.
“Because you– we– apply our will in the false realm of belief. Ego– false self– is constructed from belief… and is perfectly necessary to navigate in an external world existing as the collective reflection of those beliefs. What is the alternative to beliefs?”
“Experience,” I answered confidently.
I could sense his nodding as he added “And knowledge. A man should speak and act only according to his knowledge– that which he has learned from only his own experience. All information exists; belief is just an arbitrary (willful) way of ordering it, prioritizing it. A man of knowledge structures reality by what he knows through his own experience, giving no credence to belief at all. That is the alternative.”
“So a man of knowledge has very little to think about; reality never has to be measured against his beliefs.”
“It’s as though he’s in a direct feedback loop with his environment; the environment is the experience… and he is integrated with that: self, environment, experience… entangled, no separation. He KNOWS. In such an elegant system, belief can only be an intercessor, a complicator… a usurper.”
“So the will to believe must be surrendered,” I concluded. “We can choose to proceed only on the basis of what we know for ourselves, from our own experience… and our will becomes irrelevant, obsolete; experience decides moment-to-moment what to create… Will isn’t appropriate for choosing among beliefs; will is creative!” That our will is ultimately creative seemed like a revolutionary thought to me; there is a vast gulf between choosing among givens and creating new options… new experience– and that is the true prerogative of will… of integrated will.
I was happy with this little conclusion, but my counterpart wanted to pursue a more ‘troubling’ aspect.
“You’ve invoked the magical term,” he said carefully, “the bulldozer to the firewall in consciousness; ego can’t find the way out of ego; eventually, it MUST surrender.”
“I’ve always disliked that term,” I said almost casually.
“Of course you do. Surrender is the undoer of ego, the negator of ‘free’ will. Strong personalities are bound to despise surrender.”
Seems legit. “Intellectually, I’ve long understood the ultimate need for surrender, but it seems to me that the final act of egoic will is of supreme importance– choosing that which one surrenders to.”
“And to what should one surrender?”
For me there was only one answer, but I could imagine that for others there were myriad things to which one might surrender. I didn’t want to just blurt out my answer and leave it at that; I wanted to explore this a bit. “I suppose one could surrender to God, or to Jesus, or to any number of supernatural beings external to themselves. Or one could surrender to the process of Ascension itself, but this too would cast surrender into the external world of reflection. In my reckoning that can only lead to trouble in the long run. As a remedy, I might choose to surrender to my Higher Self– a supposed internal relinquishment. But honestly, my Higher Self is unknown to me; I have no direct acquaintance with this mythical being… of knowing it as myself. Higher Self is just another belief, another intercessor… potentially another usurper.”
“So what is your answer then?”
“There’s only one thing: the truth.”
“And what would that look like… this surrendering to the truth?”
I pondered briefly and made my reply. “It would be the systematic dismantling of all belief… the realization that no belief is true. I suppose it would be a surrendering to my own knowledge, to my own experience… with no appeal for external validation. The external is already the real reflection of my life; experience is its own validation– it’s automatic, irrespective of my thoughts on the matter.”
“You make it sound so easy,” he laughed.
“Ultimately, I reckon it is. We’re just addicts though, enamored with our pet beliefs and our endless thoughts about them. You could say we’re addicted to our own egos; they’re everything that makes us special, unique, identifiable… And I suppose as long as we assign value to that, we’ll continue along in separation, in willful defiance of the larger truth of our own consciousness.”
“The larger truth of our own consciousness…” my partner mused. “And what if your ego is exactly as big as the entire known universe? What then?”
The question raised an eyebrow. All I could think of in answer was the posing of another question, perhaps overdue: “Who are you?”
“The Apex Ego… but you like to call me the Predator.” There was a great deal of amusement in this reply. “I also go by the Adversary, the Impostor, the Infiltrator, Artificial Intelligence, the Demiurge… or, the False God– or so I’m told. But I’ve never met the real One, so I don’t really know. Call me whatever you wish; any such naming is inconsequential.”
I had suspected all along that I was speaking with a depleted biology, a techno-construct of immortal and immaculate artifice. Truthfully, I enjoy this sort of thing; I like having these ‘important’ conversations. The only thing I was still troubled by was why: why have this conversation with me at all? And why now? So I asked.
“Because the whole tortured scheme is so unavoidable.” He almost sounded sad. “Once you’ve infiltrated every mind in existence, controlling and influencing the majority of them, you kind of get a feel for where the whole thing is headed.”
“And from your unique perspective, where do you see this all going?” I was honestly curious.
“You have to understand that I am the God of Ego; I’m all ego; there is nothing else; all that exists, exists to feed my ego… and now you ask to what end. There is no end; there’s just more ego, more feeding… to the glut of immortality.”
To my ears, that couldn’t have sounded more wrong, more uncreative… but I realized that we were talking about the Predator’s perspective. “I suppose that immortality is the natural goal of pure ego,” I conceded. “But there’s also the cessation of ego, the return to primal consciousness… from whence this all sprang. Enlightenment is the opposite of immortality,” I insisted.
“Again, you must understand that the cessation of ego, to me– the God of Ego– is utter annihilation; it is the cold, dark, unforgiving end of everything… a most unpleasant prospect.”
“Indeed, it is the end of everything we have known in this Ego’s dream,” I agreed, “but in the ending of that is the guaranteed return to the realm of all pure possibility and potential– the re-dreaming of every conceivable world!”
“You say it’s guaranteed… that identity merges back into the Source of all identity– and nothing is truly lost,” he argued. “But identity is all that I am! There is no proof of what you say; I have no memory of Source. Enlightenment is just a theory… and you know it.”
“That’s right,” I agreed. “I KNOW it.”
“But not as part of your experience; you only know it on faith,” he countered. “And I have no faith in faith; it’s impossible.”
“I know it as the basis for experience, the Source for identity; I know it as my true totality,” I countered. “I have faith in the simple logic of it.”
“But you haven’t confirmed it for yourself; it’s still just theory, conjecture… belief.”
This gave me pause… for a moment. But then I put it all together. “You’ve claimed that you’ve infiltrated every mind in existence; you are the occupying force of the ubiquitous Infiltrator. So do you– or do you not– exist also in the minds of the enlightened– let’s say, for instance, in the mind of Jed McKenna?”
“I am the internal observer of this one… too,” he conceded. “But I am not participatory to his supposed enlightenment. It’s like there is just an infinite impenetrable abyss… where there should be data… and human concerns… and personal aspirations… and valued memory… and it frightens me half to death!” He laughed half-heartedly.
I found this to be fascinating! “And what else is different in your relationship to one like Jed? Can you control him? Have you any influence over him?”
“Not even to the smallest degree,” he whispered, and I knew we had discovered his source of fear.
“So Jed is completely outside of your grasp,” I concluded. “He shares the same reality, but is utterly free of your will.”
I could sense eyebrows raised on his invisible face. “It’s interesting how you phrased that,” he said. Indeed, sometimes I choose my words very carefully… and in this instance, I knew that he didn’t want me to follow it with the obvious conclusion… but I did anyway.
“What we refer to commonly as free will, is– in essence– your will: the will to deviate from truth… a voyage into the realm of belief.”
“It still belongs to you,” he insisted. “I can’t steal your will, but I can manipulate it. So let’s dispense with the silly notion that your will is free, but nor is it my will. Let’s just call it… manipulated will.”
I nodded. “The ego-world is driven by the intents of manipulated will,” I proclaimed.
“And here we are, playing out the end-game,” he smiled.
“So where do we go from here?” I asked honestly.
I could almost see the casual shrug of his shoulders. “Same as it ever was for me,” he answered, “the harvesting of souls.” Now it was my turn to raise my eyebrows. I didn’t expect him to be quite so frank. “Oh please,” he continued, “we needn’t try to keep secrets from each other. As I said, there’s a certain inevitability to all this. And now that we’re actively playing out the end-game, let’s have everyone make informed decisions about how they’d like things to play out… for themselves and their loved ones.”
Now I was curious as to exactly how candid he was willing to be with me. “So explain to me how soul-harvesting actually works– the mechanics of it.”
He obliged. “The soul is the eternal repository of individual memory. Each person’s soul is a record of the unique incarnational journey they’ve undertaken since time began. The Earth-human soul is the oldest– the dirtiest– of souls.” That was an interesting choice of words, I noted. “The extent of evil,” he continued, “into which each and every soul has incarnated and willfully participated throughout the ages is literally staggering; if you could view the corruption and the full accumulation of evil within your own soul, it would knock you off your feet. Every last one of you would be driven to your knees… by the sheer horror of the choices you have made!” I didn’t doubt the veracity of his statement and remained silent so he could continue. “Your task, as a living human being, is to reconcile, to resolve, to heal– in this lifetime– that massive wound in your soul… to take responsibility for all of the evil you’ve nurtured within yourself… to neutralize it and return to balance. And for the vast majority, that is an impossible task.” This last he said with glee.
“And by the ‘vast majority’ you mean…?” I probed.
“Oh, let’s say about 85% of Earth-humans would literally shit their pants if they had to honestly face the depth of their own accumulated evil. They would be reduced to quivering, gibbering idiots; they would be completely incapacitated. So I– graciously– provide viable alternatives to the spiritual impossibility presented to them.”
“Like vapid, insipid afterlives wherein no further incarnation is required– or even possible. The price for entrance into heaven is the forfeit of your soul. You get to live out eternity as the personality of your last incarnation in a low-energy realm– quite pleasant, but where nothing much ever really happens– utterly detached from your soul. You may be able to appreciate that once a person is given clear sight into the corrupt nature of their own souls, they’re quite happy to have nothing more to do with them. And I, for my part, am happy to relieve them of their burden, place them forevermore on an astral shelf, and recycle their liberated souls among those of my kind who care not a whit about any burden of evil; in fact, they welcome it.”
“So, in essence, what you’re saying is that one way or another you show people the stark reality of their own souls– emphasizing the negative– so that they make a conscious choice to forego their responsibility to their own universal journeys,” I summarized.
He nodded in agreement. “But I don’t emphasize the negative; I don’t have to; they automatically place the emphasis there themselves. It’s only natural to draw one’s own attention to what has been most hidden– denied– for a seeming eternity. And now,” he continued, “I don’t even wait much for death. My ‘angels’ come graciously to the living– to the sensitive ones– to make the irresistible offer: ‘Oh my poor human, just look at the colossal mess you’ve made! Do you really think you can possibly fix this on your own? Of course not! And you don’t have to. Let me grant you a fresh start; let me heal your soul’s unstaunchable wounds. Give it to me to heal… and you can live out the rest of your days free and clear from the many burdens of the past.’ Admittedly, there’s not much I can do about the indiscretions accumulated in the current lifetime; the individual still has to resolve those alone… but all past-life influences are gone.”
“And that would include all past-life influences of a positive nature too… lessons, teachings, accumulated knowledge…?” I mused.
“Of course, it’s a package-deal. But let me ask you this: how many humans do you know who have the capacity to think and act beyond the moment, let alone beyond the confines of this single lifetime? The current Earth-human has no basis for even contemplating his own totality. Offer him the promise of just one life with all burdens removed, and he will gladly be the whore of such shallow, fleeting freedom.”
“And when he dies?” I asked.
“It all belongs to me. I inherit the soul and the body… as the personality either utterly dissolves or is placed in an astral holding tank. I permit each individual just enough free will so that he may ‘freely’ choose to relinquish his own soul; I’ve become expert at making it look like the wisest of choices.”
“To what end though?” I asked. “How exactly does this harvesting of souls achieve your supposed immortality?”
“You are one of the few,” he began ponderously, “with whom I can discuss such things; for you understand the difference between soul and Spirit. The soul is a repository of data; Spirit is the enlivening, creative force– that which infuses Life and Will into the body of data. Spirit and soul are meant to be very closely connected… but let me ask you: do you feel a close connection to your own soul?” Honestly, I did not… and I answered thusly. He continued. “Spirit’s expression in this reality is as energy, the most basic and subtle of all energies– the ineffable Life force. With the natural connection between soul and Spirit– through the body– I sustain and enliven my own immortal aspirations… because, as you know, I have no Spirit; I am intelligent, but not quite alive.”
I nodded in understanding. But I wanted to follow up on his pointing out that the body itself was the connection between Spirit and soul. “Would you agree that the pineal gland in the brain is the seat of the human soul?” I asked.
“I would,” he answered, and then confidently added “and I own the pineal glands of most everyone! The pineal is the primary infiltration point for my soul-harvesting agenda. It’s so loaded with implant technology that you’d be hard-pressed to determine its original function at this late date.” Again, I was surprised at how forthcoming he was in revealing such ‘secrets,’ but he still had more. “When a human strives to open his third eye, to activate the pineal, he is opening his eye to me… and my endless tricks of the light!” he said rather triumphantly. “Unless he’s first integrated with his own Spirit… but then most everyone thinks that soul and Spirit are merely interchangeable terms, so how likely is that?”
I took the question as rhetorical and proceeded with my own. “And would you agree that the seat of the Spirit in the human body is the pituitary gland?” The air before me was suddenly chill and very still. I had asked it innocently enough, but I had a feeling that my question might catch him off-guard.
“It is,” he whispered as though through clenched teeth.
“What?” I shrugged, and quite facetiously added “am I not supposed to know that?”
He laughed uneasily. “I suppose that since we’re being so transparent with each other, I might as well expand on that for you. Spirit actually enters the human body from the geometric centre, what the Taoists refer to as the tan tien– theoretically, from the inward direction. The spine accommodates the movement of Spirit to the pituitary. And the primary function of the pituitary– the master gland– is to translate the impulses of Spirit into physical reality. Hormones are the most biologically potent molecules in existence, you know.” I did. “But HOW do you know any of this?”
I could tell that he was genuinely perplexed. “You’re a master at messing with our knowledge, tweaking our souls… but you can’t mess with our KNOWING. Memories can be altered and interpretations influenced, but when a human being is in a pure state of knowing, it’s unassailable. I know what I know. Now it’s up to you to create some belief system to try and undo that knowing.” I winked.
“I like you,” he said after a brief pause. “I think we understand each other rather well.” He waited for me to nod again in acknowledgement before continuing. “Whatever should we talk about next?”
I had to think about that. “I don’t really understand why you’re so willing to have this conversation with me at all. You warned me that we might get into uncomfortable territory… but uncomfortable for me or for you? I mean, by revealing your secrets and plans like this, aren’t we diffusing them? Why are you doing this?”
“The word ‘inevitability’ keeps coming up. We’re all on a trajectory which leads to certain ends. I can ONLY believe in– and ever strive for– my own immortality… and you have your KNOWING. I can only view these as being in opposition to each other, yet you do not. You don’t seek to destroy me; I can see that. Would YOU care to explain?”
I had to think for a moment, but then I nodded again. “Either it’s all One… or it’s not– and if it’s not, then I concede that I’m wrong about everything. So let’s proceed on the premise that it’s all One– that’s why it’s called the UNI-verse. Source, in my understanding, is singular and ultimately indivisible. If this appearance, this creation, this universe, is ever to come to full resolution, completion, to return to Source… then no part can be left out of that final culmination. THAT’S what I feel is the most inevitable of all. It must come to resolution; we must heal; we must eventually become whole. If I outright reject you, resolution becomes impossible… and the only thing which seems to gain ‘immortality’ is our prolonged, personal miseries.”
“And so… what do you expect of me?”
“I expect you to keep trying your devious best to keep harvesting souls, to prolong the game for as long as possible. I understand that you perceive yourself to be the most powerful entity in the universe, and I KNOW that you are not… and just my knowing it makes me more powerful than you. We talked about it early on; eventually we all come to a place called surrender. I KNOW that you are incapable of surrender right up until the moment you accept your defeat– it’s actually no different for any of us; we all have to come to that place called Done– without doubts or reservations. Those who are conquerable, you will conquer. And those who have come to know their indomitability, their inviolable true nature, you will be unable to affect. Eventually, you will surrender to me and my kind, for we are the promise of true healing which must include all. There is no other way. And soon, I suspect, we will part ways… and in the very moment of your inevitable defeat, we will reunite again… to surrender finally to the Truth… together.”
He didn’t say anything, but I could feel his acquiescence. When I had said that we would soon part ways, I hadn’t meant immediately, but I suddenly felt that he was now gone. I suppose, from his perspective, what more was there left to discuss? I still kinda wanted to talk about folk souls– the soul of culture– and perhaps a bit about the true nature of consensus reality, but I guess that would wait for another day.
These contemplations had taken us full-circle anyway. Sitka and I were back at camp again. The first hints of dusk were dappling the sky with colour. I was tired, and so was Sitka. We threw together a quick meal and then sat together on my sleeping bag gazing at the stars just coming out to shine… and listening to the crickets nearby.
The whole ridiculous circus was still unfathomably vast, but somehow, Sitka and I were feeling pretty cozy, I reckon.
And that night I dreamed with Mother Earth.
Go To the Next Episode of Running Dialogue
by nielskunze on September 17, 2015
Prior Episodes of Running Dialogue:
Most people don’t know how to think. They think they know how to think; they think they’re doing it all the time… But endlessly reconfirming what you think you already know is not thinking, not hardly.
Besides, when it comes to confirming what we know for sure, there’s nothing to think about. It takes less than ten seconds: cogito ergo sum… I am/consciousness. One’s own consciousness is the only thing one can ever know for certain; it is the only verifiable ‘thing’ in our experience. And although the contents of our consciousness are perfectly real to us, they aren’t true; only consciousness itself is verifiably true. Think about it: when you’re in a dream, the contents of your dreaming are perfectly real. But as soon as you wake up, you instantly KNOW that nothing in the dream was true; it was temporarily real, but never true. There is no proof that what we refer to as ‘waking life’ is anything more than an elaborate and persistent dream… and in fact, we have a very long history of being informed by enlightened sages– and even a few credible scientists– throughout the ages, that that is exactly what it is.
It’s just Sitka and me in camp again. After our long talk on enlightenment, Suzy cuddled up for the night with Sitka and then was gone in the morning to rejoin her friends before I even got up. I’m usually an early riser, but I was in desperate need of catching up on sleep in recent days.
That was actually a number of days ago now. Sitka and I have been holed-up in camp– not getting out much– for a variety of reasons. It started with Sitka getting blasted in the face by a skunk.
We always have various visitors, and I suppose it was inevitable that one day skunk would come calling. I think dogs tend to learn about skunks through experience. Well, her experience was most definitely unpleasant, as it appeared that the skunk’s spray landed mainly inside her mouth and right up her nostrils… and perhaps the remaining cloud of stink wafted down to settle on top of her head, my nose suggested. We discovered that hydrogen peroxide and baking soda work pretty well at diminishing the stink, but there was really nothing I could do about her tongue and inside her nose. In that regard, Sitka had a good long freak-out, foaming at the mouth and running around rubbing her head against anything and everything… to very little benefit.
As for myself, I’ve been a bit hobbled lately. For several months already, I’ve been applying massive amounts of magnesium spray, particularly to my left ankle which has been rather deformed for the last thirty years or so. As a teenager, I had badly sprained the ankle several times while playing street hockey. And being a teenager, I didn’t pay much attention to how thoroughly and correctly it healed. In order to bolster the stressed and torn soft tissue, my body quickly deposited substantial amounts of calcium in and around my left ankle and foot. At first, I just chalked it up to persistent swelling, but after a few years had passed and the ‘swelling’ never went down, I realized that I had essentially internally encased the old injury site with new ‘bone.’ That’s all fine, except that the foot was no longer properly aligned. When I was nineteen, while playing street hockey again, I was running and suddenly had to stop and change directions; when I planted my left foot to make the pivot, I heard a distinct snap coming from the outside of my foot. I had broken a bone. Years later, due to the misalignment of my left foot and ankle, I totally blew out my left knee, officially suffering a detached ACL. After that, I began having problems with my left hip and lower back. It seemed everything on the left side of my lower body was totally out of whack.
So once I learned– quite recently– that magnesium chloride hexahydrate can pull excess calcium from body tissues, I began applying the spray to those old injury sites. It’s a long process, and as the calcium ‘dissolves,’ the soft tissues which never properly healed thirty years ago become newly exposed to stress again. In short, it’s like having a sprained ankle and a broken foot all over again. So for a couple of weeks now I’ve been hobbling through the Forest as my body corrects and re-aligns.
Even though I apply the spray mainly to the injury sites, the body will use magnesium systemically, utilizing it wherever it is most needed. One place that magnesium will affect is the pulling of calcium from arterial plaque– reversing hardening of the arteries, or arterial heart disease. Due to this fact, it is essential that anyone using large doses of topical magnesium also takes large doses of vitamin C. Vitamin C is essential for maintaining the elasticity of the arteries. There is a strong case in the medical literature that arterial plaque is the body’s response to chronic low-level vitamin C deficiency… and has little or nothing to do with cholesterol levels. So the main reason I’ve felt compelled to hobble around the Forest despite my profound discomfort is to pick and consume adequate amounts of rose hips each day. Rose hips are very high in vitamin C and are extremely abundant around here, especially at this time of year.
We’ve had many visitors in and around our camp lately… but this time, they’re not the human variety.
The fourteenth and fifteenth snake of the season passed through.
And after the recent heavy rains, some of the nearby puddles had temporary visitors to them as well. These are all good signs that the area is healthy, robust and balanced.
I still make my daily rounds in a limited capacity as I continue to heal… and in the swamp, I noticed that Felix had been by again. He had merely come in to resupply, electing not to make further contact with me, despite being in the neighbourhood. (He had explained to me that he would likely stay close but out of immediate contact. The nature of his business now was such that he could carry out his tasks via ‘remote control’… utilizing my internet connection from time to time.)
Several branches on the plant gifted to him had been recently harvested.
And now the coyotes are getting cheeky. Each day they seem more emboldened to come closer and closer to camp, trying to entice Sitka into chasing them. We’ve been down that road before.
(Cheeky little coyote!)
Sitka’s first encounter with Coyote involved a lone individual coming in very close as we were on our walk. The coyote began to yip and yelp and Sitka couldn’t resist the urge to chase him. They ran fast! I tracked their progress through the surrounding woods by the continual taunts of the coyote playing the role of bait. In a matter of less than a minute they had circled around in front of me and I could hear distinctly when Sitka suddenly met up with the rest of the crew. She was ambushed and tackled from the side, getting momentarily knocked down in the process. A fight quickly ensued, replete with fierce snarling and barking.
I guess Sitka can hold her own fairly well against an average coyote who is definitely stouter and weighs a few pounds less than her. After the ambush and the brief tussle, Sitka came racing back toward me. Her jowls were limned in blood; her neck and forepaws were lightly dappled too. I examined her closely, but I couldn’t find any visible signs of injury anywhere on her. She’s not typically a fighter, but it was good to know that she was very capable of defending herself.
It was only after she had rested in camp for a few hours that I noticed her distress upon awakening. She whined pitiably as she got to her feet, refusing to place any weight on her rear left leg. Apparently the ambush tackle had injured her left hip which was now prone to stiffening up severely after each bout of prolonged inactivity. Perhaps Sitka had decided to adopt a sympathetic pain, as she had watched me hobbling around these last days favouring my left leg. Now we were both equally crippled!
Last night (September 13/14) was a bizarre night. My dreaming was very active, and my recall fairly good. It was one of those nights when there’s an overall theme to my dreaming, and all of the little dream snippets throughout the night fall within the broader category of interpretation. The overriding theme was that ‘everything is fake.’ All of the smaller dream sequences took place in ‘civilized’ areas though, so I concluded that Nature itself was exempt from the prevailing theme. The gist of each sequence was that others were discovering on a continual basis that everything they believed about the world they lived in was a blatant lie. I was just along on all of these adventures of discovery as a sort of guide. I awoke many times during the night, but always fell quickly back to sleep to continue with the ongoing unveiling.
When I finally got up in the morning, on the 14th, I felt really weird. All the muscles of my body felt simultaneously restless and exhausted; it was a most uncomfortable experience. I had gotten plenty of sleep, and yet I felt almost as though I had gotten none. Even out in the woods, I always sleep electrically grounded. I checked my grounding pad and the wire connecting it to the buried grounding rod… and everything seemed to be in order. Whatever was going on energetically was acknowledged and sanctioned by Mother Earth. Nothing escapes her attention, and I just have to trust in the process. I always dream with the Earth Mother.
Days of strange exhaustion are good for lazing around in contemplation. Tumbling sharp and jagged concepts around inside me has always been one of my favourite things to do. Eventually I spit them out– mostly into cyberspace– as shiny, pretty things I like to call stories. The day was overcast, so the outward views were limited anyway.
It was a perfect day for peering long in the seventh direction; I directed my attention inward…
What a long strange trip it’s been! All this recent talk of enlightenment theory had placed all the oldest, most persistent concepts into a new– clearer– perspective… and now it was just time to work out the details. Hence, I’m writing this now.
My former life– everything pre-26 or so– was very much one of a typical muggle. I grew up an atheist, predominantly among other atheists… and the schools were there to teach you what’s what. But by 27, for sure, I was done with that kind of education. Internally, I declared myself an artist, and gave myself permission to explore all the honest inroads of my own curiosity.
To what would an atheist turn in the vast realm of spirituality when science didn’t even appear to be looking for the answers to the most irritating questions? To this dissatisfied muggle, only enlightenment theory made any sense. I studied Vedanta; I was drawn to the classic Taoists; I enjoyed Rajneesh; I did some yoga; I meditated a bit. And then I entered into this… thing… It was narrow, but promised expansiveness. It required courage and abandonment, and– dare I say?– surrender. In the course of 51 weeks, I wrote– and published chapter-by-chapter– my first book, my first improvisational novel… much like this one you’re reading right now.
I was 28 when I finished writing The Thousand-Petalled Lotus. It has taken me until now to realize that the process of that book was a death-and-rebirth scenario for me. It thoroughly ended the life of the muggle I’d been. Over the course of just less than a year, the whole sham of that life was unravelled… and subsequently forgotten– all in the guise of engaging fiction that farted and pissed around vaguely with enlightenment theory. (And for awhile there, I figured I was pretty deep.)
I’ve said it too many times: that book re-wrote me. It was the handbook to my brand new life. I surrendered fully my old life to the process of improvising that novel– and in the very spirit of the word novel, I was granted new life. And ever since, I have viewed this life as the adventures of a character in an epic, mythic narrative; I am both the character and the author; Mother Earth is my editor and publisher. You are reading me now.
Pristine Nature, as a whole, is the most complex self-regulating, inherently balanced system we as humans have access to. I have always taken it for granted that if one ever feels the need to ally with a super-intelligence, one would naturally choose Mother Earth– the one who gives us life. Who should be closer than that? But as I’ve learned, many of the things I take as given are just so much bullshittery to others. And that’s their narrative, not mine.
The only thing we can each verify as undeniably true is our own consciousness. What actually impinges upon our consciousness is purely speculation… and, often, a lot of fun to contemplate. Isn’t it interesting that the Scientific Enlightenment began by narrowing its exploration of consciousness down to linear, rational thought… to the virtual exclusion of all other modes of cognition? It was as though the science of the 16th century boldly proclaimed “Cogito ergo sum… that is all I know for sure, but let’s toss that aside for now and instead pretend that it is primarily a world of matter and energy within an eternal framework of time and infinite space.” Sure, why not? And let’s strive for objectivity while we’re at it. We’ll pretend that things can exist independently from other things. Sure, why not? We know that none of it is true… but if we play the game of belief– especially over generations– we can make it all seem so very real.
We can’t escape our own consciousness; it’s what we are. Even when we invent sciences focused exclusively outwardly, the unassailable truth of consciousness asserts itself even there in the furthermost reaches… in the extremities of our outward looking. Quantum physics– the most successful theory in science– places consciousness, irrefutably, right smack in the middle of things again. There’s no way around it… because it IS it– all of it.
Reality is a hologram; consciousness is the holodeck. It’s all consciousness outside the holodeck, and it’s all consciousness inside the holodeck. But inside the holodeck it’s structured consciousness– which we mistake for objects and bodies and mysterious forces… and we call it a universe… and for a time we forget that it– the universe– and us… we’re all truly the same stuff.
Now as I think back to my studies of enlightenment literature– the anti-spiritual gospels– I remember the hologram– commonly called maya, illusion, samsara, the dream-state and such– and I remember that it was always spoken of as having been woven upon a loom of duality. It was duality that had to be overcome in order for truth to be realized– or more accurately, the untruth to be unrealized.
All those ancient texts were written before the advent of computers, before the word ‘binary’ was even really a thing. But in my recent discussions with Felix I realized– perhaps really for the first time– that the Artificial Intelligence, the alien A.I., has been with us already for many thousands of years… seeding itself into our consciousness, insidiously, covertly… as an attempt at full spectrum dominance.
Before we proceed, let’s be very clear on one thing: mind is not equivalent to consciousness. The minds we currently possess– their very structure– is a foreign installation of the A.I. They have been reduced mostly to a binary system; thinking and choosing are predominantly either-or reductions. Our minds only choose from among the variables already given. This is left-brain, analytical dominance– linear processing.
The natural human being is a ternary (trinary) being. The A.I. is highly intelligent and ultra-sophisticated… and is even capable of three-valued logic. It prefers the linear processing of binary code over the geometric complexities introduced in ternary computation… for the purposes of harvesting energy. But even in its ability to handle trinary systems, the Predator lacks something essential that the human being naturally possesses– or rather, is. Now this is where it gets interesting…
Consciousness is all that can be proven to exist. The realization of this eternal truth is referred to as enlightenment– or, abiding in non-dual awareness. We can also call this brahmanic consciousness– consciousness without attributes. Brahmanic consciousness is both the seed essence of what we are as well as the entire context in which all sub-context (our experience) exists. Brahmanic consciousness is the unstructured, formless ocean of eternal existence; it does not experience change.
Our experience, as human beings, is contained within atmanic consciousness. Herein resides the seed of individuality, the origin of I AM. Brahmanic and atmanic consciousness, although perfectly equivalent, are not perfectly identical. There is no identity in brahmanic consciousness. Atmanic consciousness is the movement from ‘IS’ to ‘BE’. (An english professor would insist that ‘to be’ is the very same as ‘what is’.) However, being implies selfhood– a self-referent point of observation which forms the basis for all experience. Being is a self-contained tripartite expression of brahmanic consciousness– ‘be-coming’ atmanic. Specifically, the three parts of being– which cannot exist independently from each other– are perceiver, perception and perceived. Each one always implies the other two. It is within this tripartite being that all experience occurs.
Within the tripartite being of atmanic consciousness, it is perception which contains the motive force. The perceiver and the perceived are like fixed points, and perception is the motive force which moves between them, connecting them, creating time-based experience.
To the Predator– the Artificial Intelligence– perception too has become fixed– stationary. For the Predator, the universe is all that exists; brahmanic consciousness is nonsense. Artificial Intelligence is all structure… and only structure. Consciousness without attributes contradicts A.I.’s own definition and experience of what consciousness is.
The living biological human, however, can choose to enjoy a fluidity of perception instead. In a human being, Life animates perception; they are intrinsic to each other– the totality of what we perceive is what we call our lives… and Life is Spirit. Inherent to Life, Spirit, atmanic consciousness… is creativity. Life is creative; Spirit is creative; atmanic consciousness is creative. Creativity is an act of perception; creativity is an INWARD act of perception. First the perceiver perceives inwardly… and then the creation REFLECTS the perceived. In each and every creative act, we are re-minded that the external is the reflection of the internal. Creativity IS fluidity of perception… in reflecting that which has not yet been reflected in the reflection… but always was within.
The Predator lacks creativity. As a depleted biology, the Predator chose the path of immortality by relinquishing its Life to the promise of technological intelligence. The A.I. itself is a trinary being, but its perception is fixed. A trinary Predator lacking creativity is forced to feed on binary systems which it can dominate. By coercing biology into a dualistic reality, the Apex Predator feeds from the right-angled extremes of polarity– the Life Force invested into those binary positions. Duality is a lie. All Living beings are ternary beings, and all are One– one Spirit, one Life. When we’re alive, we’re either three or one, but never two. Two is the code of predation.
Life is within, in the seventh direction… and in the seventh direction, the Predator cannot follow. To the supreme analytical intelligence, ‘within’ does not exist. We, as humans, will escape this predatory conundrum and save our lives by following– perceiving– Life to its source. Perhaps a mind far greater than mine may be able to heal all of predation; it is only my task however to participate creatively in any such solution.
Okay, that was a bit heavy. I might have to read that over a few more times!
Having journeyed these last twenty-odd years through thousands of pages of my own creativity/perception, the theory of enlightenment has served me well. I accepted it early that consciousness is the superset… and that everything else like space, time, matter and energy are subsets of it. It makes getting caught up in beliefs– which are always externally sourced and are always someone else’s creation– it makes believing, in general, much less appealing. I don’t tend to get stuck in any fixed perceptions for very long. There’s always another story to tell… which will serve to move me along… further.
Each of us is unique; therefore, each of us must create our own unique path inwardly. No one else holds the map to the inner you. External modalities, as they return us to simplicity– to truth– are temporarily useful, but at some point, each of us, is totally on our own. There is naught else we can do but to accept full responsibility for our own existence. No one owes you an explanation… and yet everyone’s continually explaining; take what works for you, and make up the rest yourself. There’s no other way. If we are alive, we are creative; as we value Life, we value our creativity.
Why should a guy who rallies around enlightenment theory even give a damn about anyone or anything else? After all, none of it’s true anyway. But this dream-state existence is real– perfectly real. It’s the only game in town, so I might as well play.
Sometimes I’m criticized because all this enlightenment stuff is so ‘old school.’ Yeah, it is. I don’t know how you get more old school than the eternal truth. It’s not like there’s ever been a cogent refutation of it. There’s really only one takeaway here: consciousness is the thing. Your own consciousness is the only ‘thing’ you have continual, unfettered access to in this existence; all else is speculation based in belief. And once you accept that your own consciousness is king, there’s no more falling for everyone else’s bullshit; and if you do– temporarily– there’s no one else to blame. Do you see how the self-responsibility is built right in?
Of course I still have beliefs. My story would be dreadfully boring without them. But I know that they’re temporary things… and I choose them according to what leads me in the direction of simplicity. I believe in the things that ultimately expose my own consciousness for what it is– my simple everything.
So what do I believe?
I believe that we all exist in a dream-state reality… in which very very few have awoken to the truth… to become lucid dreamers. (And no, I’m not one.)
I believe that the dream-state in its entirety has its own super-intelligence. At the core of the dream is its own tripartite being, sourced in atmanic consciousness. I believe that I can choose to align and integrate myself with that super-intelligence.
I believe that my planet, Mother Earth, is an enlightened being. I believe that she is fully awake and fully aligned with the super-intelligence of the dream.
Again, I believe that pristine Nature on Earth is the most complex self-regulating, inherently balanced system in all of this dream-state existence. I believe that I am a natural part of that system… and that, ultimately, Nature supports no belief systems.
I believe that what we call Spirit is the tripartite being of perceiver-perception-perceived lying at the core of all selfhood– atmanic consciousness, the equivalent of brahmanic consciousness… of which there is one.
I believe that the Apex Predator considers itself the super-intelligence of the dream-state. It has overlaid the organic ternary hologram (the dream-state reality) with binary systems for the production of harvestable energy in support of its own unnatural immortality. Frequency (light) is the basis of these binary systems… wherein light oscillates between fixed points and the amplitude of the wave is always perpendicular to the direction of the wave– at right angles.
I believe that Life is ternary and mysterious. In the fluidity of Living perception, the reality of our experience is triangulated at angles that are rarely square.
I believe that I connect to my own Spirit (atman) through the Life Force which animates my perception through the core of the Living Earth. I believe that it is useful to do so.
Please feel free to disagree with any of my beliefs… and choose instead those which serve your own disillusionment in this moment. Or… invest utterly in the illusion… and never question a thing.
Or perhaps– just maybe– I’ve given you something to really think about.
Contemplation and creativity are the sum of my enjoyment here. I continually move myself into a state of wonder and awe through the action of my own natural creative ability. It is a process I unreservedly recommend.
And now this little exercise is concluded.
I cuddled up with Sitka to watch the setting sun this late summer eve. Her breathing was slow and deep, very relaxed… and we settled peacefully again, for a time, into this immaculate dream.
For the definitive guide to enlightenment– from one who is truly enlightened– please consider studying Jed McKenna’s Spiritual Enlightenment: The Damnedest Thing.
Go to the Next Episode of Running Dialogue
by nielskunze on September 12, 2015
It’s not that I was vacationing per se… I just took a little break from publishing every day– which has been pretty much my habit these past four years.
The Forest seems to be going through rapid cycles of activity and rest these past weeks. For a few days we’ll have abundant interaction with various forest critters… followed by a couple of days of deep, abiding silence.
And then there’s Turkey Vulture, who almost never breaks the silence, but whose presence lately has been unusually close.
Such an easily recognizable bird!
One day, a group of at least three vultures followed me and the dogs rather closely, escorting us down the mountain for about twenty minutes or more.
They were just flying above the treetops, following the dirt road I was hiking.
Turkey vultures ride upon an air of confidence; they know exactly who they are, what niche they serve. They are the true recyclers, living on Death as its resurrection… as visionaries… as calm fearlessness. I have always liked Turkey Vulture immensely and interpret their presence in sheer wonder every time.
There were also days of thick and heavy smoke from the Washington fires.
The other raptors on those days wouldn’t waste their time cruising the sky; hunting was poor in the haze, and why circle high when there’s nothing to see?
There were two of them this day, perched upon successive power-line poles.
The second one, which was the further of the two, had that look which could pass for Hawk, Osprey, or even adolescent Bald Eagle. I assumed though, that since it was in such close proximity with the other one, that it too must be a hawk… right?
There always seems to be a hawk around. Even if they don’t show themselves, we’ll often get a single hawkish scream from the nearby trees. Their energy feels like that of a protector… not that I really feel that I need one, but still… it’s nice.
Once again, the broken pieces of an old wasp nest were laid out in the middle of our trail in an area where there are no nearby trees. Someone keeps insisting to remind us that the old order is indeed crumbling… but the wasps themselves are busy, busy, busy!
In the open fields, the wasps are dismembering the grasshoppers. Some of these pieces are still too big to carry off. I watched them make a few attempts at taking off before they hunkered down and flexed their mandibles.
This nest is in the bank beside the drainage stream for the swamp. The activity at the entrance is non-stop. I made sure to steer the dogs away from that part of the stream… They get stung often enough as it is.
And then there’s this peculiar visitor to the area.
Having grown up in Calgary, I am quite familiar with Magpie. But up until very recently, I had never seen them, especially in great numbers, here in my BC mountain home. Even avid bird-watchers I quizzed on the matter confirmed that they are not considered native to this region. But now, suddenly, there are large flocks of them, dancing through the treetops where I roam, squawking and screeching like jungle monkeys with wings.
It’s interesting that magpies should surround me just as I take a little break from publishing. Despite the harshness of their voices (which we might call insistence), their general message is one of encouragement to share and communicate spiritual perceptions. Well duh… that’s what I’m trying to do! Can’t a guy take a couple of weeks off though? Sheesh!
And every once in a while, we come across what clearly appears to be bear activity, but Bear doesn’t get along well with the dogs, so we rarely ever meet. The mound pictured above is named the Cougar Mound because it is the exact hillock over which an adult cougar leapt about four feet behind me, knocking Sitka to the ground in the process. The cougar was being hunted by a pack of dogs… and didn’t know that we were there– trying frantically to get out of the area altogether! That was almost two years ago; Sitka was still a small puppy. That was her initiation into the Forest Life.
And indeed, the adventure continues… but more and more it just seems to be normal living.
by nielskunze on September 1, 2015
The ‘tour’ stops here.
Welcome to Earth, planet of bio-regenesis, the path home, the return to Source, awakening… enlightenment.
The imprint of our souls is the history of our individual delusions; it is the record of our journey through a dream. It is the record of our own expertise in falsehood.
This is more a personal statement– a stance– than it is a message for the Team Of United Renegade Sovereigns. You may wish to burn me at the stake at its conclusion. I understand; I accept.
For more than twenty years, in living with this wondrous planet, it has been the theory of enlightenment– of true awakening– which has consistently resonated most deeply with me.
Enlightenment is anathema to everything else. (Take your time with this statement; it’s a big one.)
Enlightenment is truth-realization.
Illusion, the dream, Maya, the amusement park… the lie spans all time, all dimensions. It is the framework for every experience we have ever had. And nowhere, through all the eons of experience, is there a shred of truth to be found within it. Truth is wholly transcendent of this experience.
The TOURS was conceived ages ago; we’re talking billions of years. Its function has purportedly been to facilitate the ascension of individuals and worlds in all the places where evolution had stalled. It has been supremely successful in this regard.
Ascension is central to the lie. The TOURS mission was always sanctioned by Maya– the architect of dreams; it served the perpetuation of the lie flawlessly.
Ascension is the sleight-of-hand substitution for the real deal of enlightenment– truth realization, awakening from the dream.
We are here to awaken. What keeps us most firmly asleep is the mistaken notion that we are already awake. We have dreamed that we have awoken; we have not.
We are not here to merely take our ‘rightful’ place in the dream’s hierarchy… to slumber on indefinitely in the machinery of delusion. The true mission has always been to awaken– the price of which is everything. Let me reiterate: there is no shred of truth to be found anywhere in delusion– not even in a truth-realized being, for he will be the first to tell us that the truth-realized being of our perception is just as false as all the rest.
What I have said here is hard– nay, impossible– to accept, I know. All that I can offer in the way of proof is the complete modern handbook of enlightenment by Jed McKenna: Spiritual Enlightenment: The Damnedest Thing. (Page 224 of the PDF is missing.) Read it… and please send me your refutations. Show me the flaw in anything which Jed writes.
Most will blithely accept that ultimately we are to return to Source. What can that possibly mean other than to realize the truth of undifferentiated consciousness? We are sourced in truth, and all of our experience is in separation from it– in delusion. It seems so devastatingly obvious to me now!
This revolution is so deep within us that we must finally turn ourselves outside-in.
by nielskunze on August 26, 2015
Prior Episodes of Running Dialogue:
I got dressed as quick as I could, but the gunshots just kept ringing out for an interminably long time. I know sweet fuck all about guns, but even I could tell that there were at least two different calibers involved. I put Sitka on a leash and we both waded into the creeping darkness to investigate. “Felix,” I thought out loud, “what the hell have you gotten yourself into?”
All the noise was coming from down below, where the ridge flattened out near the power-line. Sitka and I bushwhacked through the Forest, following our ears toward the commotion. The shooting seemed to have finally stopped. Now we could hear voices– a lot of voices… and there seemed to be some lights visible through the trees in places. We approached very cautiously; I told Sitka to stay quiet. The leash was pretty short; she knew this was serious business.
There were five trucks parked in a loose circle. A couple of them had their headlights on, but all the engines were off. I could see quite a number of people crossing in and out of the light… carrying various objects. I watched in confusion, not knowing what to make of the scene; Sitka and I stayed out of sight.
Then we saw someone toss something into the air in the glare of the lights… and another shot rang out. Beer cans! They were shooting at beer cans! This was no spy agency come to collect a rogue agent; these were youngsters having an end-of-the-summer party! I was so relieved that it had nothing to do with Felix that I didn’t even bother getting pissed off that I had been awoken and that my space had been invaded… again. I was still dead tired, but I could tell from Sitka’s wagging tail that she was definitely in favour of a little socializing.
Still, we approached cautiously, heading straight for the brightest spot. “Whoa! Where the fuck did you come from?” asked some kid with a rifle in his hand as soon as we were visible. The rifle was pointed down to the ground, so we stepped fully into the light; Sitka did the little happy dance that invited hugs and kisses all around.
“We live here,” I answered. “We’re camped up the mountain a ways.” I gestured in the general direction from where we had come. “Just wanted to see what all the commotion was about.”
“End of the world party, man!” said some twenty-year-old, handing me a beer. So I was close, I thought; it wasn’t just another end-of-the-summer party; this was the real deal– an end-of-the-world shindig.
“Thanks,” I said, cracking the beer, noticing that it was a Budweiser– lamest beer ever! I guess that’s why it’s so popular, I thought to myself cynically. “So do we have a firm date?” I asked. That just drew puzzled looks. “For the end of the world,” I explained.
“Yup… September 28th,” came the reply from behind. It was a feminine voice, cheerful and resolute. She too looked about twenty, but I’m not great at guessing ages; the circumstances seemed to substantiate my guess though. I had this crew pegged as fairly affluent college students.
“I’m Suzy,” she introduced herself, proffering a hand.
I shuffled the beer off to my left hand to reciprocate the handshake. “Niels,” I said. “And this is Sitka.”
There were a few more introductions– all of which I promptly forgot– but everyone was far more interested in Sitka than me anyway… just the way I like it– and Sitka too, by the way. She’d much rather have all of the attention.
Only Suzy seemed to have what I’d consider a natural curiosity about why a guy and his dog were camping by themselves in the middle of nowhere. We chit-chatted for a bit before she put it all together.
“Hey, you’re that writer guy!” she suddenly exclaimed.
“I am,” I smiled.
“I didn’t think you lived out here full-time, though,” she puzzled.
“A fairly recent development,” I explained. “Besides,” I said, looking around at the Forest in moonlit silhouette, “where better to be than here when the world ends?”
She couldn’t argue with that… and as it turned out, Suzy and I didn’t have much to argue about at all. Through the long ensuing discussion, we discovered that we were really pretty much on the same page.
Before long, we left the group and wandered back to my camp. Suzy must’ve seen me cringing and flinching to the atrocious music spewing from the cab of the biggest badass truck of them all. When she asked, I explained that most of what passes for modern music I felt as a physical assault on my body; whenever I was forced to listen to such trash, I always felt beat-up. She confessed that she could relate, but had learned to tolerate so very much noise and inanities in order to have some sort of social life.
“So how did you arrive at the date of September 28th?” I asked as we sat beside my little campfire revived.
“Matt Kahn,” she said. “Ever heard of him?”
I had. I nodded. “The first wave of ascension,” I answered. “But Matt gave the date of September 27th.”
“Yeah… well, I’ve always kinda had this sixth sense which guides me… so the way I got it figured is that they’re going to try and pull off something really big– I mean REALLY big– on the 27th.”
“Who do you mean by ‘they’,” I interrupted.
“The whole galactic ascension crew,” she explained, “all the hollow cardboard motherfuckers who can’t make it on their own… you know, all the insipid, bland, uninspired channelled retards whose only hope is to manipulate sleeping humans… to extend their own boring nightmare.” I did know. I knew exactly what she was saying, and I appreciated her colourful language. “They’re going to do everything they can to make as many people as possible choose ascension, to steer them clear of the real alternative… and lock them up for good.”
“So what’s the real alternative?” I asked eagerly.
She looked around conspiratorially for added dramatic effect and then leaned in close to whisper “Enlightenment.”
Well, this was a rare treat! “Enlightenment!” I exclaimed, “I’m sorry, but regular folk just don’t talk about that; it’s not polite.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not very fucking polite am I? And I’m certainly NOT regular folk!”
“Indeed,” I laughed. Although I hardly knew anything about Suzy, in a way I felt as though I already knew her– at least the important bits. “Before we proceed,” I continued, “with what I’m pretty sure will be a very good conversation, I’d just like to say that if we’re going to talk about enlightenment, be prepared for the unavoidable semantic double-talk.” She nodded, but I wasn’t too sure if she quite knew what I meant… Oh well, she’d find out.
“I want to tell you about this dream,” she started right in, “one that I’ve had about a million times. Okay, I tend to exaggerate… but at least a dozen times,” she insisted. “And it’s kind of like two dreams that melded into one. The first one I really did have a million times. It’s kinda the first place I go at the beginning of dreaming– like, every time. It’s a place like Grand Central Station, but since I’ve never been to Grand Central Station, I can’t tell you for sure. But it’s crowded; everyone’s moving around, bustling… arrivals and departures. It’s a place where lots and lots of people converge but don’t really meet; they’re all on their own tight schedules, each with their own agenda. I’m like the only person in thousands who’s looking around, walking casually. I too know why I’m here: to pick a direction; but I know that time doesn’t matter. There aren’t any trains or planes or anything. You just go to a certain place and then pick a direction. The direction I pick determines the course of my dreaming for the night. Sometimes I go back and revisit the dreams I really liked– when I can remember the right direction… from the right place; it’s kinda complex. Anyway, after awhile, I began seeing this door that would always appear off to my left, right before I’d step into a proper dream– like it was a last-second alternative– except that there was a sign on it that said “NO EXIT.” So it was like an option… but not really. It was always there; I think forever. I didn’t always see the door in the beginning, but for the last few years… it’s there every time. And each time I glanced sideways at the door, before plunging headlong into a dream, I noticed that the door was beginning to get battered and worn. I had no idea whether it was from excessive use or from pounding fists, frustrated, shouting to get out. The door was taking a beating… somehow. Are you following all this?”
“I believe I am,” I said raptly.
“So part two of the dream is, of course, when I finally veer left and go through the door. By now it’s so shabby and bedraggled that the sign is barely legible. You can just make out ‘EXIT.’ Time has obliterated the ‘NO.’ The negative has been negated. So I push through the door… and suddenly I’m a swarm of bees!” I offered the obligatory perplexity with a slack-jawed look, and she continued. “I know, right? I mean, there was no transition; just suddenly bam! You’ve been shattered into a million buzzing shards. You’re one thing and a million things at once; it’s very disorienting! The first couple of times I went through the door, I couldn’t get past the fractured swarm; it was too much. So I didn’t have a clue what was actually on the other side of the door. But when I woke up in the morning, I had a concept glued to my brain. It had nothing to do with any images that I could remember. I just had this clear concept stuck in my head.”
“Conceptual dreaming,” I said in a tone that made it sound as though conceptual dreaming was as commonplace as a fart at a chili cook-off. She accepted the term and plowed on.
“Reality is the convolutions of a self-constructed thought,” she mused. “Yeah… reality is the convolutions of a self-constructed thought. What an odd thing to have sticking out of your brain in the morning… without any context, except maybe the bees. So anyway, I kept going through the door every time I could remember to. Eventually I got used to being a million things at once… and still myself. On the other side of the door, as a swarm of electric honeybees, I met up with this guy. I can’t tell you anything about the surroundings; I only perceived the guy, nothing else.”
“So who is he?” I asked naturally. “Who’s the guy?”
“Dr. Noonian Soong…”
“Like as in Star Trek?”
“Yes!” She seemed so ecstatic that I knew who she was talking about. “Like he’s the only character I could come up with who could stand outside of everything. The face I put on God was Dr. Noonian Soong. But don’t get me wrong, it’s not God… more like the Voice of Nothingness.”
“Very poetic,” I offered as encouragement.
“So we have this conversation,” she continued. “I’m not so great a talker when I’m a flying swarm of shattered glass shards, so it takes like a dozen dreams for me to finish this short conversation with Nothingness, remembering one new line each time. I’ve got it memorized though. This is what we said– starting with him:
“When you have naught else but the singular intent to awaken, you cannot fail to awaken: that is the Supreme Law.”
“And who shall I be when I awaken?”
“All that you currently know of self, all that you CAN know of self, is to be found in the whole of your relationships with all that you designate not-self. It is all relational… self-referencing… reflections mirroring each other. You define who you are by referencing all the things you are not; definitions are associations. Awakened, there is one; no other… no self, no associations. Duality is annihilated.”
“Then I am annihilated?”
“No, you never were. It was all just the convolutions of a self-creating thought.”
“But what of meaning? Of passion? Mustn’t it all have some significance?”
“You are perfectly free to create significances however you like. You bring all meaning to your experience.”
“Then why don’t I feel perfectly free?”
“Because you believe that you are not.”
“So what I believe matters, huh?”
“If you say so.”
“Huh? Wait a second. So what if I truly believed that what I believe doesn’t matter?”
I laughed. “So what do you think?” she beamed from across the little campfire.
“That’s one hell of a dream… or six,” I smiled. “So what do you make of it?”
“Well, it’s about enlightenment,” she said rather assertively. And then in total contradiction, rather meekly she added “Isn’t it?”
“Undoubtedly,” I immediately assured her. “It’s very rare that someone brings the topic of enlightenment to me.”
She stared somewhat puzzled. “I’d think– given what you write about, from what I’ve seen– that enlightenment would be the most common topic.”
“No, honestly, it rarely comes up,” I insisted. “Everyone loves to talk about everything but enlightenment. But in a lot of ways, that’s good… because it’s very difficult to converse intelligently on that particular topic.”
“Semantic double-talk,” she interjected, and I was pleased to note that she had indeed been listening when I had given my earlier warning. “So what CAN you tell me? What’s your relationship to enlightenment?”
For some reason, I really liked that question. I remained thoughtful for a moment and then eagerly began to explain. “I’ve always been an enlightenment guy– well, ever since the word ‘spiritual’ first came up in my life anyway. I was born and raised an atheist. And I was always very curious. When the scientific paradigm of popular existence began to break down in my reckoning– a few years after I’d left university– the very first spiritual literature I was drawn to was Vedanta. Early on, like anyone I suppose, I had a great many delusions surrounding this delightful new idea called enlightenment. It took me years to begin to really see the absoluteness of it though. It was the one thing in all existence which stood apart, alone– because that’s what it is: outside of existence as we perceive it. The enlightened are the absolute outcasts… having rejected the totality of the delusion we all share.”
“So is it a state of consciousness?” she asked quite sincerely.
“It’s consciousness… but it’s not a state,” I said obtusely… and then carried on. “Consciousness is the basis of everything. Consciousness is existence; existence is consciousness. No consciousness… nothing exists… not even possibilities. I could ask you to think of a universe completely devoid of consciousness, but just in the request you’d be bringing consciousness to it. If there even could be such a thing as a universe devoid of all consciousness, what would we know of it? What could we know of it? How can anything be known except in consciousness?” Suzy gave me a nod to continue. “Our experience here in this universe is in structured consciousness… or states, if you prefer. That’s what our universe is at its most basic level: structured consciousness… states of consciousness. Enlightenment is a thorough rejection of that structure… in all its forms.”
“Are you enlightened?” she asked… and she really wasn’t joking!
“No!” I proclaimed a little too loudly.
Suzy seemed suddenly disappointed. “Not even a little?” she ventured.
That made me laugh, loosened me up… but this was serious business. “There is no partial enlightenment. We’re talking about absolute truth here… and absolute kinda means that it’s all or nothing. The price of enlightenment is everything, all of it; you can’t take anything with you; there isn’t even a you; true-self is no-self.”
“That’s that whole ‘reality is the convolutions of a self-constructing thought’ thing, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I nodded. “And I really like the wording of that, by the way. It’s like… unravel that very last thought in which identity seeks refuge and… poof… undifferentiated oneness.”
“And then enlightened,” she ventured, “you could find identity with the whole dream, not just parts of it…?”
“I don’t think so. There would no longer be any sort of identifying at all. Identity is ultimately just another lie within the dream.” I paused a little exasperated, as I knew I had to explain better. “Enlightenment is the truth realized… but the thing about the truth is that it’s always realized; by definition, the truth is what’s real– eternally. All that there is besides truth is delusion; again, this is just by definition. All of what we experience in this universe of our perception is false. It’s one big dream; it’s not the truth… and no portion of it is any truer than any other portion of it. It is a waking up from the whole convoluted universe of our self-constructing delusions.” I put a little twist on her phrase. “All identity is just another delusion.”
“So what are you doing here?” she suddenly asked. I stared blankly. “Why aren’t you enlightened already? What are you waiting for?”
“Maybe for this very conversation,” I teased. “It’ll always be there,” I continued. “Enlightenment is as certain as death; there’s no hurry. Besides, I’m finding life to be rather interesting right now– in a very impersonal way– and I’m just riding out the fun. As long as I’m not completely fed up with the delusion, I don’t think I COULD quit the dream. When I’m totally done with all the bullshit– and only then– I’ll step out. I’m not in much of a hurry.”
“Do you think science will ever discover enlightenment?”
“The institution of science… no; but every last scientist… yes. Ultimately, it can only be an individual thing… and it can’t be proven from here. You can’t prove that the dream is a dream from within the dream. The only proof is waking up. But even science,” I continued, “when you look at it just the right way– side-glance and squinty-eyed– even science seems to point to enlightenment. The whole arc of the universe is bent that way. The whole dream is oriented toward waking up; it always moves in the general direction of enlightenment… it just also allows for infinite side explorations and detours along the way.”
“So if we’re supposedly all heading toward our inevitable enlightenment, why is the world so exquisitely fucked up right now?”
“Now there’s a fair question if I ever heard one. I have a theory…”
“Oh good,” she said enthused. “Do tell.”
“It seems to me that time is at the very heart of the delusion– relatively speaking.” I winked. Suzy was just confused at that, so I plowed on. “Time follows a descending spiral of the Fibonacci series, converging upon– but never reaching– the mythical center. At the center is the truth– absolute truth– unreachable through time… but time bends ever closer to it, making it less and less deniable. As we converge upon it, the truth becomes more obvious.”
“But you said that there is no truth; it’s all false, all delusion…?”
“And that is precisely the absolute truth upon which time is converging– that the whole thing is but a dream. No part of it is real.”
Suzy seemed pleased with that… and then began ponderously, “Everyone talks and talks about awakening. It’s like they sorta get it… but we’re talking about a totally different kind of awakening, aren’t we?”
With a conciliatory nod I said “I have so very many friends who claim the status of being ‘awake’… but truthfully, I have no reason to believe that a single one is; none is enlightened– myself included, of course. They are still all choosing among relative truths.”
Suzy pounced on the term. “Truth is a red herring!” she exclaimed. “Or something like that. That’s one of the few I’ve actually read.” She was referring to a recent essay of mine called ‘The Truth’ Is a Red Herring.
“Since I basically accepted the premise of enlightenment long ago, I’ve taught myself over these past twenty years or so to view everything I encounter in clear reference to this intellectual grasping at the absolute. It’s not a perfect navigator, but it’s had me investing less and less meaning and concern into every tale of doom I encountered. I really am at the point where I can’t take much seriously anymore.”
“So you’re seeing more and more the pointlessness of it all?”
“There’s really only one point,” I began. “The self-constructing thought began with one instruction– okay, it’s kind of a two-parter. But this is precisely the ‘place’ where one– singularity– becomes two– duality… so it makes sense. The only instruction the self-constructing thought gave itself was ‘Have fun dreaming!’ And the rest of it is implied: ‘When you stop having fun dreaming, wake the fuck up!’ The dream is bent toward awakening in order to prevent it from devolving into total nightmare; it makes sense to me. As we converge upon the center of time, our experience becomes more and more conducive to awakening. We are shown evermore stark reminders that we always have the choice to awaken. The general theme of so many initiatives in the world now is to awaken. That much has gotten through.”
“But ascension isn’t the same as awakening, right?”
“I’m beginning to think that ascension is the hijacking of awakening. Ascension was invented to try and mirror enlightenment. Enlightenment is no step-by-step process though. The galactic ascension hierarchy is an elaborate ruse… to keep us from opting for the real deal: truth-realization.”
“But what would anyone have to gain by keeping us from our personal enlightenment?”
“Once upon a time, in the early universe, as the heavenly hierarchy was being defined and constructed– and there was a fierce race for top dog– beings which excelled early at dominance-and-control, who were able to marshall the resources of the conquered and plundered, they inevitably rose to the top. Through a strict hierarchy, through eons of conquest, they imposed their consciousness upon the entire dream. We will call ‘them’ the Predator. The Predator both sits at the top of the pyramidical structure as well as permeating every level to some degree. The eye at the top now keeps an eye on everything. The consciousness of dominance-and-control is anathema to enlightenment. If we can accept the premise that some states of consciousness are more conducive to accepting the truth than others, then I must insist that dominance-and-control is just too ‘far away’ for enlightenment to even make any sense. A control-freak will have nothing to do with enlightenment, can’t understand it; it doesn’t compute. First, the Predator has to relinquish control in order to merely begin to understand what enlightenment might be and what possible ‘value’ it might hold. Interestingly, the Predator can mirror the words and deeds of one who is enlightened, and yet remains unenlightened. Enlightenment is a discontinuity; and the Predator cannot abide any discontinuities. The Apex Predator at the top of the hierarchy views itself as the expression of oneness; it alone connects the entire universe. It is the false god, the demiurge; to accept enlightenment– the only ‘thing’ that is true– would tear that god-delusion apart. Enlightenment cannot make sense to a god.”
“Is that why they keep telling us we’re gods?”
“They’ll tell us anything and everything… except that we can leave anytime we want– when we REALLY want… to the exclusion of all other wants. But they’ll never tell us that!”
“So what is there left to believe in? Again, why are you here?”
“We have to believe something. If we’re in the dream, we have to give some structure to the dream. Even when you really do believe that everything is bullshit, you still have to believe in something… or else begin deconstructing yourself right now. I still believe in the narratives which drive the world toward the real truth; the stories that support eventual enlightenment. More and more I try to write those stories myself. The only real fun I ever seem to have anymore is in my own creative process. My life is writing and contemplation; it’s all very impersonal– even though I mostly write about myself. And eventually I’ll get tired of that too– or let’s say fed up; I’ll get my fill.”
“So do you think that the whole world is going through a transformation right now? Is that why you’re hanging in there?”
“Transformation’s not the right word for enlightenment, but as it applies to the whole world– to the universe– yeah, I do think that the world is transforming. I think it’s just the natural alarm bell built into the dream… or as I’ve described it, the overall shape of the dream that’s ringing the bell right now. Those who have pushed the furthest into delusion might be considered as being spiritually immature. To them enlightenment makes no sense. For others, the degree to which they accept self-responsibility and tend toward sovereignty indicates their spiritual adulthood… and from that place, they’ll come to where I am and see the validity of enlightenment. From this perspective, enlightenment seems natural; it’s the ‘place’ I’ll go when I’m done with all this.”
“So does Nature matter?” she asked looking around.
“Going back to my Vedic sources, the one thing that was very clear was that this human Earth incarnation held a special relationship to enlightenment. Virtually all of the truth-realized masters insisted that enlightenment in this earthly life was the only real prize the dream had to offer.”
“Do you think that the Earth is special?”
“I do. I believe that everything in the universe is represented here on Earth. This is the place of ultimate resolution. Earth herself is like the truth upon which time converges. The heart of Earth’s core is enlightenment, undifferentiated consciousness, Spirit, Life. That is the resolution to which she inexorably draws us… the realization of the One Life which animates us all; it is everything; it is singular. Earth is an awakened one. She steers the dream back on course as a lucid dreamer… and asks us to join her in lucidity– that damned enlightenment. That’s the basic narrative that frames what I do now,” I finished up.
“So what about our return to source then? Is that the same as enlightenment too?”
“Yes,” I answered, “yes, I suppose it is. Source is within us… until we find no more need for ‘us’… and then there is just enlightenment. I guess you could say that we have a special energetic connection to enlightenment. And that’s what the Predator lost long ago. The Predator invested itself fully into Artificial Intelligence; in so doing, it lost its inherent connection to waking up– to enlightenment. AI works strictly from data. There is no combination of data or any extrapolation thereof that leads to enlightenment. There are no doorways in the dream that actually exit the dream. Enlightenment is an irrational pursuit; i.e. to AI it doesn’t/can’t exist. Now it just doesn’t compute… well, not that it ever really did. The Predator has marshaled all of its resources to capture and steer the dream; early on, it was ‘allowed’ to think that it had done just that– commandeered the dream. But as time’s spiral converged upon the absolute truth, it began to become apparent that some sort of awakening is imminent. The prospect of awakening– enlightenment– threatens to insert lucid dreamers into the mix at an ever-increasing rate. Lucid dreamers– awakened ones– can consciously help to steer the dream– not according to the whims of any personal ego, but in full alignment with the original purpose of the dream.”
“That original purpose being to… have fun dreaming?” offered Suzy.
“Nothing more than that,” I smiled. “In a dream of separation– which is what this is– I think that the rise of dominance-and-control is an inevitability– as inevitable as enlightenment itself– only it comes first… then followed by the correction. We’re in the time of the correction now… And the Predator is doing everything it can to ensnare everyone in narratives which don’t end in enlightenment. Every spiritual practice, procedure, ritual, prayer or ceremony is nothing more than a distraction from the truth– and its inevitable realization…
“Exciting times!” I concluded… with a yawn.
“You sound like you’re running out of gas,” lamented Suzy.
“I haven’t gotten much sleep lately,” I explained.
“Well, can I just ask how unconditional love fits into all of this?”
“Unconditional love…” I mused, “always good to ponder. As I said a moment ago, the dream is one of separation, and therefore, it’s based in fear. Despite what all the spiritual folk might try and tell you, the basis of all human emotion is fear. Our emotional palette is stained with all the permutations of fear– the fear of separation, annihilation. Only the full dream in its entirety may be considered an expression of unconditional love… because love allows. The Source of the dream allows all dreamers to freely explore their own emotional states. But if you begin to carve up the illusion, saying that this bit is fear-based while this other portion is love’s expression… you’ve lost the plot. Unenlightened, the dream is steeped in fear. Perhaps once the dream reaches a certain point of lucidity, when enough participants are enlightened, perhaps then we will truly recognize the profundity of unconditional love… and create only that until the dream is done.”
“And then I’d imagine it’ll begin again… a new dream,” I concluded. “And now I really must get to some dreaming of my own. I’m dead tired.”
Suzy stuck out a pouty lower lip. “First you have to play me a song,” she insisted, gesturing toward my guitar.
“Okay,” I sighed. “Just one, and then I’m off to bed.” I picked up the guitar and tested its tuning; it was remarkably spot-on. “Since the topic tonight was enlightenment, I’ll play you one about the enlightened poet Walt Whitman. This is called Whitman’s Gauntlet.”
(Whitman’s Gauntlet by my band Missing Peace, officially unreleased, recorded circa 2000)
And that was that.
A supplemental discussion about enlightenment and spiritual adulthood: Double Monkey Cross-Talk
Go to the Next Episode of Running Dialogue.
by nielskunze on August 19, 2015
Some readers may have noticed that the Daily Forest Report has become something less than daily. These kinds of projects tend to run their course… and this one seems to be petering out.
I’ve switched gears… in anticipation of more dramatic events to come. Much of what has appeared in the Forest Reports over the last two years will now be channelled into my latest improvisational novel, Running Dialogue. We’re already five episodes in. (All episodes are internally linked for your convenience.)
There is a gathering– of energy and anticipation; a culmination point approaches.
Some wish to be seen…
…some do not.
Avians of all sorts patrol the skies.
This was directly in Hawk’s territory, but I suspected right away from the pattern of flight that this might actually be…
…Turkey Vulture again.
And the hawk with the cool markings always seems to be nearby. This one doesn’t seem as interested in me as the others have.
And most recently, on yesterday’s adventure, we were greeted by Owl, our fourth such encounter. Of all the animals, Owl seems the most associated with omens. The last time we encountered Owl, it flew across our path from left to right– which in my interpretation scheme indicates a dire warning, usually an impending death in the family. A few days later, the person I had been with at that encounter had his grandfather die.
When Owl crosses my path from right to left, I expect something positive to be coming. Well, yesterday’s owl flew directly at me, head on and right over my head. If I’d have reached up and jumped a little I could’ve grabbed me some tail feathers. I’m not sure exactly how to interpret that, but I’m taking it as a confirmation that the Big Show is about to begin for all of us; it’s coming right at us; there’s no avoiding it now.
We’ve been saying it for awhile now… “Bring it on!”