by nielskunze on February 5, 2016
Prior Episodes of Running Dialogue:
Where I Stand Today
After a lifetime of untangling,
I stand in the vastness of freedom’s dire threat:
That self-determination will bend time’s narrow path
to open fields… brand new sunshine… and a perfectly blank canvas.
I stand barefoot, rooted,
and emotionally naked… staring into the dark abyss
of all possibility– unmeasured… unfathomed.
I stand in a fearlessness once deemed impossible;
I stand on principle and my own self-defined integrity,
Wrapped in universal lore.
I stand, chiefly, among fierce women…
For whoever would go forth into the bottomless unknown
but the Divine Feminine’s irrationally steadfast love?
She probes the darkness with intuition
and other vague motherly stirrings,
Reaching deep within unordered possibilities…
To bring a new child into our shared world.
She hands to me the strange artifacts of her creativity,
Imploring softly with her eyes
that I should bring structure and meaning
to the seedlings of this pristine world.
We stand together, Masculine and Feminine,
Her upfront, reaching within the untrammeled field,
And I behind… guarding, protecting… from our collective indiscretions–
Monsters from the past, paper tigers, feeding the flames
of this unplanned passion.
They cannot harm us Now, where we stand… Here
in the sureness of our choices going forward…
We will have this New World,
And it will stand on love and poetry
as the dirt between our toes.
Eleventh Dream of Seventh Heaven
“Felix, you’re an asshole!” I shouted for the hundredth time, poking my index finger into my left ear as though it merely needed to be unplugged.
“Yeah, you mentioned that,” answered Felix.
“I still can’t hear a damn thing out of this ear!”
“I can only say I’m sorry so many times.” He shrugged.
“Well maybe you should stand over on my right side, so I can hear you… as you beg my forgiveness.”
“Oh, you’ve already forgiven me. Besides, I was doing you a favour.”
“Yeah, you wanna explain that one again to me?”
“You mean besides the happy surprise when you first realized that I hadn’t actually blown your brains out?”
“More like the happy surprise when I realized I hadn’t shit my pants!” That made him laugh… and shit!… I couldn’t help but to chuckle too. But being deaf in one ear was really annoying, and I had a bit of a headache too. “So tell me again,” I said seriously, “exactly why you pretended to shoot me in the head? As a favour to me?”
The sky was light now; it was morning. Snow reflected the dawn into all of the forest shadows, bringing to light countless inconsequential mysteries. The fire was already mostly embers. Just a few flames danced here and there beneath the grill, perfect for putting the kettle on. Soon it would be coffee time.
“The reason I pretended to shoot you in the head,” began Felix in a fair rendition of Homer Simpson’s voice, “is because that’s the only way I could think of to save you.”
“Save me from what exactly?”
Felix paused to get serious. “You were suddenly a major blip on their radar.”
“Mossad… and ALL the agencies, really.”
“I thought that I WAS ALWAYS a blip on their radar!” I insisted. “Why else would a helicopter fly over me way out here and drop some techno-drizzle shit all over me?”
“Well actually,” explained Felix patiently, “they thought that you were me. When I– ahem– left the agency, I didn’t exactly get away cleanly. They tracked me… as best they could…”
“And you led them right to me,” I finished.
“Yeah, I fucked up,” answered Felix staring down into his empty coffee mug.
I filled the mug for him from the bodum. “But we don’t even look alike. How could they even make such a mistake? That helicopter was right above me; the pilot was staring right into my face!”
“Yeah, go figure. The agency– all the agencies– are making a lot of mistakes these days. We do have roughly the same build… and, well… without their facial recognition software, they’re kinda blind.”
I was a bit stunned by what Felix was saying. It sounded ridiculous. “But facial recognition is about the most basic human skill there is!” I insisted.
“Yeah, and I guess that’s the point I’m trying to make. They’re just not human anymore. They’ve become so reliant– utterly dependent– upon all of their sophisticated tech, that they’ve seriously begun to lose their most basic human skills– like facial recognition.”
“Are you actually serious?” He nodded. “Wow!”
“In order to get away,” Felix explained, “I didn’t have to fool the humans involved– there ARE no humans involved– well, mostly. I just had to fuck with their technology. And fortunately, I have a bit of a knack for that.”
I had to think a bit on what Felix was relaying to me. “So then… they’ve known about me since our first meeting.”
“Not exactly. It still took them a bit to figure out that someone else was involved. Remember that I’ve been shielding you from the intelligence community for years already. Years ago, I was handed a list. Your name was on it… among quite a few others. I investigated them all… and decided to scrub your name from the databanks. I effectively took you out of their game… so that you could just keep doing what you do without any interference.”
“Until you showed up in my camp one day.”
“Sorry. I was desperate.”
“I remember,” I conceded. “So tell me now why you had to ‘kill’ me?”
“They’d gotten what’s called a ‘lock’ on you. It’s kinda like remote viewing tech which zeroes in on the target’s psyche– its signature. It doesn’t quite read minds, but it’s something along those lines. They could read just enough of you– despite your outrageous cannabis use– to know that you were genuinely dangerous.”
“I like how you’re already talking about me in the past tense!”
“Get used to it. You’re dead… and that’s the safest thing in the world to be.” Felix explained further. “The whole point of what I did was to convince YOU that I was blowing your brains out.”
“Yeah, well… mission accomplished,” I interjected. “But can’t they just re-establish their lock on me now?”
Felix smiled and reached into his pocket. “Nope,” he said, holding up a tiny device the size of a matchbook. “As of now– or rather at the moment I pulled the trigger– your signature was and is effectively blocked. There’s little doubt that they think you’re dead.”
“Won’t they send someone to check?”
“Not likely. They don’t have the resources anymore.” I raised an eyebrow in question. “All of the intelligence services the world over are pretty much in a complete shambles. It’s a very dangerous time to be an undercover agent– hence, I got out.” I didn’t have to ask any questions; Felix continued. “Have you noticed that in recent years whenever there’s some operation that smells like the agency rats are involved– false flags and psy-ops and such– that they never come off cleanly anymore? Seems they always get botched nowadays. There’s a good reason for that.” I was all ears.
“Not everyone in the intelligence community is onboard with this whole transhumanist agenda. There’s actually quite a number of operatives who prefer their human bio-tech to the agencies’ ‘improvements.’ There’s a substantial internal resistance. And it’s coming from a number of different angles. There’s the good guys… who’ve figured out enough of the big picture to know that they’d better thwart the agenda or die trying… because to live this thing through would be an utterly terrifying generational nightmare. We can call them the embedded White Hats. They’ll find ways to stick their fingers into any and every agency pie concocted for public consumption. They’ll do at least something to make it obvious to the public at large that all ain’t quite right with the official narratives.
“And then there’s all the different factions of those who are generally onboard with the overriding agenda, but they’re vying for control of it. So even the ones who are supposedly working towards the same nefarious goal are quite in the habit of sabotaging each other… lest one agency gains clear supremacy over all the others. Intelligence operatives are not known for playing nice. It’s a very very messy power-struggle being waged behind a thin lace curtain. The public is just beginning to see the absurdity of it all.”
Everything Felix was saying made perfect sense… and the evidence for it was very much in plain sight… at least, by my reckoning. “So in any given operation,” I surmised, “the agents involved don’t know the true motivations of the guy standing next to them– which master they ultimately serve.”
“Exactly,” answered Felix. “And those are the folks who are supposed to be covering your ass! There’s a great deal of paranoia in the agencies right now.”
“What’s the endgame?” I mused. “For the agencies, I mean?”
Felix shrugged nonchalantly. “They’ve got to go. You just can’t have secret factions of government operating wholly outside of the law, without any meaningful public oversight and still call that a democracy… or a constitutional republic, or whatever. Axiomatically, government secrecy and democratic principles are incompatible. That’s not debatable… and we’re publicly seeing the proof of this right now.”
“You’re preaching to the choir,” I nodded.
“I know,” said Felix. “It was you who taught me that. The secret-traders are the secret traitors… to democracy.”
Coffee was done. Next, we set about taking in the day’s nutrients– superfoods, sunshine and more great conversation. We donned the proper footwear and began to amble through the Forest.
“What’s wrong with Sitka?” asked Felix at the outset. He’d noticed that she was walking kinda funny, like she was trying to use her back legs not at all.
“Yeah, she’s like that quite often right after getting up from a nap. It takes awhile before she starts using her back legs. And then sometimes she favours one side… and then the other.”
“Is it serious?” Felix asked in a way that suggested it must assuredly be.
“Of course I immediately imagined the worst. It must be in her hips, or perhaps in her spine. I took her into town to the vet last week… for x-rays, for a diagnosis… for peace of mind…”
“It’s actually much less serious than I had feared. It’s her knees. She has ligament damage to both of her knees. It happened earlier in the year when she chased after those damned coyotes. She’d come back from the encounter dappled in someone else’s blood, so I assume there was a scuffle. At least one knee was tweaked during that incident. Whenever she rests after some exercise, the knee joints stiffen up; they’re swollen.”
“So what do you do about it?”
“Anti-inflammatories, taking it easy… no chasing anything. She’s young– only two; she should be able to heal… if I can keep her from re-injuring it.”
“Fish oil, turmeric, hemp seed. I’ve healed my own ACL tear in my left knee years ago. I know what’s involved.” I stopped our slow ambling gait to pause at a naked rose bush, still bearing bright red luscious hips, ever-ready for the taking… even amidst these fields of snow. I started selecting the brightest and plumpest of the rose hips, to nibble on along the way. Sitka immediately set about grabbing the lowest hanging of the fruit for herself. “Rose hips are high in vitamin C. Vitamin C is an anti-inflammatory too. Sitka knows what’s good for her. She’s only really been eating rose hips since her knees stiffened up.”
“Smart dog.” We both said it at the same time. And then I added “Except when she’s chasing coyotes into an ambush.”
With my handful of rose hips, we continued to mosey through the fields toward the Forest’s edge. I turned the conversation back to our earlier discussion about the agencies.
“What do you want to know?” prompted Felix.
“Like… how much money is involved in black-ops… globally?”
“Quite a bit more than you can imagine. In a way, the entire economic wealth of the world is very much entangled with virtually all intelligence agencies. There’s a whole lot of fingers in a whole lot of pies! Black-ops accounting is a fun little dance. Take underground bases, for instance. If someone at the appropriations level in black-ops gets the idea that he needs underground bases, the first thing we need to be clear on is that it’s the taxpayers who are going to pay for it. If he decides he needs a hundred underground bases, the taxpayers will foot the bill for all of them… not necessarily because the agencies NEED the money, but merely because they can. There are many revenue streams in black-ops, as well as very deep pockets behind deep vested interests. Money really is no object… but they’ll still stick it to the taxpayers any way they can.”
“How could you ever get a hundred underground bases approved?” I objected.
Felix smiled. “You see, the people who approve the itemized black-op budgets in government are purposely retained in such an oversight position for a rather short duration. The argument is that no single bureaucrat should hold the position long enough that there’s any chance he might start putting together a big picture. And for the same reason, black-op funds– ledger entries– only appear on the books for a very short time. So the guy who’s in charge this year for approving the items on the black-ops budget doesn’t have a clue what was approved last year by his predecessor. You’d never have to sell them on the necessity of having a hundred underground bases; you’d just have to convince them that one is absolutely essential… as many times as you like… and how hard can that be?”
I laughed… cynically, I guess. “So is there someone in the black-ops world who has the big-picture view of the ultimate game being played? Is there anyone who really knows fully what’s going on?”
“Not a chance,” answered Felix. “You might think that the integrated A.I. should know damn near everything in the spook world… but those embedded White Hats I mentioned earlier… there has to be parts of their psyche– of their Being– that are simply unperceived by the A.I. They’re able to act in creative, unpredictable ways in order to score their little victories. No, there’s much the A.I. is blind to still.”
There was a natural lull in our conversation as we took in the views at the lookout above the river… and then Felix continued. “The whole scene is terribly obscured… and I’m not just talking chemtrails here.” It seems we both had a habit of laughing at little jokes that weren’t really funny. “One of the main things to be aware of whenever the public suspects agency involvement is that they will do everything in their power to muddy the waters as much as possible. Since nothing anymore is really in their control, their main strategy is to hopelessly confuse the narrative. For instance, a perfectly legitimate grassroots rebellion might suddenly have crisis actors inserted into the mix. The fact that they’re crisis actors will be conveniently ‘leaked’ online… so that all of the keyboard warriors will immediately jump to the wrong conclusions.”
I looked on in puzzlement as Felix further explained.
“It’s what they really really want– that the public jumps to conclusions which are deliberate red herrings. When the online conspiracy crowd suddenly concludes that a legitimate uprising is all just a staged psy-op because crisis actors have been discovered somewhere in the mix, all of the legitimacy of the whole thing vanishes. ‘Oh, it was just a government operation from the beginning; nothing to see here.’ That’s how they quickly undermine any gathering momentum toward an overdue revolution.”
“So the public needs to refrain from drawing unwarranted conclusions,” I summarized.
“Really any conclusions,” answered Felix. “It’s not the public’s job to know or to figure out what really happened. Their job is to simply scrutinize the official government account of what happened and determine whether it makes sense. Does the official narrative reconcile the known facts? Is it internally consistent? Or does it defy all logic, reason and common sense?”
“Like 9/11,” I interjected.
“Yeah, that’s the granddaddy of them all. How many times have I heard the conversation play out? A Truther starts telling Joe Braindead all about the hundreds of inconsistencies with the official story about 9/11, and at the first break in the assault to the reality construct that poor Braindead lives in, he asks the only question he can that has any hope of preserving his precious delusion: ‘Okay, so what do YOU think happened on 9/11?’ My answer would be ‘How the fuck should I know!’ And I’ve been a member of the intelligence community nearly all my life… and still, I don’t know what actually happened that day. But I shouldn’t be expected to! It’s not the public’s burden to take on the tasks assigned to the government when they– the government– fail to execute them competently. The public’s job– nay, its sacred duty– is simply to call ‘Bullshit!’ And have the case reopened and reinvestigated until the official narrative satisfies ALL of the public’s questions and concerns. That’s it; there’s no requirement to come up with alternate theories.”
Felix was making an important point. I nodded in agreement.
“As soon as keyboard warriors with substantial followings start putting out their own conclusions and pet theories,” continued Felix, “they’re setting themselves up to be easily proven wrong. The government, and especially the agencies, are just waiting for the public to reach definitive conclusions about what’s really going on… and then they just release a little bit more information– whether real or fabricated– to totally debunk the latest theory and deflate any credibility that went along with it. That’s how the game is played. That’s always been how the game is played. The public really needs to wise up!”
“So our only task ever is to determine whether the official story we’re given adds up,” I concluded.
“That’s it. Speculating on what might have happened based upon the flimsiest evidence available can only undermine the integrity of the whole process. Always remember that it’s about the credibility of the official version, not your credibility, not your ability to put forward believable guesses. Government has to be held accountable for ALL of their actions.”
“So we’re not really meant to know the true details of an event– any event… until…?”
“Until those who are directly involved are prepared to share the truth, to share their actual experience of the event… only then can we be sure of the stories being given– that they reconcile the experiences of all those involved, coherently.”
There wasn’t really anything earth-shattering in what Felix was telling me, but it still felt really important to heed his advice… and to share it. And that brought up an obvious concern I hadn’t thought of until just this moment. “Felix?” I queried. “If I’m officially dead now, what happens when I go to publish my latest writings.”
“Well, from now on, you’re being published posthumously. Just don’t get too specific with current events. Keep things general and philosophical. We’ll draft something later today that makes it sound like you’ve left behind a treasure-trove of unpublished materials– things that can be leaked slowly to the public over time.”
“My own personal psy-op,” I said with a touch of irony. Felix nodded. “From a marketing point of view,” I mused, “this could actually work out well. Deceased artists tend to be much wealthier than their living– and often starving– counterparts.” I winked.
“Yeah man, dead folks are rollin’ in it.”
We decided to head down to the river. The Tibetan Trail was covered in ice and snow, so the steep decline was more than interesting and rather challenging. We all made it down to the riverbank in one piece. Despite her sore knees, Sitka still had the easiest time of it. I had to slide down parts of it on my bum, as did Felix. Luckily, this time I didn’t rip my pants in the process. I had lost three pairs of jeans in the last two winters sliding willy-nilly down this hill.
At the bottom, we brushed the excess snow from our clothes and turned our journey downriver. Then we resumed our conversation.
“So far, I’ve been shining a light into my dark world,” said Felix. “Now it’s your turn to answer a few questions.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“Like… where is this crazy train headed? In your estimation…”
“We’re at a very interesting cusp,” I began. “From the collective vibe that I seem to be tuned into, it appears that we are currently witnessing the collapse or disintegration of the default hive-mind of the collective unconscious– the one we were all born into. And concurrently, we’re also seeing the first stirrings and assemblages of what I term the Collaborative Mind.”
“This is along the lines of Jungian psychology, I presume?” I nodded. “How exactly do they differ… these two collective minds?”
“The old one, the one that’s falling apart, is reflected in the main characterizations of our society at large. It is hierarchical and conformist, based in control and domination at every level of functioning. It is rigidly conditioned and relies upon authority. It is prone to boredom and paranoia. As I said before, we enter into it unconsciously by default, at birth. It dominates our shared experience from an arithmetic strength in numbers– ‘mob rules’ democracy. But not for very much longer… Individuals are finding ways to consciously opt out. And in their own sovereign integrity, they– we– are beginning to assemble something new.
“The main distinguishing characteristic of the Collaborative Mind is that it is entered into through conscious choice. The Collaborative Mind chooses diversity over conformity. It recognizes the infinite value that unique individuals bring to the collective table. It genuinely loves us for our differences– our greatest assets. It values creativity and novelty, adopting these as its very purpose for existence. It is egalitarian– again, acknowledging the infinite value of true individuation. From the Collaborative Mind, humanity will create a brand new future, a brand new world. It stands before the great unknown, ready to explore unfathomed possibilities…”
“But we’re not there yet…” prompted Felix.
I had to agree. “But that moment is rapidly approaching. There’s still a whole lot of healing that needs to occur in the world at large– within the experience of its many individuals. But as each one heals… and releases their healing journey into the morphogenic field, others pick up on it subconsciously, and there is an acceleration in the shared healing process. We’re beginning to witness that acceleration now.
“However, those who refuse to face their own demons and shadows, those who shun authentic healing… they will not gain access to the Collaborative Mind– not because it is in any way discriminatory or exclusive, but because the unhealed will simply never become aware of the choice. There are no zombies in Earth’s future.”
“Oh well… that’s good to know,” chuckled Felix. “I think we’ve all had enough of the fucking zombies!”
“Amen!” I agreed. “So the general movement of humanity right now is through serious self-healing,” I summarized, “to a place of individual sovereignty and the absolute right to self-determination– also known as freedom. We’re moving steadily toward freedom, traveling inward, through personal, self-directed healing. From there– as is beginning to happen already now– sovereign individuals, standing in their own authenticity and integrity, will naturally choose to come together in collaboration in order to create a world that works for everyone. It’s just the natural course of events, as I see it,” I concluded.
There followed a natural lull in the conversation as the footing along the riverbank terrain posed numerous little challenges. And there were always plenty of winter wonders anyway to view and contemplate in silent awe along the way.
Our overall plan was to head to the truck. I had decided that it was time to move back indoors, to resume work on some long-abandoned projects. Felix was glad for the prospect of not having to sleep on the ground again too. My camp could wait for me, alone, until spring.
In this moment, we were content with the quietude beyond our crunching footsteps through the snow. There was only the occasional chirp and warble of birds flitting through the naked treetops. For a time they were our subtle minstrels, plucking notes from forest shadows, composing a drawn-out symphony in the slow rhythm of a winter still entrenched. Indeed, there was a hypnotic quality to the polyphonic cadence of breaths, footsteps and avian bards threading something more sublime than melody through the whole production…
Felix and I both stopped suddenly in abrupt syncopation. The world was plunged into an ocean of silence. We looked out across the river, our gaze locked upon the darnedest thing. A Thunder Being– a six-foot tall humanoid with enormous wings like an eagle– ‘flew’ down the river valley, following the current below. It ‘flew’ in an almost upright position– in a posture that could only be described as aerodynamically absurd. Its impossible wings didn’t flap or beat; they just grabbed the flightpath from thin air, in total disregard for the familiar laws of physics. And then it disappeared around the next bend in the river, fading back into unreality beyond the clouds and trees… and our own shock and awe caught somewhere in between.
“You saw that right?” said Felix in a deadpan voice still directed at the vacant sky. I couldn’t speak; I nodded instead. Felix wasn’t looking at me at all, but he could sense the affirmation nevertheless. “So what was it? I mean… what the fuck was that!”
It still took me a moment to find my voice. Finally, Felix turned to confront me, to pull an answer from my mouth. “A Thunder Being,” I whispered. My words registered no recognition upon Felix’s face. Knowing that this would likely require a lengthy explanation, I answered along a completely different tack “That was the eleventh dream of seventh heaven…”
And the conversation resumed…
Chameleon’s Teardrop (Makes a Rainbow) by Missing Peace (my band) from the 1996 album Tense Moments. (A song about the Collaborative Mind)
And here is a current related discussion on SOVEREIGN SOUL GROWTH – The Inner Impacts of Exposing the Sentient Pathogenic AI – Artificial Intelligence Agenda – A Two Part Symposium… featuring Alfred Lambremont Webre, Christine Anderson, Lily Earthling, Shane (The Ruiner), Claudia and this author (Niels Kunze). This is Part 1.
And here’s a little preview of Part 2… from Lily’s presentation:
by nielskunze on January 10, 2016
Here’s a slightly different angle to a message I’ve already delivered many times.
It has been my pleasure and good fortune to enjoy exceptionally good health for all of my adult life. As an adult, I have consulted a doctor only twice– to no positive outcome… and have visited a dentist not even once; I’ve never had a cavity or any other dental complaint. I don’t subscribe to the conventional medical paradigm– at all– choosing rather a strategy of applied preventative medicine, to an astoundingly consistent positive effect. I take full responsibility for my own health.
In this brief essay, I wish to explore the merits of employing daily preventative health strategies from the perspective of definitive intention. Intent is the primary tool of creators. Anyone whose belief is rooted in ‘being the creator of your own reality’ is wise to recognize the supremacy of intent– or personal will. Our experience in this lifetime is the living out of our intentions, whether consciously or otherwise.
A note about intent: In Law-of-Attraction-type philosophies, intent is often generally regarded as an external force which roams the universe, drawing the attractions of our desires to us. Indeed, in Castaneda’s espousal, don Juan referred to intent as a universal force not intrinsic to man; and as such, a human being is required to ‘call’ intent into one’s sphere of influence through elaborate invitations– until he can reliably make it his bitch evermore. I, however, regard intent as an internal tool of creation. Intent– like the universe– originates within us. Creativity cannot occur without a seed-origin sown within our own internal intention. The external universe does indeed mirror our inner intent as an operable force in creation, but its true origin lies solely within.
I have a daily preventative medicine routine. It has been defined and refined over the last twenty years according to what my own experience has taught me. Every year– especially during winter– I watch despairingly as nearly all those around me fall ill, as an acceptance of normality and expectation. Everyone gets sick at least once every year, right? Nope… at least, not me. My pattern has been to contract a mild cold lasting 3 to 5 days every three years or so. The only exception to this is my having the flu once in 2012 which lasted fully two weeks– and why I got sick in this instance is no mystery to me; it was an inevitable outcome of the extreme stress I had placed myself under at the time. It’s now 2016; I guess I’m about due for another bout of something… or have I finally refined my methods to the point where sickness is a thing of the past?
It is my pattern to address all of my daily nutritional requirements early in the morning each day before I really do anything of consequence. It is my habit to ingest, on an empty stomach, some of the most nutrient-dense natural foods currently available. Incredibly tiny amounts of these substances provide all of the daily nutrition I require and desire, without any issues of bioavailability or digestibility. Allow me to iterate these substances one by one.
The first magical elixir I employ is a dropperful of cold-pressed coriander seed oil. I usually hold it under my tongue for a minute before swallowing, to allow medicinal aspects to be absorbed directly into my bloodstream through the mucus membranes of my mouth. Coriander seed is a powerful detoxifying agent, especially efficacious against accumulations of heavy metals. After swallowing, within the digestive tract, the oil conditions the gut by favouring the beneficial gut bacteria, which in turn increases the nutrient absorption rate of nearly all subsequent nutritionals. In the year or so that I’ve been using it, I’ve noticed that my bowel movements are consistently more complete and often smell decidedly metallic. I assume this to be the result of the removal of metals from my tissues and organs. (I shit nano-tech robots and their entourage of invasive substances!)
The next miraculous potion I take daily is the most nutrient-dense and complete food I am aware of. It is Oceans Alive Marine Phytoplankton. This is a thick green sludge that tastes strongly of exactly how the ocean (beach) smells. I dilute a dropperful of this in a small glass of water… and then use that to wash down a few other choice substances. Marine phytoplankton is the basis for all life in the ocean, containing literally hundreds of nutritional components, including more than 70 trace minerals, and is a cutting-edge research tool in the ongoing study for superlative human nutrition. I’m a believer– due to my own experience.
Three natural substances I wash down with my green ocean elixir are MSM (organic sulfur), camu camu berry (vitamin C complex) and diatomaceous earth (silica). These are not necessarily daily essentials at all times for everybody, but I’ve incorporated them since beginning a program of utilizing magnesium spray which draws inorganic calcium from the aging tissues of my body. The three aforementioned supplements are positively implicated in the formation of healthy connective tissue. As the (Ease) magnesium spray (applied topically) draws unwanted calcium from my body through ionic interplay, the tissues from which it is being drawn out need to rebuild their strength and integrity from the substances which ensure good collagen production. Adequate sulfur, vitamin C and silica are essential in this regard. (And the magnesium performs hundreds of other beneficial metabolic feats as well.)
And this year I have taken to establishing a stock pot on my wood stove in which I prepare bone broths. The special nutrients derived from boiling bones for more than 36 hours work in harmony with the ones listed above for the proper formation of connective tissue. Sometimes I will prepare fancy soups from the bone broth base, but every day I will have at least a few spoons of this traditional standard in rural homes from a century ago.
Next in my morning regimen comes Black Cumin Seed Oil. I take perhaps a teaspoon daily of this well-proven, immune-boosting, whole-body health panacea. Black cumin’s consistent health benefits have been well documented for thousands of years. In addition to taking it internally, I also add a small fraction of the oil to my homemade body butter– consisting of raw organic cacao butter and coconut oil– to soften it up for easier application. (Never put anything on your skin that you’re not willing to eat– except perhaps your clothes.)
In winter months, when the sun’s intensity is radically reduced, I supplement Vitamin D with a dermal patch from Living Nutritionals. I replace the patch every other day. It contains 5,000 IU of D3 along with appropriate amounts of Vitamin K2 and magnesium for proper absorption and utilization. So I’m getting about 2,500 IU daily of vitamin D– which is a touch on the low side. But if I feel even the slightest indication of sickness coming on, I won’t hesitate to pop a 5,000 IU capsule orally (not the patch!) as a booster. Vitamin D is absolutely essential for proper immune function. Without adequate amounts, robust immunity is virtually impossible.
A very knowledgeable online friend recently suggested that adequate amounts of Vitamin A are also needed for proper vitamin D metabolism. And that’s where Moringa Leaf Powder comes in. Moringa is a fast-growing, drought-resistant tropical tree that has perhaps the most nutritious leaves of any botanical. In just a teaspoon of the dried leaf, I’m getting my full daily requirement of vitamin A, Vitamin E, Vitamin K, Riboflavin, and half the RDA of vitamin C, along with a long list of other significant nutrients. There isn’t a single popular multi-vitamin that I could ever recommend… because I believe that none of them are any better than plain old powdered moringa leaf– nutrition the body knows how to process and assimilate. It doesn’t taste too bad either.
This next one tastes great! Pine Pollen tastes just like coniferous forests smell. This is the semen of the forest; it is very nutritionally dense. Like moringa leaf above, pine pollen has a long list of vitamins, minerals and other key nutrients, but unlike moringa, its significant protein content is that of a complete protein containing all eight essential amino acids and more than twenty amino acids in total. Its plant sterols provide the precursors to our own hormones. Pine pollen specifically raises testosterone levels through nutritive factors. It is adoptogenic. Again, just a teaspoon a day is all that’s needed to reap its myriad benefits.
The next class of nutrients my regimen addresses is the Essential Fatty Acids. I take about a gram of Krill Oil a day to meet these essential requirements. Although not strictly a part of the daily morning regimen, I also find occasion to eat tablespoons of Hemp Hearts every few days– which is a good plant source of EFAs.
And finally, I take 100mg of Ubiquinol each day. This is the reduced version of CoQ10, the mitochondrial and essential heart nutrient. It serves to regulate energy availability at the cellular level.
It seems like a ton of stuff… and it is, nutritionally… but when you put all of these items together each morning, it doesn’t amount to more than a couple of tablespoons at most. And most of these foods don’t require much in the way of digestion. By taking them on an empty stomach, I ensure rapid and complete assimilation of the superlative nutrition provided. So before I go on my daily morning walk through the forest, I’ve already satisfied all of my nutritional needs– not just because the labels and the literature tell me so, but because my experience tells me so every day. I eat my first– and only– proper meal of the day around 6:00 pm. Before then, I’m not particularly hungry… and I have plenty of energy for physical or creative endeavours. I have found that for me, personally, I function the best in nearly every regard on an empty stomach– but I am grateful for the full-spectrum nutrition I receive from my morning superfoods too.
In addition to physical nutritional requirements, I must include in my daily regimen the many benefits derived from hours spent in the woods. In 2015, I only missed eight days– on which I didn’t delight in 2 to 4 hours of hiking through mountainous woodlands. This serves as my daily minimum exercise, my meditative/contemplative time, and reaffirming my connection to the self-regulating, living, natural world. It is also a wonderful stress regulator if not outright eliminator. Things like yoga, Tai Chi, and meditation can also serve in these regards– all of which I have previously utilized– but a simple walk in the woods seems to most efficiently kill several birds with one stone. (Don’t worry; I don’t kill any birds… and I’m even really nice to the stones.)
And then there’s just one more thing which needs to be included on the preventative medicine list… and it’s kind of an abstract one; it’s called Learning. They say you learn something new every day… but I find that to be true only among the youthful– the youthful of any age. Taking on a fluid perspective which is founded on a stance of lifelong learning is, in my opinion, the single-most important factor in maintaining health and achieving functional longevity. The plasticity and adaptability of a mind poised to learn and relearn as experience and curiosity require is a healthy one. Stagnation is ever associated with death and dysfunction; Life is associated with growth and adaptation. The willingness to learn is life-affirming in every regard; it is a powerful statement of intent– the intent to live and live well.
These are the things which I have found to be the best for me, as an individual. There are many other viable alternatives… requiring only your own explorations and personal experiences. (See: A Quick Reference Guide)
And the mere act of assembling one’s own preventative medicine routine conditions one to focus attention and awareness inwardly, consistently… in order to then proceed with utmost confidence in all aspects of life.
Now, as we consider the aggregate of the items assembled here as constituting preventative medicine, then the sum of their daily execution can only be interpreted as an unmistakeable statement of similar intent– to be immaculately healthy in order to pursue the widest experience available– the healthier I am, the wider the spectrum of my potential experience, the more things I can do. My body– and its extension, my psyche– cannot possibly mistake my intent toward my health with the execution of this daily regimen. It is true that I also indulge in behaviours that are commonly regarded as unhealthy, like drinking scotch and smoking pot. But these indulgences are purely enjoyments… and even explorations in themselves. And they only ever come on the heels of everything espoused above. First I take care of all of my requirements… and then I enjoy myself. The meal I take in the evenings is eaten mainly for pleasure (but not cake and ice cream– very often). This is the formula that works for me.
Every single day I demonstrate to myself that I wish to continue to live and to grow… and that I am willing to fearlessly take responsibility for my own experience. This is communicated to my totality in my daily actions. I am actively creating my own quality of experience, day to day. And the whole of it is my pleasure.
I share these strategies in the sincere hope (intent) that those around me, and all those with whom I have contact, develop a similar system for themselves where their daily actions and behaviours make an unmistakeable declaration of intent for a vibrant life. From another wise online friend, I recently learned the word ‘mudita.’ It’s borrowed from buddhist terminology… but only because there’s no english equivalent. Essentially, it is the opposite of envy or jealousy. Where envy has us feeling bad because of the good fortune of others, mudita has us feeling good because all those around us are feeling good. (In hippie circles we used to call this a contact high.) Mudita is the sole basis for my own morality or code of ethics. I have realized the truth of it for myself– that I feel my authentic best when all those with whom I come into contact are also feeling great.
We really are in this together… may we journey in joy.
by nielskunze on January 1, 2016
A few years back I penned a lengthy article comparing humanity’s current evolutionary journey to a transformative sojourn through the major arcana of the traditional tarot as the step-by-step template of humanity’s own evolving collective psyche. I noticed a correspondence between the last two numbers of these calendar years and their respective counterparts among the 22 major arcana (beginning in 2000).
Having just completed 2015, for instance, the correspondence is with the 15th card which is The Devil, representing trickery. I had called for 2015 to be the Year of Unmasking The Devil. Although it was a year of huge reveals, they only seemed to manifest for those who were actively looking. For those with courage and conviction, The Devil was clearly seen… in our own neglected shadows, individually… and in the hidden machinations of disingenuous government, corporate and media actors, spewing their endless bullshit for collective consumption.
I fully admit that I had predicted that the revelations would be more public and widespread, plain for all to see. Clearly, I had underestimated humanity’s capacity for continued denial. Those who still do not wish to see all that becomes more apparent each and every day to the curious among us are still able to erect a thin bubble of protection around their outdated operating systems. Will the perceptual bubble pop for everyone in 2016? Maybe.
Before I move on to the Predictor for 2016, I’ll address the concern for this whole tarot thingy. “Don’t you know, Niels, that the traditional tarot is an astral template of manipulation and control?” I do… and so it’s not. Awareness has the ability to cut through everything false, rendering it harmless. Besides, these ‘readings’ are carried out purely on the collective level… and there’s not much point in denying that our collective psyche has been programmed and manipulated at every turn. The journey through humanity’s collective evolution is an archetypal one; there is a pattern and a progression that we must move through before we reach the blank slate, the empty canvas, calling for our final plunge into the abyss of the Unknown… and our re-emergence as true conscious Creators. Individually, we can break free at any time; but as a collective, we have to go through every step of the process (which is true individually too, but you get to set your own pace).
Now, on to 2016… I’m going to call this one the Year of Consequences. The 16th major arcana of the tarot is The Tower; it represents crisis, destruction, collapse and also opportunity. This year, the consequences of many many past causes will become painfully obvious. The causes for systemic collapse have been sown already long ago. And more recently, newer causes have been added to the old flaws in order to defer the imminent collapse as far into the future as possible. The pending collapse won’t however outlast the year; we will witness it in 2016. Every longstanding institution underpinning our civilization will be direly affected. The unfortunate aspect of this ‘levelling of the playing field’ will be that it will most likely take until the very end of the calendar year before humanity as a collective fully begins to realize the true causes of the witnessed destruction. Even after society lies in ruins, denial will still, for a time, prevail. The sleepers will still be dumbfounded, unable to acknowledge the unsustainable nature of the world we had built, even as it crumbles to dust; they will be genuinely surprised.
For others, like you fine folks who read my blog, this will be a year of rare opportunity. All those things you’ve known for decades about humanity’s folly which previously were swept under the ‘conspiracy theory’ rug, will be much harder to deny. New ears will listen– tentatively at first– but your conversation will gain traction as the writing on the wall becomes just another pile of dust. Chaos brings hard questions and demands answers. And the critical moments when humanity is forced to make landmark decisions will come precisely in the moments of greatest strife. Cooler, non-reactionary heads will need to be heard and prevail. In many ways, 2016 will be ‘showtime.’
The ugliness can only be hidden for so long… and now it’s time to say “So long.”
Don’t bet on any quiet surrenders– except in matters of personal faith. The old power-brokers are in the deepest denial of all.
Quietly withdraw your investments in traditional ways of doing and being; the consequences they yield will not be pretty. Those who are ready will be called upon to offer up creative solutions– however, the solutions won’t be so much about fixing all that which appears to be breaking, but more so about replacing it all with fairness, transparency and true sustainability. An opportunity for actual authentic creativity will present itself… and make welcomed demands of all those who have been patiently biding their time.
It’s time! Hello world… what shall we become in our new nakedness, standing among the ruins?
by nielskunze on December 15, 2015
Here I am.
Four years ago, I quit my job in order to concentrate on being an author and establishing an internet presence. During those four years I was typically publishing original content nearly every day. Despite the bottom line of my general message throughout being “don’t follow me; go your own way– uniquely, creatively”… I still managed to reach a peak readership of about a quarter million people a month hitting up my blog. I still find that to be astounding… considering my expressed adversity toward the accumulation of “followers.”
Recently, I appear to have “gone dark”… and “dropped off the radar.” The blog posts are far and few between, and the email Newsletter hasn’t been issued in months. Allow me to explain.
Things change; you can feel it… or, at least, I can. 2015 has been a most interesting year. The global dialogue has shifted– significantly– at least among a few self-appointed pioneers in consciousness exploration. The New Age platitudes circulating among the online masses four years ago just aren’t cutting it anymore; the ascension narrative seems much more like recycled, old news… or just downright bullshit… to all those who have been paying attention longterm.
As for myself, I retain very little interest anymore in penning articles about the state of affairs like I so avidly did before. They were only ever aimed at piquing curiosity among readers anyway, so that they might initiate their own explorations into reality and its many many facades. We’ve collectively reached a point now where enough people “get it”… or are at least beginning to ask the right questions. The saviour myth, in its many guises, is finally dying an overdue death. It really is up to us after all.
(Please note that I am not referring to the masses here; just the few cutting edge explorers who are determined to see humanity regain its sacred right to self-determination.)
In lieu of “bulk” content, I have decidedly turned my efforts toward qualitative endeavours which are more likely to bear fruit in the long run. My free online improvisational novel Running Dialogue is one such project. It is proceeding at a reasonable pace– 10 chapters in 5 months– and will continue on at the same rate for the foreseeable future.
Additionally, I have resurrected a mammoth project from about 15 years ago. As some have come to know, besides my interest and fondness for writing, I also occasionally immerse myself in original music projects. I was a member of an original rock band, Missing Peace, for six years. We released an album back in 1996 and toured quite regularly at that time. Before I decided to leave the band in 2000, we had taken a few runs at laying down the tracks for a second album. When the band completely disintegrated in 2001, those ADAT tapes languished in my basement for years.
I’m the sound-engineer-technical guy. I have the wherewithal to make something of those aborted children. I’ll be turning 50 this spring, in May… and my Mom kept asking me what I wanted to do for my birthday. After a moment’s thought, I decided that the best thing would be to have a reunion with my bandmates– my other family. I wanted to be on stage again, playing with my band. Between geographical challenges and scheduling among work and family commitments, I knew that I was requesting something extraordinary from my mates. To sweeten the pot, I promised to reawaken the prospect of that elusive second album… so that we could have an official album release coinciding with the live gig on my birthday. Everyone readily agreed and even expressed considerable enthusiasm for the whole scheme.
The second album is nearly complete. It has required, however, literally hundreds of hours of my time, processing and polishing up all those tracks recorded ages ago… in a rather haphazard manner. It looks like there will be 12 new songs comprising the official album… and then I’m pushing for a few additional bonus tracks to be included from some of our better live recordings. Like any creative project, it has been enormously fun and sporadically frustrating at times; but overall, I love it!
Here’s some direct indications of what this thing is starting to look like:
Whitman’s Gauntlet… remastered yet again.
Black & Blue… still needs a few minor adjustments and final mastering… but you get the idea.
Handful of Sand… another remaster showcasing a more countrified Missing Peace.
And among the live stuff:
Apple Tree (Have a Nice Day) or… The Song Formerly Known as Typically Tormented… I wanted to display this one here, as it represents the song-crafting ability of the other guitar player, Cory Price. This is his baby. Many of our songs over the years never had set lyrics. Shane, our singer, liked to ad-lib new lyrics from day to day as the mood struck him. None of us are particularly fond of the lyrical content in this version… but they’re not bad enough to make any of us hate it either. It’s unlikely that this song will make the album… but you never know… in a democratic collaboration such as Missing Peace.
Tumbled Leaves… and this I wanted to include here because it is composed by our bass player, Ian Borenheim. Every one of the five members of Missing Peace were ridiculously prolific songwriters… but, somehow, Ian’s songs always got pushed to the back burner. Well, this one was on the set list as a regular for a couple of years. This version can’t really be included on the album either because of an obvious tape glitch on the vocal track. (I think the ADAT tape got eaten or some such thing.)
Anyway, if you like what you hear, you might consider coming out to The Hoodoo Bar and Grill this May for the reunion gig and the album release. (I’ll be more specific once we firm up the date.) Note: there will also very likely be a limited edition vinyl version of the new album too for retro-heads.
On other fronts, I am beginning a new collaboration with a certain online “celebrity” with whom I will be co-authoring a new novel. We are intending to have a release in the late spring perhaps. (I’m pretty excited about that. Sorry about the paucity of details at this point… but discretion is warranted.)
And finally, I am particularly pleased with the weekly chats I am engaged in with the admins of Earth Soul Group. We are committed now to recording these group discussions which are unscripted and free-flowing, so many of them may begin to appear online. The topics are always cutting edge, and fresh insights come fast and furious in our lively collaborations.
These things, which are taking so much of my time, are undoubtedly worthwhile. There really isn’t much I’d rather be doing. I am living my intent and my passions.
I hope that this little update will satisfy the many concerned inquiries flooding my email and messenger. Don’t worry, all is quite a bit more than well.
by nielskunze on November 27, 2015
Prior Episodes of Running Dialogue:
I’ve been calling this an improvisational novel; that’s because I don’t work from outlines, and I never draft rough copies of anything. I do possess, however, several notebooks in which I periodically jot down key phrases and ideas during the percolation/contemplation phase of these offerings. We’re ten chapters in now… and I’m starting to look over my notes from the entire project. There are certain themes I keep coming back to… and there’s one very important person I really want to have the next conversation with: it’s you, Dear Reader.
(Winter Time by The Steve Miller Band from their Greatest Hits 1974-78 album on vinyl)
Tenth of One Percent
Winter, this year, has come to the Columbia Valley gradually. First, it lighted upon the mountain peaks, casting them into dazzling displays of flashing white teeth, winter’s smile, both menacing and alluring. And then it stalked and filled the valleys below with heaving breaths of crystalline condensation, bringing the first deposits in banks of heavy snow for all.
The bears seem to know every year exactly when to begin trekking west, into the pristine Purcell wilderness. I have discerned their tracks in frozen mud and freshly fallen snow many times. They climb the mountain passes to where winter has already gotten a grip which won’t release until spring’s uncoiling reawakening… to slumber in the hypothermic dark of cozy dens.
This one was clearly huge; these are some of the largest black bear prints I have ever encountered.
They seemed much too big to belong to this fellow– Sovereign Will– whom we met down at the river during the late spring runoff. It isn’t uncommon for several bears to share this rich territory during a single season.
Black Bear has long been one of my primary totems. We have had nearly 500 face-to-face encounters over the last twenty-or-more years. We get along fine; we both understand the meaning and value of self-determination– of being a self-responsible individual… at least as much as possible… in a consensual reality.
Our shared reality, what we commonly refer to as ‘the world,’ is an abstraction of our perceptual faculties. It has no intrinsic realness, independent from our perceptions. This ‘thing’ we call ‘the universe’ is primarily a product of our intents and our agreements. ‘Intents and agreements’… now those have realness; they’re inside of us; they’re part of us… and we easily recognize them as such– when we can clearly see them. And everything we perceive as external to ourselves is an abstraction– a reflection– of those intents and agreements.
(For a scientifically based presentation of why the objective universe absolutely does not exist, please refer to my essay Once (More) and for All (Time).)
How is it that less than one tenth of one percent of the world’s population gets to decide how the world presents itself to us all?
Isn’t that an interesting question? Is it even valid or true? See, that’s the trick of perception: if that’s the way you see it, then that’s the immediate truth of your reality. Somebody else– maybe God, or the Elite, or an Artificial Intelligence– is determining for you the primary shape and colour and texture of the world we share. If, on the other hand, you have come to fully realize that your own inner experience is what is FIRST subject to your own intents and agreements, that the external universe is the complete reflection of that inner totality… well, then, you have a very different experience of our ‘shared’ reality.
So for some, many, perhaps most, the question is perfectly valid. The world, as it presents itself to our senses in exquisite detail, is largely given to us by others. Everywhere we turn, it seems, there’s always someone trying to tell us how it really is. And somewhere along the way, we– everyone of us– made an agreement to primarily perceive the world as an objective and real thing, existing independently from our perceptions. That agreement IS the veil. And this apocalypse is about the lifting or piercing of that veil, allowing us to stop insisting on regarding external reality as being truly real… and for some, many, perhaps most, solely real… leaving us to live in the implication that our inner states are merely reflections, personal interpretations of and reactions to the external ‘objective’ reality.
Be-ing belongs to the Being. How can it be otherwise? You know what Being is; it’s inside you, infinite; you can feel it, fully sense it– its aliveness. Your Being is alive… and the universe reflects that aliveness. How dead is the world to you? How alive can you be? These can be choices… or givens; it’s up to you.
Quite often, as I’m walking through the Forest, contemplating… composing… this very calm-position, I get the nod from Eagle, who’s been visiting ever-so-briefly, with me, and with these terribly deep thoughts, on several occasions recently. As usual, Sitka spotted Eagle first, and by the time I looked up to see the source of her fascination, I only had time to snap a single pic before this flyover was done.
Most of the participants in Earth’s consensus reality rarely form clear intents about anything; they’re rather just coping. That’s why it doesn’t take a large percentage to influence the collective, to affect the consensus expression of reality. A handful of creative innovators can radically alter reality.
There’s always two sides to the coin. On the one side, there are those who work to bring about the conditions of consciousness that will keep us locked in fear… and on the other side, there are those who work to bring about the conditions of consciousness that will sidestep our fears and deliver us to safety. AND THEN there are those who work to bring about the conditions of consciousness that can see clearly that both of those are playing the exact same game: trying to control the consensus according to elitist perceptions. This third group rejects the coin altogether– taking the ‘I’ out of the co…n… and placing it internally, or nowhere.
Somewhere along the line (timeline), we all made an agreement to objectify everything; we have even objectified ourselves! This ‘objectification’ is the foundational habit of our perceptions. Yes, perceptions have ‘momentum’… or perhaps ‘inertia’ is better. Our habit is to continue perceiving in the very same manner as we always have before… or for as long as we can remember…
Perception is driven by motion. Motion is what we perceive. Internally, it is the movements of consciousness which we perceive as our feelings. Inside of us, consciousness moves and we feel it. Externally, we perceive the reflection of those internal movements as time. Time is motion. Everything in time moves, changes. Timespace– time and space come as a complete, integrated package deal– timespace is driven (created) by our inner perturbations of consciousness. E-motions are sourced in the reflection, in timespace. E-motions are our reactions to the reflection. Feelings are internally sourced; emotion is externally sourced… and both are tied up with each other in complex feedback loops.
Damn! That got pretty dense, didn’t it? Sorry about that.
It’s not just that the Newtonian view is slightly off– a matter of precision and tweaks– no, it’s that it’s completely wrong, providing an inverted view.
Let’s talk about our habits of perception. We can’t seem to help ourselves when it comes to perceiving our reality, our situation, in a decidedly Newtonian way… even though, if we’ve been paying any attention at all, we KNOW that it’s an utterly false view of reality. Perhaps there’s a failure in our mainstream education system when high school physics teaches us Newton’s equations for bodies in motion, and gives but the merest mention of relativity and quantum theory. We graduate with the implication that Newton was perfectly correct, and that his equations only begin to break down at the extremely small, the extremely large, and the extremely fast scales– but for objects in motion in everyday life, Newton is fine… and the unspoken implication being that the Newtonian view of the world is basically correct, unless we begin traveling at speeds approaching the speed of light… or if we suddenly get as fat as a planet.
When it comes to describing our situation, our basic relationship with reality… the Newtonian view is backwards, upside-down and inside-out… or in other words, not even close… and extremely misleading. The most immediate example of what I might mean by this is how the Newtonian view regards consciousness. In Newton’s objective world view, consciousness is some mysterious end product of a purely material evolution. The clear implication from relativity and quantum theory, however, is that nothing in the perceived universe can be shown to have any intrinsic, independent existence apart from consciousness. The ‘objective’ world is inextricably bound up with perception. And THAT makes perfect sense.
Cogito ergo sum.
The fact that you are conscious is the ONLY thing that you can verify as being absolutely true. Your own consciousness is the basis– the very foundation– of your experience. Your experience occurs in your own consciousness… and this is verifiably true in every moment. The very idea of suggesting that your personal experience exists somewhere outside of you, in an objective universe, is clearly absurd.
Consciousness is primary; it is our inner reality. What happens in that reality is our experience. Somewhere in our past experience, we agreed to create a reflection of that inner experience and project it outwardly… for our ‘objectified’ selves to inhabit. Part of the agreement was to identify with our objectified selves– our ego. And within that simple agreement we still remain lost.
Through the habits of these perceptions, compounded through eons, this ‘objective’ construction we call ‘the world’ appears incalculably complex, terribly convoluted, and ultimately inescapable… and it is… for as long as we persist in our incorrect view. We need to break the longstanding habits of our perception.
And how do we do that?
So glad you asked… but first, perhaps we should ask “What is consciousness?”
Consciousness IS existence– in all of its infinite potential; existence IS consciousness– in particular expression.
So what aspect of consciousness leads away from a particular expression and back towards infinite potential? C’mon… you got this…
That’s right! Creativity.
Whenever our response to the external reflection we perceive– and in which we are trapped– is creative, original, and personally appropriate, we deconstruct another layer of the matrix– the matrix of our agreements… or rather, our sub-agreements. The creation of the ‘objective’ universe– our creation– is the meta-agreement within which all our other agreements reside. Our creativity supersedes– or overrides– all of those sub-agreements… as long as we recognize that the place in which our creativity first expresses is internal. In consciousness, the firsthand experience of our own creativity is the primary reality– the thing with the potential to change everything. It’s not in the end products– our words, our poems, our songs or gesticulations, or in the secrets of the special sauce– that the catalyst is found. The catalyst for change in the external world is the changes wrought in our own inner realities through our creativity. True, original creativity always moves the inner consciousness; just ask any artist; it is for that inner movement– that undeniable feeling– that art is made. It’s the reason, the motivation… the inspiration.
Now, what do I mean by creativity?
Essentially, novelty. Just because someone writes books, or paints canvases, or acts consummately the part of a perfect jackass, doesn’t necessarily mean they’re being creative. True creativity demands newness. Creativity always breaks fresh ground. When we apply that creativity to our own inner patterns, choosing to treat our conditioned responses with novelty and fresh insight, we heal the perturbations in our consciousness… which are BOUND to reflect externally– either the healing, or the continuation of the perturbations.
There is room for creativity in everything we do… and that is the surest way to affect changes in all worlds.
I am continually moving myself into a state of wonderment and awe through the actions of my own creativity.
Wonderment and awe is the natural inner condition of human childhood. When we are encouraged to “be as little children,” it is this inner disposition wherein the world presents itself in infinite novelty which we seek. Whatever we come to believe the world to be, the ever-present truth is that its potential for becoming remains eternally infinite… for it is ever-sourced in infinite consciousness, in Spirit.
Infinite consciousness is just naturally creative… I mean, what else should it be?
The reflection, by its nature, is non-creative.
I’ve chosen to call our external reality ‘the reflection.’ It’s a little more complex than a simple reflection in a mirror, so alternatively, we can liken it to a shared dream. The thing to remember about dreams is that the only thing which is truly real is the dreaming. The contents of the dream are real while you’re in it, but none of them are true– including the first-person representation of the supposed one who’s dreaming: you. Once you’ve awoken, your dream character is instantly seen as being just as ephemeral as the rest of the dream.
And here, perhaps, we should speak briefly of solipsism. For most, solipsism has a bad reputation. It is the philosophical position that the self is all that can be known to exist. It springs directly from Descartes’ cogito ergo sum. For some, for some reason, this poses problems in morality. The problems stem from the idea that if I am all that can be known to exist, there is no valid reason to treat others as though they are real too.
So let’s talk refutations for a moment. When Bishop Berkeley elucidated the solipsistic position in a sermon, Samuel Johnson famously refuted the argument outside the church by soundly kicking a rock and exclaiming “I refute it thusly.” All indications from history are that Samuel Johnson wasn’t really a complete idiot, but this famous ‘refutation’ is no refutation at all. If you kick a rock in a dream, you will experience the sensation of kicking a rock… and likely suffer a stubbed toe as a result. Kicking a rock in a dream and experiencing pain doesn’t suddenly make the dream true. And once you awaken from it, you immediately realize that neither the rock, your toe, or any other aspect of the dream was intrinsically real– but your experience of it was. Your inner experience of it is real– always… and that’s the point; do with it what you will.
And here’s how I solve the ‘morality problem’ with simple, selfish logic:
The core of my compassion is wholly selfish, stemming from the simple realization that I am the happiest, the most content and fulfilled only when everyone around me is in a comparable state of contentment-fulfillment too.
I might be able to justify being an egotistical prick for awhile, but in the end, eventually, I must come to realize that the above statement is actually true. The bottom line is that solipsism is true, whether you like it or not. It has never been refuted, and cannot be refuted. It can only be foolishly ignored… or logically embraced.
It makes sense to me to base our fundamental orientation in reality first and foremost on that which we know for sure. Don’t you think?
We are all participants in a leaderless collaboration called reality… We’re not looking for a leader to emerge, just the acknowledgement of the situation we are in.
From pure solipsism, we can make a choice. It is purely speculation, but in this dream, it is our prerogative to speculate. We are free to suppose that others have/are consciousness too, and that they actually exist in much the same manner we verifiably do. The problem arises in that we cannot share the consciousness– the Being– of another. But is this injunction absolute?
It would seem that the primary obstacle to experiencing a shared consciousness is our reliance upon language. The primary action of language is that it objectifies. Indeed, the very ‘space’ in which language is exchanged IS the supposed ‘objective’ universe. Perhaps it is language– including, perhaps especially including, our incessant internal dialogue– which holds our perception of objectified reality in place, second-by-second. If we could communicate through a means of shared consciousness rather than through a language standing in a timespace abstraction, perhaps then we would find no need for continuing this particular dreamspace illusion.
History repeats… in the absence of creativity.
When we think about time in the external realm we consider it to be steady and utterly consistent– the way scientists measure it. But that’s not at all how we experience it. Time, in the human experience, is highly variable… almost moody.
We are taught, and often reminded, that the past is the past. What’s done is done. But the fluid nature of time, internally, allows us in every moment the opportunity to revisit any past experience… and completely transform it. Any past experience that remains unsettled can be revisited and re-interpreted until it is re-solved. Any such resolution wrought internally is BOUND to reflect in the external realm. Heal yourself; heal the world.
(A personal experience from the most traumatic day of my own life is recounted on this blog in the short novella What Happened That Day. I have revisited that day countless times… and now I am fully at peace with it. It is the story of three friends going out on an ayahuasca trip one May afternoon, and the youngest of our group– my nineteen-year-old friend– Jake, died that day. It’s worth checking out for the healing process involved.)
No one can heal the world, but everyone can heal themselves.
The basic fabric of reality is experience. If we wish to discover the source of each and every wound in our timespace-avatar-selves, we will invariably find those sources in our own experience (past lives included). The resolution of our experiences of woundedness cannot ever be found in the abstraction we call the world. True resolutions demand a creative approach. (Almost by definition, resolution HAS to be novel/creative– obviously it’s never been done before… or it would’ve already been resolved, right?) Creativity can only come from within. When we use that creativity to redress our own experiences in brand new meanings and significance, we settle– once and for all– the perturbations in our consciousness… and remove one more thing the world is BOUND to reflect… and take another step out of the matrix.
And once we’ve taken all the steps…? Once we’ve settled all the perturbations… what then?
Well, then I reckon we’re free to create whatever the fuck we want– in full recognition that we will experience our own creations as both cause and effect, for which, both, we are responsible.
In the current paradigm we inhabit, we’re already food; a good first step toward extricating ourselves from the consumer paradigm is consciously choosing what we’d like to feed. We are the very basis for the entire food chain… such a choice would have enormous repercussions.
Self and environment is the basic dichotomy creating relativistic (relational) space.
You are what you eat. Am I the air that I breathe? Am I the environment? How am I NOT the environment?
Is not my inner life hopelessly dependent upon sustenance from the external environment? Debatable. We do certainly seem to inhabit a paradigm of ubiquitous consumerism.
That’s the basic nature of the game we’ve agreed to play (experience). And the only way to ever end that game is to creatively come up with a resolution for all of our insatiable hungers. What might such resolutions look like? I haven’t a clue… but I know that we’ll find them… through some crazy-ass collaboration or such.
All of reality is the romance between Spirit and the imagined self.
Everything we typically do can be done creatively. We’re already creating the experiences we’re having; why not throw our creative intent into the mix? When we intend, internally, to experience life from an aspect of Being– like lovingly or analytically, for example– Spirit asserts its inherent creativity to bring that state of Being about.
Fear is a form of tacit consent.
Now that’s a tricky little bitch, ain’t it?
You can only fear a thing if you believe that it might happen. If you don’t believe there’s any chance it might happen, you can’t be afraid of it. If you inwardly intend growth, then it is Spirit’s obligation to present you with your most persistent fears until you re-solve them. Creativity cannot spring from fear. But when fears are outmaneuvered and outgrown, only unfettered creativity remains. Fear can motivate, but it cannot truly inspire.
We can only fear a thing with which we have an acquaintance (experience). A specific fear is a persistent perturbation in our consciousness. The constant energy drain of fear fuels its need for further expression, the need to experience it again… until it is fully faced and truly overcome.
Fearlessness kicks ass! So I hear.
We won’t pierce the veil all at once. We’ll tear it down bit-by-bit, in tatters and shreds. No matter what wondrous pseudo-resolutions the reflection presents, we still have to be facing the right direction, addressing our own persistent perturbations in consciousness, inwardly.
I’ve shared with you here some of my more recent perturbations, albeit fairly creative ones. Perhaps it’s not all new, but in this very presentation you’re reading right now, I’ve become more grounded in a new understanding, dodging and weaving through these jumbled thoughts… in a new– for me– way. I haven’t given you here meticulous elaborations; rather, I’ve left these as big horkin’ chunks of food-for-thought that you can masticate, digest and assimilate (or reject) in your own unique way.
I seem to find it useful to say basically the same thing a thousand different ways. It’s tough, exhausting work to break these habits of perception!
Well, there. I’ve cleared my plate. Perhaps some things have been put to rest…
I closed the computer; that was enough for now. I would proof it in the morning and upload it to the blog tomorrow.
It was cold and getting dark rapidly. Sitka and I got to bed pretty early. I had been fast asleep when a muffled bark from Sitka woke me. There was someone in the tent hovering above me with a flashlight. Sitka was licking his face enthusiastically already as I pieced the situation together.
“Felix?” I asked squinting.
“Indeed,” he said rather grimly, and that’s when I noticed the gun beside the flashlight. The gun was pointed at me, at my head. He pressed the barrel to the side of my head.
“Felix, what the fuck!” I squeaked like a terribly distressed damsel.
“What?” he queried sarcastically, “you didn’t think Mossad were the good guys, did you?”
He lowered the flashlight from my eyes so that I could see the grim determination on his face in the shadows. Whatever Felix might have become, he was serious at the very least.
Because the muzzle was pressed right up against my skull, I could hear the movement of mechanisms as he pulled the trigger… and then the gun went off. It was loud. I mean, fuck!… it was loud!
And then my brains splashed all over Sitka and the inside of my tent… or so I imagined…
(The Whole World’s Going Crazy by April Wine, title track from their 1976 album on vinyl)
For a related discussion held recently among myself and the Earth Soul Group admins, answering group member questions, please check out our YouTube posting HERE.
Go to the Next Episode of Running Dialogue
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
Go to the Next Episode of Running Dialogue
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.
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