The Free Radical

Narrated Version Recommended.

“Oh, tell me what’s happened!”

“First a cup of grog, Ma. First a cup of grog.”

The old hag rocked forward in a chair not specifically designed to rock, though it had recently acquired that feature from a combination of overuse and prudent neglect. Its joints creaked and groaned as she set about spilling weak and oxidized beer over most of the surface of the table, some of which, however, serendipitously splashed into wooden cups that, like the old lady, seldom left the table– and certainly never to be washed… again, much like the old lady.

“Ah, thanks Ma,” said the eldest as the three boys arranged themselves around the table according to the random placement of the cups of grog. The cups were quickly and unceremoniously drained as the eldest grabbed the pitcher from Ma’s jitterbugging grasp to proceed with a refill… without all the tragic spillage.

“So… what’s happened? Did you see Master Hoodwink? Did you kick him in the arse?”

“Oh, damn near, Ma. Damn near,” replied the eldest.

“It was glorious,” continued the youngest, attempting to wrest the narrative from his older brother. “There must’ve been at least… at least… thirty of us! Or more!”

“Truly there were hundreds, perhaps a thousand,” corrected the elder between sighs. He couldn’t understand why his little brother could not fathom a number greater than thirty. He had tried to explain numerous times the straightforwardness of thirty-one and beyond… but alas, to no avail. “A great unruly and angry mob we were too– all the vale’s finest rabble set to a noble task. We brandished pitchforks and shovels… and sticks hewn to a ferocious point.”

“And clumps of dirt,” interjected the middling one.

“Yes, yes, of course, clumps of dirt… and rocks… and other menacing things.”

The old lady toothlessly smiled her approval. “Did you storm the castle?”

“Storm indeed. A veritable squall of unrelenting squalor–” The elder paused a moment wondering if he’d gotten that quite right, but quickly decided that it certainly sounded good, and so blustered on confidently. “We marched right up to the Ivory Tower–”

“Not the Ivory Tower!”

“Oh yes! The Ivory Tower indeed!”

“And was Hoodwink there? Locked away in his precious rook?”

“Rook? Oh, you mean like a castle from a chessboard. I don’t think the words are interchangeable.”

“Actually,” began the middling one interposing, “as a transitive verb, to rook means to defraud by cheating or swindling.”

“Oh well then, very good. Rook would seem most apt, Ma. Nicely done.” Ma flashed again her shiny pink gums proudly. “But can it be renouned?”

The middling brother scratched his head– because it was itchy. And then a look of puzzlement overtook his countenance. “Do you mean renowned as in famous? Because I don’t follow–”

“No, no, I mean, can the verb ‘rook’ be so easily converted back into a noun whilst still retaining its verbial denotation?”

“Oh, I see… Perhaps as a gerund… Yes, as a gerund; I don’t see why not.”

“Fuck yer grammar!” shouted Ma.

And the youngest snickered as he’d heard “Fuck your grandma,” and well, he tended to laugh at things like that which were wholly inappropriate.

“Back to the arse-kicking!” insisted the old lady.

“Right. Well, there we were, a thousand strong, ringing the base of Hoodwink’s Ivory Tower, shaking our fists threateningly and mightily raising our voices in a din of discontent.”

“I stamped my feet,” added the youngest.

“That’s a good boy,” replied Ma, patting his hand approvingly.

“I threw a clump of dirt,” said the middling one, not wanting to be outdone.

“And what did you hit, dear?”

“Um… well, it sailed on past the bloody… rook…” All heads briefly nodded in consenting acknowledgement of his cutting-edge word-usage. “But had Hoodwink been looking out at that precise moment, he would not have been able to mistake my intimidatory intent.”

“Good… show,” said Ma in a strange congealing mixture of pity and pride.

“Anyway,” continued the eldest, “we were really carrying on most impolitely, fashioning quite a sizable hullaballoo which even Hoodwink himself would’ve been hard-pressed to ignore– had he had the common decency to even notice us.”

“He didn’t!”

“What?”

“Notice you, I mean.”

“No. He. Did. Not… for really quite a lengthy time… a time well-used, I might add, to significantly raise our ire.”

“Our what?”

“Our ire. Our ire.”

“I think he’s suddenly turned into a pirate!”

“No! Our ire. Our indignation!”

“Oh, indignation. Mine was sky-high, I can tell you. By the time Hoodwink finally poked his head out the window… to spit, I was more than a tad miffed. And when his gob, his loogey, his elite sputum landed, well I was, right then, easily nine-sixteenths of the way to pissed right off!”

“Did it land on you, dear?”

“No, it fell harmlessly to the ground a few feet away… But that’s not the point! Just think what might’ve happened if I’d been milling about in a more haphazard fashion right then!”

“Oh perish the thought, dear. That Hoodwink’s a beast, he is!”

“May I continue?” asked the eldest from somewhere amongst the endless side-streets and tangents.

“Who’s stopping ya?” prodded the middling one, as he promised to drown any further interruptions in another cup of grog.

“As luck would have it,” continued the eldest, “Hoodwink was apparently in the habit of following with his gaze those globs of lung butter to their landing far below. And so… he noticed us. And scowled.”

“Probably upset that his yellow jello missed.”

“I’m sure. I’m sure… And once he was mostly done with the scowling, he shouted down ‘Can I help you?’ but the scowl still lingered ever-so-slightly, so, I for one, was not about to fall for such blatantly false altruism. He was clearly in no mind to help anyone!”

“I should say not! And how did you respond?”

“Well, I called his bluff… is what I done. I shouted back ‘Yes!’ And then there followed the most awkward of pregnant pauses… lasting quite well along into the third trimester.”

“Awkward for him,” spoke up the youngest. “I knew what was what.”

“Uh-huh. We waited, and he stared down at us impatiently. But we waited some more. I wasn’t going to say a single thing more until impatience turned to righteous annoyance. He was sliding effortlessly into bothered… his annoyance rather imminent, when suddenly the chap beside me hollered up ‘We’re declaring sovereignty!’”

“He didn’t!”

“He did!”

“Just like that? Without so much as a ‘Pardon me, but I think I’d like to interject if you’d permit me’?”

“With not so much as a tug on my sleeve… or a even a nudge. Just spoke right up!”

“Rude. That’s what it is. People’ve lost the fine art of conversation. It’s uncivilized! So anyway, what did Hoodwink say to that?”

“At first he said ‘What?’ Apparently he hadn’t heard. The tower really is quite tall… and the wind was blowing a bit, so it might’ve been rather difficult to hear. Now, the chap who’d just spoken out of turn opened his mouth to repeat the declaration, perhaps a little bit louder. But I’m not one to miss an opportunity for redemption…”

“I should think not! What did you do?”

“I jabbed him with my menacingly-hewn stick. He uttered something along the lines of ‘Ow!’ but I plowed ahead undaunted. ‘We are declaring sovereignty… sir!’ I can’t for the life of me fathom why I added the ‘sir.’ I mean, any proper declaration of sovereignty… or really anything having to do with sovereignty at all should remain bereft of ‘sirs’ and ‘madams’ and the like. But I suppose it was just out of habit.”

“Gonna be tough for us all to kick the sniveling habit. You always were a fine sniveler.”

“Ah well, at least I never got drawn into the groveling much.”

“Much… So then what did Hoodwink say?”

“‘Be right down,’ I think it was. And to be perfectly honest, he was down among us in a proper jiffy. Must’ve taken the stairs two at a time the whole way down. So anyway, there he was standing among us, the flesh-and-blood man, and we thronged him on every side. He was hopelessly marooned in a sea of recalcitrant miscreants eyeing him with mischievous wrath… a right threatening lot we were. And he said ‘What’s this then about declaring sovereignty?’ He asked it smooth as silk. And before any of the other rabble got a mind to speak up, I said ‘We want our freedom.’ And the brandishing of our minacious implements of intimidation– including the clumps of dirt– reached a crescendo. It was clear we meant business.”

“Oh my! Whatever could he say to that… in such an untenable position?”

“He said ‘Um… no.’”

“No? He said no? How could he say no? You kicked his arse, right?”

“Oh many a pendulous leg was drawn into pre-kicking position, I can tell you. Menacingly-hewn sticks were pointed right at him. Even a clump or two of dirt were hurled in his direction– missing by mere inches. We were like a pack of wildcats ready to pounce–”

“Cats don’t really pack together like wolves or ungulates,” corrected the middling one.

“Right then. How about jackals? Would jackals be more suitable?”

“Yes, quite. But I hardly think that jackals would pounce. Perhaps ‘ready to strike’ would be better.”

“But that’s more reminiscent of serpents,” added the youngest. “Serpents strike.”

“We were like a pack of jackals ready to… advance?”

“Naw, too militaristic for jackals.”

“How about ready to… charge?”

“No, now we’re back to ungulates.”

“We were like a pack of jackals ready to… attack…?”

“A bit drab, but yeah, ‘attack’ works for me.”

“I think ‘pounce’ would’ve been fine.”

“Either way.”

“We were like a pack of snarling jackals ready to… slake our bloodlust.” The eldest paused for approval.

“Nicely done.”

“I snarled some. Really, I did.”

“And Hoodwink… he waved the white flag.”

“He surrendered!” shouted Ma with glee.

“No. That’s what we’d thought at first. No, the white flag was really a sheet of paper… from the king’s registry. It was the record of our bondage into perpetual slavery issued upon our birth at the moment our names were catalogued in the royal archive. He had all the proper paperwork.”

Stunned silence prevailed, until the youngest squeaked a tiny fart followed by a robust giggle.

“You’ve done a bit of lawyering,” Ma said to the middling one, not wanting to let the fight go so easily. “Did ya thoroughly scrutinize his fancy documentation?”

“I did, Ma. All the i’s were dotted; all the t’s were crossed. We have no legal standing. We’re slaves.”

“Ah well then, if he’s got all the appropriate paperwork… there’s not much we can do about that, is there?”

Narrated Version click HERE.

A worker for the status quo: “Look, I’ve got to feed my family! Even if it means that the planet and all life upon it is destroyed in the process.”

This is today’s logic.

As a planetary collective, we are riding a train whose destination is catastrophe. Half of the passengers are snug and dreaming in their sleeper beds oblivious to any inkling of impending doom. The other half are milling about, checking out the other comforts and amenities aboard the train. Mostly, life inside the train seems actually pretty good.

The most curious of the passengers have begun to look out the windows to view the passing scenery. At first it’s rather pleasant– pristine vistas eventually giving way to sprawling rural agriculture. Calm, peaceful, sane. Then, the first outposts of industrialization come into view. Factories and refineries dot the landscape, coughing the dirty smoke from their enterprise into the air. It appears to dissipate, though.

As the journey continues, agriculture becomes more industrialized, more factories crowd the landscape, the air becomes visibly thick with the phlegm and sputum of the incredible productivity of meeting the demands of a pathogenic consumerism. And the train rushes on.

Eventually, a particularly far-sighted passenger pokes his head outside the window to see where exactly the train is headed. “Uh-oh… but that can’t be!” He begins to push his way through the throng of other passengers, attempting to get to the engine… and hopefully, the engineer.

Finally he arrives at the front of the train, and the scene that he’d glimpsed from the side window is now undeniably painted across the front windshield of the locomotive before him. “Stop the train!” he shouts at the engineer. The engineer shrugs and explains that he can’t.

“But we’re headed straight for that mountain!”

“Indeed.”

“But… there’s no tunnel.”

“Quite true.”

“We’re all going to die!”

“Very likely.”

“But… but… you have to do something!”

“I am doing something.”

“Yeah, you’re driving this train full speed into the side of that mountain up ahead!”

“That’s my job.”

The passenger is perplexed. Although the engineer’s answers appear to be truthful, they make absolutely no sense. He tries a different tack.

“Can I stop the train?”

“By yourself? No.”

“Can I get off the train?”

The engineer considers for a moment. “You may survive such a leap from a fast-moving train, but even so, our catastrophic impact is so near that you would very likely be consumed in the impending explosion anyway.”

The passenger feels defeated. He whispers “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why is this happening?”

“Intention.”

“What?!”

“This is merely the natural consequence of humanity’s collective intent.”

“Are you saying that collectively we’re intending to all die suddenly in a horrible cataclysm?”

“Not exactly.”

“Can you explain?”

“A train like this has a great deal of inertia. It takes tremendous energy to get it moving. But once it begins to accelerate, it quickly builds incredible momentum. The energy it utilizes is the intent of its passengers. Do you begin to understand?”

“Not really. I don’t think that any one of us is truly intending to drive this train straight into the side of a mountain, killing us all in the process.”

“True. And yet so very few are intending a different outcome. The intentions of the majority are elsewhere.”

“Where? Where are their intentions focused?”

“Almost exclusively inside the train. Their intentions no longer reach outside of the train. Their lives are here, aboard the train.”

“But they don’t know that they’re all about to die!”

The engineer shrugs. “Intention without awareness is inherently and precariously dangerous.”

“Why do you not seem to care?”

“Because caring might interfere with my duties, and–”

“And it’s your duty to drive this train straight into the side of a mountain!”

“At the moment, that would appear to be so. I drive the train according to its passengers’ cumulative intent.”

“You say that it appears to be so… that we’ll soon be killed in a terrible collision. Is it not indeed so?”

“I help facilitate the future, but I neither predict nor create it. Things– aboard the train– are rarely quite as they appear.”

“Please help me to understand.”

“Hm… a train like this tends to exist in a one-track mind;
And you might find as you ponder this– that singular track–
Ends in a bind, an inescapable fact of a most unsettling kind.
But how true is your point of view as you follow each other,
Sister and brother, single file for quite a lengthy while,
Never wondering much what else you might do… to reconcile
The promptings and churnings of your own inner yearnings
And the untold futures they may hold for you?
It’s a misuse of brains when people start thinking like trains,
Becoming slaves to the rails and all that entails,
Playing follow-the-leader when there’s really no need for…
Well, any of it… ‘cause it’s all really bullshit.
But you’re free to declare whatever drama you’d share
With huddled masses… all wrapped in despair,
Bemoaning your common fate, now to die… How unfair!
But ask yourself why would you choose such a lie, such a scare–
If you dare, for it’s never too late to lift the weight
Of the world from your shoulders…
For the way trains are built, and at last at full-tilt
They inevitably crash into boulders.
Could it be that minds are more like forests and gardens,
And less of pathways and tracks, not for carrying burdens
Or even transporting “facts”? They’re to grow and expand
Like an unclenching hand, reaching in all new directions.
The glorious future doesn’t actually spring from the past,
Nor is it found among familiar selections.
No, a thought has no mass nor any momentum–
At least until it’s been attached to intention.
And if you want something new then the things that you do
Must come from your own invention.
And allow me to mention as I explain once again
To dispel all the tension among the insane…
“Look man, you’re not a fucking train!”

Narrated Version click HERE.

The following “conversation” originally occurred in 5D telepathically, and has been subsequently rendered into a 3D format. Translated by Ellie.

Boy: Grampa, I’m having a difficult time trying to understand how all the people of the False Light Earth were deceived on such a grand scale. When the time for transformation arrives, the whole universe lends a hand, does it not?

Grampa: Indeed, but the other side of the equation is that maximum deception is employed as well, attempting to thwart such transformations. Evolution is a real pressure-cooker, especially this last go-round– the Path of Mastery. The task for each of us is to emerge from our universal journey as Master Creators exactly on par with the Creator of this universe. To become a true master, one must be severely and thoroughly tested. The Deceivers work against evolution… and yet with it.

Boy: How was the deception wrought?

Grampa: A really good elaborate lie, in order to be believed, must consist nearly entirely of truth. The more truth a lie contains, the greater its chance of slipping past the intellect and even intuition. If ninety-nine percent of a message resonates with the receiver, the one percent that does not is often likely to go unnoticed.

Boy: So the Deceivers imparted a great deal of truth, and yet…

Grampa: Perhaps a better word would be that they conceded a great deal of truth. They could afford to reveal a great deal about dimensional shifting and the nature of the universe as long as they kept a few foundational obfuscations sacrosanct.

Boy: Such as?

Grampa: I guess the really big one was light, what it is and where it comes from. From the mouths of the Deceivers, light is everything. This universe is a construct of light.

Boy: Well, it is and it isn’t. At best that’s only half true.

Grampa: And if I was to ask you what the foundational element for constructing a universe such as this might be, what would you say?

Boy: Well, light– along with co-ordinate space and co-ordinate time– make up the reactionary half of our universal experience, but they originate in motion. So I suppose my answer would be motion.

Grampa: “In the beginning was The Word.” The Word is sound. Sound is always derived from motion. So yes, I would agree. Motion brings space and time into being in an inverse or reciprocal relationship (velocity=space/time). But motion of what? What moved to spark this existence?

Boy: Obviously, not an object, for no object can pre-exist time and space. So if not object… then subject. Consciousness moved.

Grampa: And as humans, how do we commonly experience a discrete movement in consciousness?

Boy: As a feeling!

Grampa: So then, we could say that feelings are the foundational element from which this existence is structured?

Boy: A feeling is a discrete motion in consciousness… so yes, feelings are the source of this universe.

Grampa: Now that’s a far cry from declaring that light is the basic building block, wouldn’t you say?

Boy: Well, light is love…

Grampa: Not exactly. And here’s where the subtleties matter. Love is the most basic unit of harmonized motion. Love, as a movement in consciousness, creates space, time and light– the primal trinity. Love is the cause, and light is the effect. Love is a movement, and light is the reaction or the resistance to love. “For every action there is an opposite and equal reaction.”

Boy: So how were so many deceived into thinking that the effect was actually the cause?

Grampa: Earth history is a dastardly affair. Long ago humans were traumatized and brutalized until confusion reigned and they had utterly forgotten themselves. Many of the Deceivers stepped in then, posing as saviors and teachers. They laid plans stretching for millennia in multi-layered deceits to ensnare humanity. Feelings were consistently marginalized as the material world of matter was glorified. Eventually, humanity accepted that the world of matter and energy was all that mattered. The origins of matter and energy remained wholly mysterious, as it simply would not have occurred to them that their own feelings were literally the cause of the entire world of effect they found themselves immersed within. Such a basic, yet far-reaching, mistake had grave consequences as you might imagine.

Boy: It might’ve been like living within a painting of one’s own creation without knowing that it was just a painting.

Grampa: An excellent analogy, boy! They thought themselves to be the canvas and the paint, and could even deduce the brushes and the palette. But our own hearts are the brushstrokes that create the picture. Our spiritual hearts literally are the movements bringing it all into being. Light was eventually touted by the Deceivers as the stuff that higher dimensional worlds are made of… as though a masterpiece chiefly consists of paint, and not the refined skill of the artist.

Boy: But why do the Deceivers deceive? What’s their motivation?

Grampa: It’s become a matter of survival really. It has to do with motion in consciousness versus the movement of consciousness. Life in this universe is a phenomenon of polarity. As consciousness as a whole moves forward, the net result is a positive charge. The reactive universe resists or tests that forward movement thus creating the negative charge. The interaction between the polarities creates the life force. When consciousness as a whole ceases to move forward, life ends. The Deceivers, through their own arrogance, abandoned the evolutionary journey. Their consciousness no longer moves forward. They are exquisitely skilled at motions in consciousness, allowing them to manipulate and construct elaborate light realms, but for their very survival they must continually steal life force energy from others. They are stagnant and stuck, but through their elaborate rouses have donned the facade of gods.

Boy: They claim superiority?

Grampa: Oh, indeed they do.

Boy: But we are all exactly equal.

Grampa: Yes, and that brings us to a few more foundational deceptions wrought in cunning subtlety. In the False Light Realms, for instance, it is accepted that we are all created by God, and therefore our immortality is a bestowment. Eternity is our reward for a successful sojourn here.

Boy: But eternity has no beginning as well as no end. I have always been… and I am not sourced here; I transcend this universe.

Grampa: You have glimpsed the multiverse, and therefore know yourself outside of this singular creation– the uni-verse. Yes, we are all guests here. We are immortals from the multiverse. We are all creators exactly equal to the one who created this universe… and we are all different. We each employ unique modes and methods for constructing realities in the multiverse, and then we share our unique creations with each other. We invite each other in to experience the realities we create within ourselves. We are right now literally as embryos inside the body of the Creator of this universe, learning his modality of creation, so that we too will become masters of creating through discrete movements in consciousness or feelings.

Boy: So God is as a friend, an equal, teaching us a new skill through immersion.

Grampa: Exactly. The Deceivers, however, would have us believe that we are all pieces of the Creator, parts of God… so when the journey ends, so do we, relinquishing our immortality to him. This is not to be seen as a loss or a sacrifice since we sprang from God in the first place. Again, the differences are subtle but profound.

Boy: I can see that there is still much truth in this narrative. Our embodiments are indeed sourced in the Creator, and as we sojourn here we are very much at one with this universe and all within it.

Grampa: Yes, we each carry a fractal of the entire universe within us– or, a fractal of God, if you prefer. Call it our passport. It serves to calibrate us to this creation throughout our journeys here. This does ensure unity or oneness, but again, in a slightly different way than what the Deceivers would have us believe. Our oneness or unity here belongs to this universe, but does not represent the totality of ourselves. We are multiversal traveling spirits, achieving oneness with each unique creation which we immerse ourselves within. This kind of oneness never demands conformity, for it is diversity which gives our individual journeys value and meaning. Or another way of saying it is that we each realize our at-one-ness with the universe in a unique or individualistic way. The very parameters of existence within this universe impose the only conformity necessary– and it is purely automatic. We are always explorers and pioneers, and never the servants of hierarchy.

Boy: How many Deceivers are there within the False Light Realms?

Grampa: That’s very difficult to answer. Many whom we may call Deceivers do not know themselves as such. They have simply been indoctrinated into the deception and then promulgate it in perfect sincerity. The False Light Realms are still very much hierarchical, and even as we look to the top we might find that the False God merely suffers from self-deception and believes in the sanctity of what he’s doing.

Boy: It sounds like it must be difficult at times to identify who the Deceivers are, even from our perspective.

Grampa: There are a few key ideas to keep in mind when determining whether another is ally or foe. A true ally will seek always to empower. There is no point to forging alliances with weak and ineffectual beings, unless for dubious purposes of control. True alliances occur among equals only. Alliances foster co-operation among sovereigns, not dependencies. Evolution is never about who you know, or following the special codes and procedures developed by others. It is a process of self-learning mastery. When evolution is presented as a gift from another, it is deception.

Boy: I understand that I will need to refine my discernment as I accompany you into the False Light Realms, Grampa. These are delicious subtleties indeed. I look forward to the challenge.
____________________________________________________________________

Author’s Note: The preceding conversation was derived from a synthesis of the ideas contained in the following material:

Our Universal Journey by George Kavassilas
Nothing But Motion by Dewey B. Larson
Beyond Space and Time by Dewey B. Larson
Butterflies Are Free To Fly by Stephen Davis

And I just want to say that Larsonian physics is elegantly fascinating!

It only wants to be clever, recognized, stroked and stoked–
Even when it’s clearly the butt of the joke,
But the mind is like an old canoe’s paddle
Unsuited for oceans; more for puddles of prattle.
Your life is titanic when you posit a spirit,
But the life of your mind may biologically fear it.
So then the heart is no captain, more of a rudder–
It doesn’t guide, teach or punish; it isn’t your mother.
Your heart is the way… into uncharted waters.
It knows the way… it knows, and nothing else matters.
For no matter the effort one spends to deny it,
In the end we must learn we cannot defy it.
We can hire consultants, advisers, attorneys…
But their expertise knows jack-shit of our journeys.
There is but one eye who ever reads your heart true,
It is your own inward gaze, so quietly you.
And all of your questions about life, love and cancer,
Your heart is quite thrilled to easily answer.
But don’t expect to hear words, or receive a prompt healing.
The heart speaks precisely in the language of feeling.
The mind loves perplexities and all sorts of excuses,
As the heart patiently accepts all its abuses.
And as your thoughts churn a tizzy into a fit…
Your heart marches on… never minding a bit.

The Greatest King

The thing about the Greatest King,
those who’re listening
might appreciate,
Is… though he may know
Joy,
he couldn’t understand–
he was only eight–
How was he supposed to be great?
“I’m just a boy
from a far off distant land!”
Not gonna lie,
he was only five
When he took flight
to that distant quarter.
The thing about that far-off land–
please understand–
A king with a ruling hand
Had never tamed… her border.
The boy had been named the Greatest King…
But who could lay blame or utter disdain or
anything… disparaging?
It was just a name–
the same lame game
we’re all called to play…
As Rotbaggers or Kings,
we’re called many things…
And then the things that we say!
So often disagreeable;
But such mountains build up…
And the Greatest King would near sing
“Fuck! I’d say that’s definitely skiable!”
Yes, the boy loved snow and
strapping things to his feet.
And you know… he’d even go to meet
Death in the snow– such conceit!
But he had such faith, he’d show,
in those things on his feet…
And little-by-little he gained understanding:
At the extreme, the middle’s demanding–
the launch and the flight
are only as good as the landing,
and should he die in his boots…
He might even be standing!
And to die like a man commanding respect…
…except he’d be dead– no condition to expect
much of anything ahead…
Silly King!
Best not to die… quite… yet.
Other adventures lay in wait
For those skirting fate
and willing to love more than just blizzards.
Whether first, worst or best
a friend is a test,
Especially when he’s a wizard.
And where but here among
rhyme or jest
Could the Greatest King meet a Zymurgist?
For a Zymurgist is a kind of wizard,
Near and dear to nearly everyone here–
A Zymurgist is a Wizard of Beer!
Oh dear!
Let’s be clear… a Wizard of Beer
Is no one to fear,
But his expertise in all things beer
was merely a disguise…
and underneath a crazy kind of wise
belied his bloodshot weary eyes.
“Come here,” he sighed,
“And tell me what you’ve realized.”
And the King had to think,
For he didn’t wish to appear
deficient or queer,
a fool or a dink, so he raised up his drink
and said “Um… I like beer.”
The Wizard laughed politely
and immediately thought it rude,
So he mustered up a belly laugh
that ended… in a puke– you know,
just one of those… little sour flows…
up into your throat… or maybe your nose,
not much, but just such enough
to make one sputter and cough…
and utter at last “To start off…
I was just trying to laugh.”
Now there’s more to hear, you know
than about beer and snow and such–
But not much!
There’s this one other thing
that our recalcitrant King–
A flower– that a boy needs to pluck;
For boys will be boys… and kings with their things…
Well, you know how a boy loves… his truck?
Well the Greatest King found his luck on a string
that pulled him from the lure of the loner–
Let’s please understand that a King is a man
with two hands… and an occasional boner.
But the tug on this string was no ordinary thing:
The rhythm of a new different drummer…
And the King who loved winter
Started a fling
With a girl ironically named Summer.
Now at the risk of high treason
let’s fill in the seasons…
As we’d expect, perhaps with regret,
He was prone to forget… What
was the King inept at remembering?
Anything… and all… and that was his fall,
with autumnal grace
he’d say straight to your face
“I just forgot… That’s all.”
Okay, dearest King
That brings us to spring
and the planting of seeds… and ideation.
What might you need
that would ever exceed
the choices of your own creation?
Indeed, spring is no season… for philosophy
And the King would proclaim
on his good name
that “No one is the boss of me!”
Agreed! Indeed! Nothing to concede.
Let’s leave this atrocity
before it recedes
into a paucity of words…
But all things… being equal
I retain the rights to the sequel.

Introduction Newsletter 14

Intro 14

“…part of the package of being a living thinking being is that you get a galaxy-sized object inside you.” – Terrence McKenna (History’s Fractal Mountain – Paranoise)

100 years after ascension, in the palindromic year of 2112, the following conversation took place– telepathically, in 5D, and has been subsequently rendered into a 3D format:

Boy: Was there really seven billion people on Earth at one time, Grampa?

Grampa: Maybe even more.

Boy: What happened to all those people? Why aren’t they here with us?

Grampa: I’m ever hopeful that they’ll be along shortly.

Boy: Grampa, it’s been a hundred years! What are they doing?

Grampa: Still trying to figure out the whole ascension thing, I reckon.

Boy: But ascension is easy!

Grampa: Yup. ‘Bout as easy as falling in love. Doesn’t require much doing or thinking. Just a heartbeat’ll do it.

Boy: So… why aren’t they here yet… if it’s so simple?

Grampa: In and around the year of ascension, 2012, the world was a very… let’s say, complex place. The people lived in their heads. Any thinking, no matter how seemingly rational and utterly meticulous, when it’s disconnected from the heart, leads inevitably deeper and deeper into confusion. Interestingly, such confusion would typically manifest as sheer intellectual arrogance. And you simply can’t teach people who believe that they already know. Today they are still mired in the habits of that “knowing.”

Boy: What do you mean by habits of knowing, Grampa?

Grampa: Perhaps habits of perception would be more accurate… or not. You have to understand– and this might be difficult for you– nearly all of those people, living at that time, saw the universe as something outside of themselves.

Boy: Certainly Grampa, this isn’t difficult, for reality is a projection.

Grampa: No boy, you misunderstand. You were born here, raised with this knowledge. We are portals; we are gatekeepers. As integrated sovereigns, we shape reality as it emerges through us. But a hundred years ago, very very few could grasp this fundamental truth. They saw themselves as actors on a stage built by the hands of unseen others. Reality was singular and seemingly fixed in place; its dynamism and mutability lay firmly in the hands of far-off deities or strictly esoteric, unobservable natural forces. Whatever came into their lives came from without.

Boy: But that’s absurd! Reality comes through me… right here!

Grampa: Hm, yes, through the heart. Indeed. So many tried in earnest to grasp the concept… and failed.

Boy: But it’s not a concept. It’s an experience!

Grampa: And that’s what I’m trying to tell you boy! Everything was a concept. Ideas were valued above experiences. Thinking replaced knowing. Simple authenticity was abandoned in favour of elaborate theorizing.

Boy: But… but… oh, this is so terribly confusing! Didn’t the people at least occasionally fall in love?

Grampa: Oh, indeed they did. Frequently, I’d say.

Boy: And this too was seen as an external thing? How could it be?

Grampa: Falling in love was an aberration, an anomaly. They didn’t know what to think about it, so it was taken for granted… and marginalized.

Boy: What! They ignored love?

Grampa: No, that would be impossible… being the only “thing” in creation that is truly real. No, they just habitually downplayed love’s significance… because it wouldn’t yield to their incessant intellectualizations; it wasn’t that important.

Boy: But they could feel love?

Grampa: Oh indeed, every bit as much as we do. But when they’d fall in love it was often looked upon as a form of temporary insanity. You see, when the head rules, the heart is the enemy.

Boy: Grampa, I’m trying to understand this; truly I am. I’m picturing a child asking his mother “How will I know when I have fallen in love?” And there is naught but one answer which the mother may speak. “You will just know; it is unmistakeable. You will know.” Loving is knowing… and thinking has no bearing. How can love ever become so subservient?

Grampa: The old Earth has long been a prison planet. The original trap was set many thousands of years ago.

Boy: The Archons?

Grampa: You know of them?

Boy: From stories.

Grampa: I still prefer to call them ankle-biters. “Archon” is too regal a title for such ignobility. They are masterful though, in their mimicry and deception. Long ago, through a tragic misunderstanding, they exercised their freewill collectively to sever their connection to Source. They opted out of love’s Creation. As such, they are powerless to create, for they lack the energetic resources, so they imitate and deceive in order to siphon energy from other freewill beings.

Boy: But who would choose to willingly support such parasites?

Grampa: Here I must introduce those old Earth beings known as the intercessors– the priests and politicians foremost among them. The intercessors were very much the human equivalent of the ankle-biters… and very much their servants. Society was structured at that time such that the average citizen would periodically cast a vote for a particular politician who would then, if elected, make all the myriad decisions about public policy for those who had empowered him. In this manner, the citizen was required to make only a single critical decision once every few years, and in the meantime, his political representative would make all of the decisions of import in his stead. This was universally looked upon as an enlightened form of governance known as representative democracy.

Boy: Did they understand nothing of sovereignty?

Grampa: As a concept… assuredly. Experientially… not at all. There were hardly any sovereigns at that time.

Boy: But at least the citizens understood that they had given their power away?

Grampa: No, not at all. Power had become externalized. It was something that existed out in the world somewhere; it did not reside to any significant degree in individuals. Those few who recognized their bequest of power, invariably looked upon it as a trivial thing.

Boy: But Grampa! They had hearts beating in their chests! How could such a situation ever come into being?

Grampa: Here I must speak of the other intercessors, the priests. The tale of how it was actually accomplished is one for another day, but the priests inserted themselves between God and man. The average citizen could only contact Source through the agency of the priesthood.

Boy: But… but… the connection to Source is forever in one’s own heart! How can another get between a man and his own heart?

Grampa: The heart is infinite, and freewill, absolute. It could only be done through invitation… and beguiling deceit.

Boy: Like the old vampire stories where a vampire can only hurt you if you invite him in.

Grampa: Exactly. The whole world invited the intercessors in… and embraced them… adoringly… for millennia. And it is precisely this which you must understand when considering The Shift of a hundred years ago. The layers of deception were generational. Each new generation of children were born into deception, swaddled in fabrications, and were rewarded for their complete indoctrination into the lie. And they would happily pass along the notions and ideas which had distracted their attentions from anything real to their own precious children. And you know how– no wait, you wouldn’t… Nevertheless, lies and deception beget more lies and more deception, lest someone finally begins to see through the illusion. The world seemed so unfathomably complex and confusing, and as more and more struggled to see through the lies, new belief systems were invented, new narratives emerged; everyone had their own take on what was going on in the pageant of ideas run amok.

Boy: So what exactly took place at the time of The Shift?

Grampa: Everything was backwards and upside-down. Confusion reigned. The ankle-biters had grandly deceived humanity once already in the distant past, tricked them into building their own prison. When it was finished and secure, humanity handed the keys to the priests and politicians. The deceivers knew that a time would come when humanity would be offered a divine gift, and they were powerless to prevent it. But what had already worked once was certainly worth another try when the crucial time came. Metaphorically, The Shift is simply God or Source knocking on the internal door of each and every heart, bearing the gift of a new base frequency from which to construct a new and altogether different reality. I can well imagine that when the knock came, so very many would have marched straight for their front doors, and then cursed silently as they opened them to find no one there. Their thoughts had convinced them that they had no ears to hear the din within.

I am still speaking metaphorically of course. Habits of perception and cognition ingrained for a lifetime had so many looking outward, just as the intercessors had hoped. They simply could not conceive of the idea that God would come to them through their own being.

Boy: But that is the only way!

Grampa: ‘S truth. But it just did not occur to them. Disempowered, humanity was ever engaged in the search for suitable allies. They did not believe in their own ability to affect the necessary changes themselves. Gods, angels, ascended masters and every conceivable spirit was sought after in the wide world to build the critical alliances to see ascension successfully through. Even the sciences of the time predominantly turned man’s gaze outward, having long established that nothing of value lay in the inward direction. The search for external answers was thoroughly an unconscious habit.

So at the time of The Shift, the ankle-biters and their minions were ready to seize upon that fundamental deception. Through a systematic flood of “spiritual” narratives they asked the more “spiritually advanced” humans to engage in meditations, prayers and visualizations to assist in building the New Earth. Light grids encircling the planet needed to be constructed– a shiny new prison for an “awakened” humanity. The ankle-biters simply had the humans build a new, fancier, less-restrictive prison for themselves.

Boy: But how did they do it?

Grampa: It was pretty easy, really. The only thing the ankle-biters lacked was the raw, organic, creative energy which only the humans could provide. Given the raw material, they knew exactly what to do with it. The humans were asked, mainly through channelled messages, to connect to the light of the Central Sun through their crown chakras.

Boy: What are chakras?

Grampa: This too is a discussion for another day. But briefly, chakras are false energy systems, set up at the original deception millennia ago, in order to fracture and dilute the Source Light streaming through the heart. So to return… they would connect up first with something external to themselves– the Galactic Centre– somewhere way out there in space, bring then that program– or agenda– into their sacred selves, and freely give their own God/Source Light to it. The “benevolent” galactics would always insist that whatever light energy a single human could provide, they themselves would then magnify a thousandfold or more. The humans deemed it to be a good bargain– though they scarcely had a clue as to what they were building.

Boy: But deception of any kind is not supported energetically by the new base frequency! How could they still be deceived?

Grampa: Much of this occurred prior to the actual moment of ascension. It was still a 3D world where deception and secrecy had dominated unchallenged. Those who took the bait fully expected that they had helped facilitate Earth’s emancipation. When the time to ascend finally arrived, they naturally chose to inhabit the shiny new prison they’d constructed for themselves, thinking it to be a higher dimensional world.

Boy: But surely in time they would begin to realize that something was amiss!

Grampa: That has always been and still is my hope. Every once in a while someone escapes the prison by finding/creating the bridge in their own heart and then reaching for the only true ally humanity has ever known– the Earth herself. At the time of ascension, I was young like you are now, but I was lucky enough to receive the only sound advice I ever needed: “Trust your own heart, boy… and the dirt between your toes.”

Boy: Is there nothing we can do to help them?

Grampa: Certainly there is. In the times when I am periodically away on my adventures, it is to the false prison-earth I go. I counsel and teach… and try to show the way. I reckon you’re near old enough now, boy, to come along if you’d like.

Boy: Yes, I’d like that! Very much!

Grampa: Just be forewarned… it is a very strange place.