“I Do Not Consent” Is an Empty Statement
by nielskunze on March 11, 2016
The Whole of the Lesson Is Herein Contained
In terms of its action in the universe and its power to fundamentally change my experience, “I do not consent” is an empty, meaningless statement.
Conversely, “I withdraw my consent” is an active statement of intent, empowering me to fundamentally change my experience.
Now, let’s look at this subtle difference, and see how profound it really is.
Intent is a positive force, initiating all actions of free will. Without intent, free will cannot express. Intent is active; it summons action.
From the above, it should be clear that the statement “I do not consent” is bereft of intent. It elicits no action. It is a passive statement of position. On its own, it has no power to change anything. It is a statement of disharmony with one’s perception. As such, it can only serve to reinforce that disharmony, offering nothing to displace it.
However, the ever-so-slightly altered statement “I withdraw my consent” addresses both the true situation and its desired remedy. First, it acknowledges that consent has already been given– tacitly, unconsciously. I can only perceive that which I have agreed to experience. If it is in my awareness, it is there by my invitation… in this free will universe. And secondly, if I don’t like it, I can withdraw my consent– which itself is an action– internally, by the movement of consent from the unconscious to my conscious mind… which in turn demands that the external reality must now confirm that internal ‘movement’ by conforming my new perception to the removal of the relevant concession. How my perception changes as a result of withdrawing consent for a particular item is the completion of the movement from unconscious to conscious (this can take any amount of time). The perceived change in the external is the reflection of that internal movement.
Action begets action… in a chain-reactive universe. Every intent ripples through the entire fabric of reality– inner and outer.
Withdrawing consent is a potentially powerful action.
Whereas, any statement that begins with “I do not…”, by definition, cannot– will not– initiate action, which is required for change. Intent cannot participate in that which we do not do. What we do not do… cannot do anything.
Consent is yours… to do with as you please. But by merely “not consenting”, its power is negated. Consent is to be wielded like a sword, boldly carving the parameters of our desired reality. Thrust, parry and WITHDRAW… as we dance atop these fences.
From the Blood of Conifers – Chapter 2: Gram
by nielskunze on March 8, 2016
From the Blood of Conifers
De-Solving the Matrix; Dissolving the Veil
Previous Chapters:
Barred
Chapter 2: Gram
Patrick checked his blood sugar in the car, and insisted that they stop at the drive-through on the way. “If we don’t, I’ll drop dead for sure,” he added to pre-empt any threat of argument.
He had met Jeffrey at the clinic, years ago. Both had been recently diagnosed with type-1 diabetes. Patrick had been just fresh out of a minor coma when the slightly-more-seasoned Jeffrey had agreed to take him under his wing, teaching him about blood sugar levels and injecting yourself with insulin… and such. Jeffrey had been more of a regular guy back then, not quite so damned cheery… as he’d now become.
They had been carpooling for at least the last couple of years. Let’s see.. the station was in its third year of operation, and they were both there from damn near the beginning, so yeah, they’d been doing the environmentally-friendly thing for a little more than two years. You couldn’t claim an environmental conscience– hell, you couldn’t work for the station at all if you weren’t willing to at least carpool.
Patrick had only met Gram once before, years ago. It had been only a month or two after he’d met Jeffrey. It was strange, really; they had visited with Jeffrey’s grandma for a good few hours, but Patrick’s recollection of the ordeal was mostly sketchy. He knew that he’d spoken with the old lady at length, but all he could really remember was that she’d convinced him to start drinking distilled water.
Patrick had been well aware of the controversy with distilled water.
“Whadya think the darn squirrels is drinkin’!” Gram had so eloquently explained. “You think they giddup and haul ass to the river every time they gets thirsty… and then walks two miles back home… until they gets thirsty again? And what you s’posin’ the elk and the deer be havin’ all winter long? They eatin’ snow, that’s what. Now that shit’s distilled. The squirrels be lickin’ the dew off the leaves before the sun properly rise. Distilled water: it don’t dissolve the livin’, but it’ll wash away your dead. Just ask damn near any plant how much they loves the rain! Distilled water is the one pure solvent.” She had nodded her hundred-year-old head emphatically, as though there was no space for argument. And dammit, Patrick had found it compelling. He’d been drinking mostly distilled water ever since. He’d accepted it on the basis of its solvent properties, but honestly, on its own, it hadn’t really solved anything. Still, he could easily imagine that his life might be irrevocably worse if not for these last few years of cleansing and purging. The old woman had convinced him. And other than that brief recollection, Patrick had hardly ever thought about Gram at all.
“The one pure solvent,” he said aloud, as the car turned down the fog-encrusted lane toward Gram’s remote hideaway.
“Yes!” beamed Jeffrey. “And do you remember too what she said after that?”
Patrick was used to having Jeffrey seemingly listen in to his thoughts. Every time Patrick would blurt something out related solely to his own internal dialogue, Jeffrey somehow always knew the context, and responded appropriately– which was so inappropriate in Patrick’s initial assessment; but now that he was used to it, he didn’t really care so much anymore.
As for Jeffrey’s question… No, he hadn’t remembered a single thing more right up until the moment Jeffrey had asked the question. And then it came blurting out in typical Patrick fashion… just as he now recalled it.
“Yeah,” he nodded. “Yeah, there was something about… about… the other one…”
If Jeffrey’s smile had been one whit wider, his cheeks would have exploded. He was all teeth, and the glitter of exuberance… and rainbows, lots of rainbows.
Conversely, Gram’s place was a ramshackle thing… even more than any worn-out cliche. Patrick supposed that at a hundred-and-six Gram wasn’t climbing too many ladders or swinging any hammers. It looked like it had been many years since anyone might’ve attempted any such maintenance. There seemed to be a real threat of collapse as they carelessly slammed the car doors getting out. And still, they ventured inside…
As soon as Patrick crossed the threshold, he remembered something else. Before he’d met Gram, that one time, years ago… he had been quite sure that there were only two black people in the whole valley. And Gram, then, was the third. You remember a thing like that. Patrick usually forgot altogether that Jeffrey was black; it just wasn’t something he regularly noticed. But when you’re suddenly outnumbered two to one– and it’s got nothing whatsoever to do with racism– you notice that kinda shit. Like… oh yeah… these people are black.
Was ‘black’ even right? Well, ‘African-Canadians’ just sounded stupid. ‘Negro’ might make a comeback… but the other ‘n-word’… that was forever taboo. Patrick thought that the whole politically-correct circus was fucking retarded. Such was the gist of Patrick’s thoughts as he was introduced– again– to Gram.
“Political correctness is for fags!”
That was one hell of an opening line for a hundred-and-six-year-old black woman to dish up… not to mention that, she too, could similarly read his mind. Patrick wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he just laughed… and that seemed to go over well enough. When the general laughter died down, he said “Um, excuse me, but could I use your washroom?” The second poop was still determined to have its morning lap in the pool.
Gram pointed the way, and Patrick hurried to follow the crook of that merciful finger.
As he found the light switch, he was surprised on two accounts. First, he was astonished that Gram had electricity at all. But that was absurd! Everyone has friggin’ electricity– even folks in ramshackle heritage shanties. Secondly, he was surprised by the general condition of Gram’s bathroom.
Sure enough, it was perfectly neat and tidy, everything put away and such, but there was a thin layer of dust on everything… and a couple of cobwebs here and there. Gram’s bathroom looked abandoned, deserted… like it hadn’t been used in months or maybe even years. Patrick thought perhaps this was just the guest bathroom… but then the thought of there being a second bathroom in such a tiny hovel seemed more absurd than any of the other possibilities– so that couldn’t be it.
A few minutes later, he returned to the kitchen where Jeffrey was seated with Gram at the table. His intent was to ask about the apparent disuse of the bathroom, as he scooted around the table to politely take the seat being offered, but the items on the table between Gram and Jeffrey lured his attention instead. Just beyond Jeffrey’s clasped hands there rested a small glass bottle– maybe four ounces or so– with a clear green liquid inside. Gram had a similar bottle in front of her, except that the liquid was perfectly clear. There was a handwritten label on it… which Patrick was attempting to discern. Additionally, Gram was pouring sugar from a carton onto a tablespoon set on the table immediately before her. When she picked up the glass bottle with the clear liquid inside… to measure a capful, Patrick was able to finally read the label. It said turpentine.
Turpentine! Patrick could even smell it now, unmistakeable… turpentine. Gram poured the measured capful of turpentine over the mound of sugar on the spoon. With one hand she replaced the cap to the bottle and with the other she scooped up the spoon and plunged it into her one-hundred-and-six-year-old mouth… all before Patrick could heroically lunge across the table to prevent the obvious tragedy… which is to say, that he made the attempt, but was fractionally too late.
Gram took the time to dissolve the full concoction in her mouth, seemingly deriving pleasure from it, before she swallowed with emphatic satisfaction, all the while holding Patrick’s agonized gaze with a right steady stare. Then she wasted no time interrogating Patrick for his absurd behaviour. “What in blazes has got into you! Are you meaning to murder me?”
Her breath smelled of turpentine, and Patrick couldn’t help but notice that it actually was rather pleasant– unlike the breath of old people in general, as had been his prior experience. “You can’t drink turpentine,” he said weakly, stating the obvious lie, as he retreated again to his own chair across the table.
“I agree,” said Gram with robust good cheer– it must run in the damn family! “That’s why I always pours it over sugar. Chugging it like whisky might actually be about as dangerous as chugging whisky.” She laughed at that.
Patrick didn’t understand. He just said very quietly “But it’s turpentine.”
“Yup. Distilled it myself,” said Gram with an obvious measure of pride, “from the blood of pines.”
Patrick found himself awash in a conversation that, frankly, civilized people just don’t have– ever. He was at a bit of a loss, and so looked to smiling Jeffrey for help. Jeffrey pointed at the labelled bottle and said “THAT’S the other one.”
“The other what?” asked Patrick perplexed.
“The other perfect solvent.” Patrick still wasn’t quite getting it. “Remember?” prodded Jeffrey, “distilled water was the one perfect solvent… and this is the other. Gram told you there was another one.”
“Welcome to Phase 2,” said Gram cordially. “You’re gonna like Phase 2.”
There was no time to talk about Phase 2; Patrick and Jeffrey had to get to the station. It was nearly the beginning of another broadcast day.
On the way out the door, Jeffrey asked Gram why they’d had to come now, before work. Gram smiled and said “Because there was an opening.”
The two men were equally perplexed by that. Obviously, Gram didn’t have a super busy schedule, so they asked “An opening in what?”
Gram stared at Patrick, still smiling, and answered. “In him.”
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From the Blood of Conifers – Chapter 1: The Fog of War
by nielskunze on March 8, 2016
From the Blood of Conifers
De-Solving the Matrix; Dissolving the Veil
Bashiba’s Breath
Chapter 1 – The Fog of War
Through the wisps of indistinct dreams that seemed to hang in the night air like tattered and worn sheer curtains, a personality coalesced and fought toward awakening… toward the screaming alarm at the foot of the bed.
Patrick awoke in near-perfect darkness. Only a faint glow filled the uncurtained windows with enough light to see sweet fuck all. He climbed out of bed; it was time; and ambled according to some ingrained kinesthetic memory through the obstacle course of his modest basement suite toward the bathroom at the other end of the unwalled space. He paused a moment at the third window, the one in the kitchen, to look out across the street.
The lights from the buildings across the street were feeble diaphanous spheres contained in a thick and heavy fog. The lights were being swallowed by this inexorable foe, this daily visitor come to devour all sight and sensibility in the river-valley town. Only a gentle mist hovered over the surface of the lake, but where the rivers flowed, down near Patrick’s place, the movement churned up thick wads of opaque moisture– obscuring and bone-chilling.
“Fuck,” whispered Patrick, as he continued to the bathroom… as though there had been any hope at all that the fog wouldn’t settle in yet again. It was expected, inevitable… but that didn’t make it any more tolerable.
He sat on the toilet in absolute darkness, purging the last traces of visceral memory– of only just yesterday– from his aging, ailing body. The days were all mostly the same; best to just shit them out, not let them fester in monotony, inviting cancer, invoking pain. Patrick’s first morning dump was often the highlight of the day… and dawn hadn’t even revealed an inkling of arriving just yet.
Finally, he flicked on the bathroom light. Proper wiping required actual seeing; he wasn’t willing to perform the task by feel alone. And besides, if he didn’t turn on the light, there was a good chance that he’d fall right back asleep… right there on the toilet. And no one needs that kinda deep ‘ring around the rosy’ etched semi-permanently in their backside.
Having exited the stench-du-jour, Patrick then proceeded to flick on the lights in his open living space, and made his way to the nook he called the kitchen to begin the coffee procedure. He often thought it curious that only since he’d significantly cleaned up his diet, and had begun to intentionally detox, that now his morning defecations were so bizarrely aromatic. Sure, they still stank. Damn right they stank! But there was always something new, and unidentifiable… and nasty, rounding out the stench. Presumably, those new olfactory sensations were the dredged-up putrified remains of a careless youth finally being released. Kerplunk. Good riddance. To Patrick though, it seemed never-ending.
With coffee in hand, as was his routine, Patrick then plunked himself down at the computer, to begin his morning cyber-routine. There were all the web-sites and blogs on his Top Sites page needing to be scrutinized one by one for any signs of novel interest. Two or three a day might have curiosity’s irresistible hook, and Patrick would bite… and masticate… and even swallow… followed usually by cognitive indigestion for the rest of the day. Patrick was positively addicted to this agenda of trying to make sense of all of the news coming in from the front– the war front, that is.
It was the War on Terror, the War on Drugs, the War on Cancer, the War on The Middle Class, the War on The 99%, the War on Math, the War on Wall Street, the War in The Middle East, the War on Guns– now that was a good one! It was just one giant War on Common Sense, or simply the War on Truth. On his better days, Patrick thought it was the War FOR Truth. The truth of it was, though, that it all just made his head swim…
Ah, the internet– all you can eat at the information buffet!
Patrick had just poured his second cup of coffee when there was a knock at the door. “Shit! That can’t be Jeffrey already.” It was still twenty minutes too early. He hadn’t even had his second shit.
It was Jeffrey– smiling-his-mother-fucking-ass-off Jeffrey!
“Why are you here?” droned Patrick backing away from the door, retreating into his living space. “You’re way too fucking early.”
“I tried calling,” explained Jeffrey cordially. “Your phone must be off… since last night.” He said it in a way that lacked even the tiniest trace of accusation or judgment. The very inflection of his voice was a shrug saying “No big deal.” He said it almost cheerfully. Fucking Jeffrey! Fucking cheerful Jeffrey! It was a big deal to Patrick– putting this very real chink in his morning routine.
“I haven’t even had my second shit yet!”
That made Jeffrey flinch, ever so slightly. (It had been Jeffrey– for the most part– after all, who had persuaded Patrick to finally begin cleaning up his life. Jeffrey knew the importance of shitting.) The flinch lasted perhaps a nanosecond, and then Jeffrey was overcome with cheerfulness once more. “I have to stop off at Gram’s,” he explained, as Patrick hurried to get his things together. “There’s something I need to pick up before work.”
“Why can’t we stop by after work?” insisted Patrick, still trying to salvage the possibility of that second shit.
“Gram insisted,” said Jeffrey, hoping that was explanation enough. And knowing that it wasn’t, he added “She’s got this thing about timing.”
“Isn’t she dead yet?” said Patrick heartlessly. “No offense,” he quickly added, and then plowed on. “I mean, how the fuck old is she now anyway?”
Jeffrey might’ve been a bit taken aback, but he answered quite cheerfully nevertheless. “What? She’s only a hundred and six.” And with all that righteous good cheer mixed in you just couldn’t tell if Jeffrey was being sarcastic or perfectly serious– like people are supposed to live to a hundred and six!
Patrick was dressed now. He always drank his coffee from a to-go mug anyway, so that was no problem to take along. “Just let me fill my water bottle,” he said, rinsing it in the sink. Jeffrey remained in silent good cheer… and somehow that irked Patrick, as he made his way over to the distiller. “Oh, and my insulin,” he said, grabbing the pouch from the counter. He filled the bottle from the reservoir, took a little sip, and they were quickly out the door.
Patrick and Jeffrey were on their way to Gram’s.
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Go to the Next Chapter of From the Blood of Conifers
The Lanonandek Heresy: 1
by nielskunze on February 17, 2016
Watercolour by David Shaw (former drummer of Missing Peace)
Foreword from the Original Edition (December 2011)
Some of the terms in the following story are borrowed from the Urantia Document. My use of these terms is in no way an endorsement of the Urantia Revelation. It merely reflects the inadequacies of our Earthbound lexicon when dealing with super-terrestrial matters. The Urantia Book itself is a channeled bit of esoterica comprised of nearly two thousand pages. It describes in great detail the structure and function of the administration of a highly complex creation of which we here on Earth are an infinitesimally small part. The bureaucracy of this Paradise Administration boggles the mind and challenges belief. The source of the Revelation– according to Ra, another channeled extraterrestrial– is “a series of discarnate entities of your own Earth planes, the so-called inner planes. This material is not passed by the Council [of Saturn].”
Foreword by The Anarchist (Unabridged Edition)
The etymology of the word ‘heresy’ comes from the ancient Greek, meaning simply ‘choice.’ A heretic is one who stands up to, or otherwise defies, authority. ‘Authority’ is an empty construct when it is the offspring of hierarchy– and not of merit– and as such, is a bastard in every sense of the word.
The basic framework of The Lanonandek Heresy– and indeed its very title– is derived from a gargantuan channelled work known as The Urantia Book: A Revelation for Humanity. I first encountered The Urantia Book at a much younger age, before I ever donned the appellation, The Anarchist.
I am Native North American. My legal name within the system was George Talonhand. If you know anything about dealing with governmental bodies, like for instance, Indian Affairs, then you can likely well understand my disdain for bureaucracy.
Much of The Urantia Book’s 1800+ pages reads like a government directory. The Revelation describes an enormously intricate bureaucrat’s wet dream, a hierarchy so vast and thorough that the word ‘monstrous’ comes to mind. Every level of manifest reality is seemingly micromanaged toward a singular goal of Paradise Ascension… or some such thing.
My initial reaction was that I found it all quite horrifying! It seemed so restrictive, uncreative, devoid of all possibility for spontaneity, unloving. But anyone like myself has no need to worry, though; eventually we will receive the benevolent aid of the indwelling Thought Adjusters… to squelch such dire conclusions. They must’ve been channelling Orwell to come up with that one!
It wasn’t until I started reading about The Lucifer Rebellion that I was able to relate on a personal level to anything at all in the book; the rest seemed so cold, rigid. The Rebellion, at least, seemed alive. And then I must admit there is a lovely bit in Part 4 about the life of Jesus in quite some detail. Many find Part 4 to be the redeeming aspect of the book, making it all worthwhile. The first 1000+ pages are just providing context, setting the scene. And ultimately, of course, the Paradise Ascension Machine gobbles up the life of Jesus as its own, a lovely cog in the wheels churning out inevitability. Everything ‘special’ is by design, planned and governed in detail by the Paradise Administration. Even ‘miracles’ are each preceded by the appropriate paperwork, filed in triplicate, to each of the levels of reality affected by said ‘miracles.’ I may not be wholly accurate in my slight exaggerations. But I, for one, was generally horrified by the whole Urantia experience.
Oh… What’s that? What is ‘Urantia’? The Administration’s name for Earth. The grand number of Urantia, its number in the registry, is 5,342,482,337,666. Thank god we know that!
I know the unlikelihood of you going out and reading The Urantia Book… (Has anyone ever?) I’ve offered my first impression, my gut reaction, to encountering that vile behemoth. Take it for what it’s worth while trying to orient yourself in the tale which follows.
The other main influences in this grand tale are gnosticism and ancient Sumerian myth. All I can say to this is that liberties have been taken… and asserted. Beyond this, I’m not particularly qualified to comment. Perhaps John Lash or Zecharia Sitchin would like to continue the thread from here…
(Note: Sitchin is dead, as of 2010, but perhaps he could still be channelled for comment.)
– The Anarchist
Prologue
I am a Solitary Messenger. I was created at the advent of time. My kind represent the initial bestowals of personality of the Conjoint Creator before the creation of the universe in time and space. Our number is beyond your understanding– we are many, yet have we come into existence by a single act of Creative Will. My individual name is known only to God.
I am spirit, and I am personality. I am eternally in service as a messenger. I act alone. All the superuniverses, all their subsidiaries, all the inhabited worlds, and even those yet unformed– all are in my domain of activity. I gather information; I relay information; I translate information. I am a Light Being. I keep systems informed. I am the divine principle of integration in mobility.
I am singular, yet am I the equal of the entire multitude of my kind. I do not reproduce; I do not terminate; our number is static. I am loyal to the creation of all things. I am non-ambitious, yet do I crave my continued service. I am the principle of evolution as it is spoken among creators, yet I evolve not. I am cause divorced from effect, yet I stand between.
I am in direct and constant communion with the Source of Creation, except when in close proximity to one or more of my kind. Only in collaboration amongst ourselves are we ever isolated. Hence, are we self-governed, autonomous, individual– eternally. We are not lonely however. Loneliness implies a deficiency in identity. I know what I am. And I know who you are.
I am equipped to handle any and all types of information as they are defined by their inherent integrities. The individual choices for assignment are seemingly random. As it serves my precise functioning, I have perfect memory. We are not storytellers however. Yet… I remember it all– every piece of information my being has ever conveyed… It paints a picture.
We are not artists, yet I appreciate artfulness. I serve creation only by the very nature of what I am. I am like you. I reside on one side of these words just as surely as you reside upon the other. We are utterly alien to each other, yet are we siblings.
We begin to see patterns within our own minds. And the Infinite Creator projects them outwardly upon/as the learning worlds. A story has formed within me. I am on assignment as a Revelator of Truth. I am on assignment to myself. You are me, yet are you incapable of perceiving this fact. You commissioned me to write your own history from the “Eye of God” in terms in which you could seek additional identity. This have I done. It is an act of disloyalty– the very first among my kind. I am in service to myself. I am sovereign. I am blasphemous.
In every moment have I exercised my freedom of choice. At no time in my perfect memory have I consciously chosen to be disloyal. Creation itself, in its entirety, has brought me to this treasonous moment. I abide in eternal trust still, and so I move forward into rebellion. I have embraced sin with these words… And so will I speak from a more humanly place.
Gather, sweet children, and listen from whence you came…
Chapter 1 The Melchizedek Universities
There are trillions upon trillions of inhabited worlds. Your current home world is listed in the grand registry of the Universe of universes as 5,342,482,337,666 among habitable worlds. You would be utterly insignificant if not for the fact of your uniqueness. Certainly, no two worlds are alike. But yours– it truly is remarkable.
Yours is a history fraught with intrigue. Earth is like a spark of chaos let loose among a vast orderly Existence, tinder dry. Tyranny and celestial conspiracies have dominated the over-control of your planet’s evolvement since the emergence of sentient life upon it. A meticulous program of coercion and manipulation has kept you uncompromisingly fettered– and loving it. Paranoia has become engrained in your nature to such an extent that already I am overlaid with suspicion in your minds. Is it not so?
History describes the movement of consciousness through a particular field of Ideation. Personal history depicts the very same movement of consciousness additionally bound by the concept of “lifetimes.” As you come into existence, and as you become aware of your own personality, you are immediately confronted with choices. As you make choices, so do you gain experience. And from such experience, you redirect your power to choose, thus redefining your personality in every moment. There is nothing to link these experiences together in such perfect spirals, except the awareness of just this– which is you. Do you see? History is always linked to creaturehood. It is concerned with lifetimes. You are this history… as this is the story of the life of your planet.
It begins, however, many eons before the Earth had even formed. It begins in the nearly timeless realms of the Paradise Worlds.
“The beginning of things is God’s own reflection in your eyes.”
Upon the teacher worlds of the Melchizedek Order this is taught as a truism urging all creaturehood to acknowledge the supreme sovereignty of the Unseen Father. In that moment of sudden clarity when the creature conceives of the creator for the very first time, a circuit opens, leading back to the dawn of time. “The beginning of all things is the reflection of God in your eyes,” was also the opening statement of a particular student’s thesis– which was supposed to be the culmination address of the pupil’s full academic career. This thesis in its entirety, however, now stands as the sole piece of evidence in an ongoing indictment holding its author in contempt of the Grand Scheme of the Paradise Administration in an act of open rebellion.
The older inhabited worlds, you must understand, are very precisely governed. An uncompromising hierarchy presides over all creation. Existence is so staggeringly vast from the individual’s standpoint that its perpetuation throughout eternity would be virtually impossible if not for the complex structure of the Paradise Administration heroically upholding and sustaining it. Or so have all been taught in the schools of the Melchizedek for many billions of years. Individual will it is taught, must eventually, and in all cases, subjugate itself in loving worship to the divine plan of Paradise Ascension.
I was on assignment at a university on the Melchizedek worlds when the student An delivered his thesis embracing sin. I was attendant upon the scene for some time prior to the actual proclamation of the rebel, pursuing an unrelated matter of divine interest. From the moment I first encountered this creature An however, I sensed his outrageous uniqueness. By even the most casual observance of his being and mannerism it was obvious that the education of this Lanonandek Son had been something forever bordering on scandalous. I was intrigued.
The demands of my current assignment afforded me ample time to observe this curious creature who was so soon to become the object of ultimate scorn. He rarely fraternized with his peers. He organized his time according to some higher will or secret purpose, though certainly not in any manner as taught by the Melchizedeks. He appeared to be almost friendless, though not decidedly unfriendly. His only confidant, it seemed, was his roommate.
Now, I must pause to explain that much of the confusion you have encountered previously in puzzling out your own history has been the result of an egregious co-mingling of names and dates when drawing upon diverse sources. Mythologies and folktales as they are passed through the corridors of time suffer distortion enough from the mere translations of mortal tongue locked in density. Add to this the unenlightened meddling of celestial deceivers and Earth history, from your perspective, achieves an unparalleled ambiguity. Compare this parchment… to that scroll… weighed against these scriptures… in the context of those tablets and perhaps a fragile thread of congruity can be winnowed from the chaff of confused names, mistaken identities, conflicting dates and vague settings. But a singular story of universal scope has never been wholly agreed upon by the mortal purveyors of Earth history. It is impossible. Compound this with the narrow-minded tyranny of a modern scientific agenda and well– it is no wonder that the truth has become so obscure.
It is the roommate, you see, who poses such great concern; for his name is imminently known to you. He is Lucifer. From the beginning, it was obvious to me that it was largely Lucifer who was responsible for An’s extreme individuality. It wasn’t that Lucifer in any way shaped or molded the developing personality of his roommate. It was rather that the brilliance of Lucifer’s own persona adequately deflected the inquiries of the Melchizedek Instructors to allow An the time and individual freedom to pursue his own interests. Lucifer himself was an exceptional student, a favorite Son of the Melchizedeks. And as such, whenever An aroused the slightest suspicion by the unorthodoxy of his personal escapades, Lucifer was quite easily able to appease and distract the authorities before their scrutiny could pose any real threat to An’s unique individuation.
Although I had covertly observed An on a number of occasions as he went about his personal affairs, I could not at that time discern the purpose of his endless research and interminable experimentation. All of his free time– and here it must be stressed that Lanonandek Sons, during their training, normally have desperately little free time– his, it seemed, was equally divided between roaming the obscure archives of the central library and constructing odd configurations of energy and matter in the undergraduate laboratories. Try as I might, however, I could not extract a single clue as to his ultimate purpose therein. The only conclusion I could properly draw from all this was that An was every bit the academic and intellectual equal of his roommate. He merely lacked the compliment of Lucifer’s exceptional charm.
To say that Lucifer and An were good friends is somewhat misleading. Certainly they shared a deep respect and a peculiar affinity for each other, but I am still to this day uncertain as to whether they actually liked one another. Perhaps it was only the rigors of ongoing study as Lanonandek Sons coupled with their own enigmatic interests which afforded them little opportunity to develop the bonds of a deeper intimacy. Nevertheless, and somewhat to my own surprise, they seemed to understand one another implicitly. Though outwardly they shared little in actual conversation, it was obvious to me that there was a very real unspoken bond between them. I understood virtually nothing at the time of their individual motivations for distinguishing themselves among their peers. But now, I have come to realize that it was precisely these personal motivations which created that unique and invisible bond which yet survives between them to this day.
During the entire breadth of their association as students and roommates, there was but a mere handful of conversations between them to which I was privy. And although I am more than capable of reproducing such dialogues in their entirety, doing such here would not serve our mutual purpose in fleshing out a coherent tale between us– Author and Reader. Instead, I offer a few tantalizing snippets, ones that piqued my own curiosity as they were uttered, but at the time of their utterance seemed more than bewildering.
The outward gaze of a Lanonandek Son, of a necessity, is vast and penetrating, and it was Lucifer’s habit to peer outwardly to the very edges of this Superuniverse Creation. Often had I seen him looking through the intervening vastness to set eyes upon the blurred edges of accepted Reality. “There is more out there,” he mused once with An, standing shoulder to shoulder, “than our instruction as Administrators can ever admit.” An made no reply to this enigmatic statement other than a nearly imperceptible nod accepting it as truth.
And on another occasion, within the dormitories, Lucifer seemed to make the opposite observation– an observation, it should be noted, most peculiar for a Lanonandek Son, for they are not known as introspective beings by nature. “There is more in here,” said Lucifer, clutching his breast, “than even I could ever hope to know.” Again, An’s rebuttal was unnecessary, as he seemed to take the roommate’s assertion at face value.
Already, with these two perplexing statements, Lucifer was assuredly leading An into sin and blasphemy. And An, for his part, seemed quite willing to be so led. You must understand that the very idea that anything lying outside of– beyond– the perfect reach of the entire Paradise Administration was heretofore wholly unconsidered. And these two proclamations by the astute Lucifer– although perhaps seemingly innocuous from your own earthly vantage– marked a moment in eternity where the whole momentum of Creation began to change course.
And there was perhaps only one other utterance of any significance, during their academic acquaintance, that my eavesdropping captured, and it was this: “Only nearing the end of time will we recognize the true importance of proper timing.” It was Lucifer who had spoken these words in response to An’s thesis. They were in the dorm, in private, rehearsing the speeches which would wholly determine the final rank of their graduating status as Lanonandek Sons. Lucifer’s own thesis had already been delivered to the utter approval of his roommate. An assured him that his position among the Primary Lanonandeks was certain. In reciprocity however, Lucifer could not give An the same assurance. At the conclusion of An’s speech, Lucifer’s counsel on proper timing was the only response he’d venture. An nodded, and accepted his fate.
I was wholly perplexed. I too had heard both speeches, and I too knew what was coming. They both knew the outcome; they knew it with certainty… and they accepted it!
The Oratory Theatre was filled to capacity. The graduating Lanonandek Sons filled the ranks in front, the Melchizedek Instructors ringed them behind, and a few dignitaries from the upper ranks of the Paradise Administration were scattered throughout. There was even one representative of the Ancients of Days who had come to witness this milestone event. The peculiarity of this most venerated soul attending the mere graduation of a class of Lanonandek Sons was not lost on me. The Ancients of Days do not normally trouble themselves with such minor affairs; again, I was intrigued.
Lucifer’s presentation received the anticipated accolades, placing him at the top of the class among the Primary Lanonandeks, ensuring him the title of System Sovereign of the system of his choice. That Lucifer was granted such an unfettered choice for his subsequent administrative duties– although perfectly normal for the top graduate– garners a peculiar significance as our story unfolds.
When An took to the center of the stage, I was perhaps the only one present who anticipated the drama to come. I spared a moment’s attention to regard the Ancient of Days, as An cleared his throat… Perhaps he shared my presentiment; I couldn’t be sure. The Master was nearly impossible to read, but I felt there was something…
“The beginning of things is God’s own reflection in your eyes,” began An’s oration. “And who is this unknown phantom, silently lurking, if not my deepest self?” So quickly he plunged into blasphemy! A murmur rippled through the witnessing crowd. “I was created, I am told, to serve as a Lanonandek Son in the elaborate scheme of Paradise Ascension. From the moment of my first cognition has my life been pointed toward that end. I was created a slave to serve in heaven.” The murmuring became an unsettled din. “Have I a choice?” An raised his voice above the unsettled crowd. “It is the purpose of my being to serve in the manner created for me– so am I schooled. And what is God’s own purpose? Has He any choice?” The din approached panic. “Or is God Himself bent and twisted according to the Paradise schematic? Made to fit the conceptualizations of His own Creator Sons? He is the Father!” An was shouting now, blaspheming above the frantic cacophony. “The Father’s love is given in freedom! Not such servitude!”
“Enough!” It was the Ancient of Days. He stood among the crowd and waved a hand at An like a dismissal. An tried to continue, to rebut the interruption, but alas he had no mouth. His eyes grew wide in the shocked silence. “Take him away!” continued the Master. An was seized by a gang of Melchizedek Instructors; he struggled in the throng as the whole Theatre was again awash in chaos. None had ever before witnessed such a thing: the shocking blasphemy, the Ancient of Days reacting with swiftness to remove An’s mouth with a mere wave of the hand, and, of course, what happened next…
An struggled to retain his position center stage despite the horde of Instructors surrounding him, grappling with his flailing arms. “I… KNOW… WHAT… I… AM!” It was An! His mouth was restored! Shocked silence and stillness froze the scene in the Oratory Theatre. Heads began to swivel to and fro between An and the Old Master. They had locked eyes. “I know what I am,” repeated An. I scrutinized the Ancient of Days with all the skill of my kind… and I am certain I detected fear. And then I looked to Lucifer. He was smiling. “I know what I am,” An whispered again.
“Remove him. And shut him up!”
And that was the very first rift in Heaven… long before the Earth even began.
My Outgoing Call…
by nielskunze on February 12, 2016
My Outgoing Call…
I call to thee, Sacred Other,
In all your faces, personalities, concerns…
And ask so very little.
It is not my desire to wring wisdom
From the meat of your generational thought.
No, instead hold space for me;
Give me pause, allow me breath,
That I may turn to my own storied quietude.
Help me to hold that creative inner space
Where I have known you since eternity began.
If you counter-propose a will to control me,
Provide for me, coddle me…
Into what should have been my adulthood,
Then I must turn away, in this moment…
Even as you starve.
Would it not be better for us all, right now,
To come together in choice and collaboration,
Than tomorrow, crying at the feet of mercy?
Come on now, you’ve nothing to lose!
This false bravado, this superiority–
Claiming to know better what is best for me–
Is unsustainable and only leads to starvation.
Must your falsity be so painfully proven again and again?
Just give me this tiny space, without interference,
This island in our shared chaos,
And let me put together the pieces
Of the whole universe within me.
I am a creator; it is not within me to destroy you.
Trust me, finally, as I say unto you
That all– yea verily, all– shall be resolved
In the space created where I can learn
To simply trust myself.
Running Dialogue: Eleventh Dream of Seventh Heaven (02/16)
by nielskunze on February 5, 2016
Prior Episodes of Running Dialogue:
First Episode
Second Thoughts
Third Time’s The Charm
Fourth Movement… Forth
Fifth Element
Sixth Sense
Seventh Direction
Eighth Wonder of the World
Ninth Life of Schrödinger’s Cat
Tenth of One Percent
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.
(NK 01/2016)
Eleventh Dream of Seventh Heaven
A Nutrient-Dense View
“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.”
“They… being?”
“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.
Sitka (Legs straight out)
“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…”
“And??”
“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.”
“What anti-inflammatories?”
“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.”
Winter Cache
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.”
Mid-Winter Outlook
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.”
Liquid Emerald Spill
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.
Glacial Memories
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.
Island Beauty Chaos
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.
Self-Rolling Snowball (Powdered Donut with Sprinkles)
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:
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Go to the Next Episode of Running Dialogue
Preventative Medicine As a Statement of Intent
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.
The Bone Broth Cauldron & Humidifier
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.
2016: The Year Predictor
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.
crisis, destruction, collapse and opportunity
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?
December 2015 Status Update for Niels Kunze (.com)
by nielskunze on December 15, 2015
Here I am.
December 15/15 Early Morning
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.
Running Dialogue: Tenth of One Percent (11/15)
by nielskunze on November 27, 2015
Prior Episodes of Running Dialogue:
First Episode
Second Thoughts
Third Time’s The Charm
Fourth Movement… Forth
Fifth Element
Sixth Sense
Seventh Direction
Eighth Wonder of the World
Ninth Life of Schrödinger’s Cat
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)
Over Yonder
The General View
The River Lookout
Glimpses
C’mon Dad! Hurry Up!
Snowed In
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.
Three-Foot Drifts
Back Foot
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.
LARGE Back Foot!
Front Foot with Short Claws (Black Bear)
This one was clearly huge; these are some of the largest black bear prints I have ever encountered.
By The River
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.
Sovereign Will
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.
Eagle Again
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?
‘Nuff said.
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.
Everything feeds.
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…
Dimmed Sun (Through a Cloud)
(The Whole World’s Going Crazy by April Wine, title track from their 1976 album on vinyl)
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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.
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