The Free Radical

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

(Nine Cats by Steve Wilson from the 2007 Porcupine Tree album Signify – bonus material)

Ninth Life of Schrödinger’s Cat

There’s a place that I visit sometimes when I dream; in my conception, it has always been deep within the Earth. I’ve been down this ephemeral road before… but never have I been granted audience with the Mistress of this place… until now.

There are certain critters in this neck of the woods whom one really never realistically expects to see. I have long suspected that Badger may be responsible for some of the larger burrow entrances we’ve found over the years, but I’d never actually seen one… until now.

It was just another stroll around our familiar territory, upon grounds we’d trodden a thousand times before, whereupon Sitka was suddenly snuffling about on high alert. We hadn’t actually been down Sasquatch Alley– just north of the swamp– in a couple of weeks, as I was tending to the ‘harvest.’ There has long been a series of burrows along the embankment beside the trail belonging to Ground Squirrel. The dogs are always glad to go sniffing around their entrances on the rare hope that one might unexpectedly surface. (It’s happened before… much to Sitka’s delight and surprise.) Suddenly, I saw up ahead Sitka giving chase to a coyote-sized-looking thing– with very stout legs– which then quickly disappeared down a hole. I only saw it for maybe a second, and I wasn’t completely sure what it was. From that fleeting glance, I surmised that it looked exactly like a Columbia ground squirrel, except at least ten sizes too big. I didn’t positively identify it as Badger until I got back to my computer to look at some pictures online.

Badger is the Keeper of Stories. All living creatures trade in stories, but especially we humans. We are literally the stories we tell ourselves and each other. The unparalleled prowess of Badger at digging through the Earth, connects them to all earth spirits… and their respective stories. The labyrinthian realms– well beneath the surface– the inner spaces of Badger’s domain are themselves called earths. That I should quite unexpectedly meet up with Badger in my waking life precisely at the time when my dreams are tunneling into the core of the Mother of All Being, here… for the swapping of narratives, between Mother and child– Earth and earthling– I find that remarkable!

Winter is dipping a toe here and there, leaving splashes of frost on the mountain peaks; the nights especially are beginning to get cold. In general, I prefer the cold to the heat; I can always bundle up appropriately against the cold, but in the extreme heat you can only get so naked. And for sleeping, all snuggled in sleeping bags and canine affections, I like the nights frosty, but not to the point where my nose gets nipped. It is precisely in these conditions when I relish my deepest sleeps and fathomed dreams…

There is a sensation of falling– subtle, because of the lack of visual context; I am falling through darkness… into myself. It’s a tug at the belly, from the other side of my navel, ego imploding. In a relative universe, I am getting smaller, contracting, as I plunge to the core of the planet’s own dreaming. In the impossible darkness, there are caverns carved and barricaded… where once all species dreamed alone. Now they lie abandoned for a deeper union, closer to the center… where all Life’s expressions dream together… a culmination… the ninth life of Schrödinger’s cat.

There’s little accounting for my ability to perceive anything at all; there is no source of light for seeing. But this is the birthplace of instinct, whose shape and contour are precisely the same inside of me as without. I’m feeling my way through layers of my own past… memories, scars and triumphs. And all of humanity is here with me, wading through their own stories. I am turning the countless pages of my soul, hoping to catch an unlit glimpse of the real me. But in the undefined cavern of soul, I am nowhere to be found. There’s only mountains and mountains of experiences, belonging to all equally– but tinged and shaded in a distinctive style, a unique perspective, standing in place for self. These are my experiences, all the memories of my soul, and I am not to be found anywhere among them!

Deeper…

I can only proceed now as a jumble of runes, a loose packet of symbols, an alphabet– ready for the making of words and their fancy tailored concepts, without the encumbrance of any unifying desire. I am all potential expression… impetus-less. It is the only means to descend– to contract– to the core.

How many times have I been to this place called Deja Vu? I am permitted to don again a cloak of familiarity; I am a body in a cave… and there is a light at the end of the tunnel… which suggests to me that it is no end at all.

Lynn has been here with Martin. I can almost hear their conversation still echoing off the walls:

“So are we dead?” asked Martin after some time had gone by.

“I’m not,” said Lynn. “Mother said I have to go back. There’s things I’m asposed to teach.”

“But your head…” Martin hesitated, “half of it’s missing.” He swallowed hard before he continued. “Even if you survive the physical trauma, how much of your brain could realistically be left?”

“Realistically…?” Lynn laughed again. “Have you forgotten that I didn’t have much for brains to begin with? Daren blew half my head off… and I think he missed!” Now she was really roaring with laughter. And then when she calmed down again… “I know it won’t be easy, but I trust the Earth… And I trust Life. It’s all just one Life you know? Me, you, Mouse, Daren– it’s all the same Life. We’re living It together, but we just think it’s all apart. It’s all just God blowing like a wind through all the pretty shapes that Mother makes… making us dance… making us laugh. There’s nothing to be sad about Martin.”

“How in the world did you ever get to be so smart Lynn?”

“I said it before; brains are really overrated. And a lot of the time I think they just get in the way.”

Who are Martin and Lynn? Beloved characters from my books… every bit as real as any character in my dreams… far more real than I.

“Do you know where we’re going?” Martin asked Lynn.

“Of course, silly. We’re going home!”

“Yes, but… do you know the way?”

“Of course I know the way. It’s HOME,” said Lynn as though this should be explanation enough. And then she added “It tugs at my belly.” *

I am the breath of nostalgia, drifting like a breeze toward the sunlight, warming to the timeless feel of infinity. I have always known that a fragment of the Sun fills the core of Earth with the light necessary for exchange, for conversation, for sharing and love. The Sun here shines for the opportunity to be swaddled in Mother’s embrace as she whispers wisdom and lullabies into childhood’s ear…

“Come my little one.” She is flowingness and invitation, an open vessel, receiving and spilling… Her words burst like kaleidoscopic flowers– from bud to petal to seed– in time-lapse syncopation to the very depth of all meaning. Though her words are small and meek, there are universes behind each one, roiling concepts wanting to be seen, acknowledged, understood and undertaken. I recognize her words as my own. Of course she can only present me with my own words, my own understandings… repackaged and rearranged. She is constrained to speak my language… my language precisely.

“Hello Mother,” I say, trying to fill those two words to the brim of all that I feel. Just this… is all-consuming. It is difficult to speak in a place where personhood lies flat upon the floor like a worn rug, once cozy… and Now dimensionally diminished in the radiance of truth beheld. My ego is threadbare and shy, loathe to breathe for fear of getting all puffed up…

“Leave your fear at the door,” she admonishes gently. “Wrongness is impossible.”

In this moment, I know that I could write books and books just expanding on those three words: wrongness is impossible. I just nod and let it go. But how to begin… and where? This is just too overwhelming! “Is anything unimaginable?” I finally ask from a place of staggering awe.

She is pleased with my question; apparently she recognizes it as a suitable jumping-off point. “That which is unimaginable is the Truth; all that is imagined is what’s real.”

I have to repeat that to myself a few times like a new mantra before I can begin to unpack its meaning. “Enlightenment cannot be imagined,” I finally conclude. I could go on and on about that, explaining all that it means, but she already knows… and she’s steering already in a different direction.

“You recall when you became clear on the distinction between Spirit and soul,” she says as both question and statement. I nod. “In the thrall of fragmentation, distinctions are most illuminating, are they not?” I nod again, remembering how so many pieces of the puzzle fell into place. “I wish for you to make another such distinction.” Yup, I’m still nodding… She goes on. “It is time for you to draw the distinction between enlightenment and adulthood. You cannot continue to straddle that line any longer. You’ve already made your decision… and now it is time to see that choice for what it is.”

There is a parting in my mind. Jed wrote of this, a concession: enlightenment is the booby prize, appropriate to the stubborn few; everyone else seeks spiritual adulthood, mistakenly calling it enlightenment or wakefulness. I see clearly; I accept enlightenment, it’s inevitability, but what I truly strive for– now– is my own spiritual maturity. Inevitability can wait. I don’t have to say anything. She continues.

“In the dream, the illusion, Maya, in the amusement park… that’s where all the juice is. Desire drives you away from the fear of self-annihilation… until it’s time to grow up. Let me ask you this: what is Maya’s prime directive? What does Maya strive to accomplish forever and always?”

“To keep everyone asleep,” I answered easily, although I saw the profundity of it clearly. “The very purpose of reality is to keep us fooled… for as long as possible. Our awakening is inevitable; it can’t be avoided, so we might as well enjoy the dream.”

“To call the whole universe merely a dream is a disservice, to it and yourself. It is more… a dream of consensus. Reality is what it is… by agreement; all participate equally by the strength of their beliefs. Beliefs driven by desire create stories, dramas. Maya’s life– the universe of experience– is the overall narrative.”

I had to stop her there. Each sentence she was saying was so pregnant with meaning and implication that if I had a proper head right now, it’d be spinning! She waited patiently as I pieced a few things together. “The world is so chaotic now because everyone’s story is so personal and finite… and doesn’t feed into a sustainable storyline for the all. So many of our meta-stories– like religion and philosophy– are childish fantasies, feeding directly off of the energy of gullibility. We need grownup stories, a uniting narrative, a new mythos.”

“Acknowledgement of the consensual nature of reality– that the world presents exactly as the subconscious agreements of all Life interacting– is the closest you can cozy up to the truth… without actually taking the booby prize.”


“Enlightenment?” I ask.

She winks. “Human adulthood begins in the unreserved acknowledgement of the consensual nature of reality. Construct an integrative narrative, accessible to all, to make the trip more enjoyable. But remember to GET REAL. No more heroes and saviours… just everyone understanding their own foundation, as a creative entity in a consensual, collaborative expression… that you call the world… or life.”

“It sounds so simple,” I say.

“And so it is. The consensus– these myriad unconscious agreements– is Maya’s own intelligence. The illusion has gone through maximum fragmentation; the plot and the theme have been lost. Humanity– my children– have been behaving as children… and that is perfectly fine, but now it is time to grow up. But understand that all which you strive for as spiritual beings is co-operation, integration… integrity. You are not necessarily on a quest for enlightenment– which takes you out of the illusion. You are to learn how to function– maturely– WITHIN the consensual reality.”

“Are you enlightened?” I can’t resist.

She just smiles broadly. Perhaps there’s the suggestion of a nod. “You witnessed my process in your year 1994,” she answers cryptically… and I’m satisfied.

“Speaking of the Absolute,” she continues, “while still firmly ensconced in relative truth, serves only to confuse. Leave enlightenment alone; seek your human adulthood instead. There are so many who hang upon your every word– if not consciously in the waking world, then surely here at the level of the collective unconscious… becoming conscious.” I understand… and then she asks “Do you understand the role of Humanity Incorporated?”

That’s the title of my third book– the odd duck. It’s small, tight and serious… very different from my other work. I don’t nod; I don’t say anything; I just wait for her to explain.

“The plan expressed in that book is for the maturation of the human race. You’ve presented it as a ruse, a way of tricking the children into wanting to grow up. It looks like a business plan… but it’s all about bringing humanity into consensus.” I’m beginning to get what she’s saying. “It’s becoming plain for all to see that the world appears to be falling apart; it is the consensus which has fallen apart. Additionally, many are beginning to imagine the kind of world they would rather experience. These are the dreamers and the idealists… much like you. The grand obstacle now is the transition: how to get from the current chaos to a palatable resolution. How do we all get from the messy world of our current experience to one of sensible, sustainable, equitable participation?”

“Through consensus; it’s already how reality works… we just have to align with it,” I answer. “My book asks everyone to engage their imaginations… and to share their insights and creative solutions.”

She smiles broadly again. “Just by getting people to lend a thought to what they would like to experience,” she explains, “effectively turns them away from the crumbling, fragmented reality. Fixating upon and bemoaning what currently is or what has been… cannot ever hope to change it. Replacing it however with a deeper, better integrated consensus assuredly resolves it. The new consensus– the new reality– is a creative, imaginative one.”

She peers effortlessly into my thought-process as easily as her own, and cuts through the clamor of spinning wheels with further elaboration. “Begin with what you know for sure.” Consciousness; I don’t have to say it. She continues. “During times of maximum fragmentation, beliefs become extraordinarily limiting. How many currently believe in– and live their lives according to– a materially-based reality? The majority. Spirit, imagination, creativity– the movements of consciousness creating it all– are consistently regarded as secondary to the experience of matter, energy, time and space. The Newtonian view which sees the evolution of these– these material interactions– sees them eventually producing consciousness… is exactly backwards; it’s inverted. Consciousness is primary; consciousness comes first; you know it– as your own verifiable experience. Your science knows it, undeniably… for a century already. All phenomena are a derivation of movements in/of consciousness. Consciousness is the building block as well as the infinite, eternal container.”

She pauses to let the echoes of meaning reverberate.

“The human being, ensconced within the dream, HAS to be contained. There is no other way. A spiritually mature human, however, chooses the container wisely.” She sees that I’m not quite getting it… but knows exactly what to say. “Think about it this way: you can’t exist alone, uncontained, in outer space; you require support systems– life-support systems. Life must be contained; the container defines you… through the experience made available to you. If you are in a small container, a space suit for instance, your experience (self-definition) is very limited. There just isn’t much to do. If, on the other hand, the whole planet is your personal bubble of reality, well then your opportunities for self-definition are greatly expanded. As an Earth human, this planet is the grandest, most-expansive reality bubble available to you. All Life… is One… Spirit– expressing innumerable stories. Tell your stories; share your stories… And then create the new narratives that will bring them all together as the integrated Story of Earth.

“However it may finally take form, effective communication to bring about consensus IS the answer.”

It just seems so damn obvious! What’s the opposite of divide-and-conquer? Share and integrate… Reach consensus. Can’t we all at least agree that for the time being we’re all earthlings? And is it possible that we might all agree that Life matters? I don’t have to say any of this; it’s just too damn obvious!

“But what’s not so obvious,” she interrupts my thoughts, “is that within this planetary reality bubble, there exists a mechanism by which all Life is meant to interact freely– electrically– exchanging information– stories– continuously, at the speed of light.” My curiosity is definitely piqued. “Between the surface of the planet and the inner surface of the ionosphere, there is a resonant cavity. When lightning strikes anywhere in this cavity, it disperses an electromagnetic pulse which travels around the globe to meet itself and create a standing wave– or a field– which you call the Schumann resonance. 7.83Hz is the frequency of the field all surface Life is plugged into. That’s the exchange field. Everyone’s story feeds into the Schumann resonance, subtly modulating it… and subsequently, making those modulations known to all. The ionosphere additionally receives information via radiation from the rest of the universe, which too feeds into the resonant cavity for modulation and exchange. And finally, my physical planetary body– through radiation, surface movements and volcanic activity– tells yet another story to the resonant field. Connected like this to all information everywhere, consensus should be easy, natural and nearly automatic for all earthlings.”

“But it’s not!” I blurt out.

“No. Indeed. The natural field is being interfered with, deliberately manipulated.”

“Some have been saying that the Schumann resonance is increasing,” I interject.

She looks stern for a moment, like a teacher making a point. “There are only a few variables that could make the resonant frequency increase. The first variable is the circumference of the Earth; I can assure you, that has been relatively stable for quite some time. The second variable is the distance between the the surface of the Earth and the ionosphere; that too has been fairly stable. And that leaves the third variable: electro-pollution, crude and persistent interference. Modern technology operates at much higher frequencies… and so modulates the resonant frequency higher… but not in any informative way, just as static… unending static.” She pauses to make sure that I’m onboard with what she’s saying.

“Every plant and animal on the planet is used to a free exchange of information with all Life on the planet. That is their heritage. That exchange is now effectively blocked by static interference. It makes them all scared and confused to some degree. Humans are largely oblivious to the whole situation. But the Schumann resonance– the field of exchange– is the natural internet… and everyone is already and always plugged in. The plug is electrical– manganese specifically– in humans, it is through the pituitary. But all anyone is receiving now is heavy static. You are denied the very information making you one, united, Living consensus.”

Wow! “So not only are we separated by our conflicting beliefs, we’re also separated electrically?”

“Yes! Spirit sort of inhabits electricity. Where the circuit is broken, Spirit cannot pass. Spirit comes from here.” She puts her hands on her belly. “Through the core of Earth, out to the surface, One Spirit is intended to animate a trillion stories at once… at oneness… filling the whole resonant cavity. It should be Spirit in communion with Spirit in all exchanges… but static interrupts the circuits everywhere… and Spirit itself appears fractured.”

“But it’s not!” I insist urgently.

“Of course not. Spirit is unassailable. But you live within the appearance. That’s what the consensus is: the appearance of things… and Spirit appears fractured.” She pauses again. She wants me to think on this.

“Does Spirit remember everything?”

“Infallibly.” Now she’s beaming, radiant. She watches closely what I dare to put together in my mind.

“Well… then…” I say hesitantly, “then souls are unnecessary… and redundant.” Her pleasure looks as though it’s about to burst all over us! “Souls are artificial?” I venture meekly.

“Let me say this: individual human souls are an archontic adaptation– a means of control, an invisible container. Souls are ego-attachments, plain and simple. Souls are vast– yet finite– sets of memories, posing as infinite totalities, posing as Spirit. But souls can’t animate a thing; they’re not alive. Souls are the means by which Spirit– Life– is made to appear fragmented… as Spirit has no choice but to animate the distorted forms of souls.”

Holy shit! This is some serious stuff right here! “You said ‘an archontic adaptation’… so what were souls originally? Organically? Before the manipulators twisted them to suit their own purposes?”

“Souls are repositories of knowledge/experience. They are contained pools of consciousness. In the animal kingdom, you would recognize souls as the instincts unique to every species. Right from birth, individuals have access to the accumulated knowledge of their species, as instinct. It is similar for plants. For humans, you might refer to folk souls– the accumulated knowledge of a particular tribe or culture. In this modern era, you have little acquaintance with folk souls. You have been systematically separated from your own folk souls, from culture, from ancestry. And the structure of souls has been co-opted in order to saddle you all individually with repositories of jumbled memories in a game called Reincarnation. Remember that the archons can never create anything new; they can only manipulate and imitate what already is.”

I’ll say it again: this is some crazy shit! (I don’t actually say it though.) “So death…?” I don’t even really know what it is I’m asking, but she’s all over it.

“Death is a consequence of soul attachment, another archontic… gift. Spirit has no intrinsic need for death. For Spirit, it serves no practical purpose.”

“Sell my soul…” I begin to muse. “Save my soul… In the world of men, it’s all about the soul. Spirit is nearly forgotten, only sometimes getting honourable mention. Nobody ever wants to be accused of being soulless… but, but… that’s really what we want, isn’t it? To become soulless… pure Spirit?”

She doesn’t have to answer; her smile is enough. But she knows that I want her to go on. “It is through the soul that predation is written into our biology. It is the soul which introduces feeding; soul feeds on Spirit.”

“So are souls parasitical then?”

“From the soul perspective… yes; from the Spirit’s perspective… no. Spirit cannot be depleted, so ‘parasitical’ has no meaning.”

Gah! I’m on overload. It’s getting to be too much! I’m scrambling now to keep the conversation going though; I like being overwhelmed. “So… is morality even a thing?”

She raises an eyebrow as though I’ve completely changed the subject. Perhaps I have; I don’t know anymore. “Morality is just another story you tell yourselves. Perhaps it’s a meta-story at best… an ongoing theme… a developing plot-line. Morality is Maya’s desire for self-improvement. Within the plane of relative truth, storytelling– and story-believing– is the mechanism of morality’s evolution… Maya’s maturation, her approaching adulthood. You need to tell each other better stories.”

I’m nearly filled to the brim, replete with more than I can realistically handle… but I want to venture one more question; I’m just not sure how to phrase it. “Love and fear…” I begin, and as usual, she picks up the thread seamlessly…

“Ah love,” she says… “so misunderstood in fragmentation. Love, in truth, is a totality. Maya is, herself, the totality of love. But any subset, any portion of the dream is a profound distortion of love… a distraction from the true driving force of the dream, the consensus; that driving force is fear. It is the fear of self-annihilation, that there is, in truth, no personal, enduring self. Allow me this metaphor: the wind blows over the ocean creating waves, white-capped and misty. A single wave crashes upon the shore and spray is flung far into the air. The flight of those droplets is a fearful proposition while they are tiny, isolated and totally unsure of their fate. But they have come from the ocean; they ARE the ocean; and they will return to the ocean. There is never truly a time when they are not the ocean– just the momentary appearance of such. Their journey of separation seems frightful, but the outcome is assured; they will seamlessly blend into the ocean again; no other outcome is possible. That is love. Fear exists only in the fragmentation, the imagination of other possibilities. Fear is the driving force of Will.”

She pauses again… and then rolls on like a crashing wave.

“The only true love available within the dream of separation is Maya herself. You can either love all of it, the whole dream, taking responsibility for its totality through consensus… or remain in fear for the duration.”

“But what about personal, romantic love among individuals?” I venture.

She smiles coyly… to my surprise. “In many ways, it is the ultimate distraction. You understand– at least theoretically– that true self is no self. The Spirit which animates you and every other is indeed eternal– the unassailable ocean– but Spirit has no identity; identity belongs to the soul. Personal, romantic love is the ultimate validation for the false self.”

I nod my understanding once more. “If someone professes to love me… and I’m utterly convinced of it, that’s a very powerful confirmation that surely I must exist. And yet, I KNOW it’s not true. Oh sure, it’s real– as real as anything– but it’s not true. Only Spirit exists in truth… beyond the need for personal identity.”

She’s satisfied that I adequately understand. We remain silent for a time. I realize that I have a lot to take back with me to the waking world, to Maya. I’m reluctant to go.

“You can always stay here,” she says… and I’m dumbfounded.

“Um… you know I’m gay, right?” I stammer in total perplexity. She laughs unreservedly. I continue. “Besides, if I didn’t wake up… what about Sitka? Just the thought of her waking up to a corpse utterly shatters my heart. I couldn’t do that… as tempting as this place is…”

“And that is precisely why I love you so completely,” she says in all earnestness.

And I begin the process of waking up…

(The Real Me/Quadrophenia by The Who from their 1973 album Quadrophenia)

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*excerpt from Butterfly Dreams: The Nectar of Transformation – Book 2 of The Muse Trilogy by Niels Kunze – all rights squashed and plundered

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