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Archive for June, 2010

Blessed is the warrior,

Right hand of the OneMother.

It is with his sword

that she remakes the world.

Did you think that the OneMother was a pacifist? Nothing could be further from the truth. Although she deplores thuggery, abhors brutality for brutality’s sake and cannot abide the violence perpetrated by soulless politicians and mindless bureaucrats, the heart of a true warrior is the heart of her beloved. Walk softly in the world if you have wounded a soldier’s heart; She does not take the offense lightly.

Blessed is the warrior,

for his is the face that looks outward

guarding She who must spiral down

into the depths of the Infinite Void

Does the sword ask why it cuts? No. There is no need to burden one such as this with the knowledge of treaties and politics and compromise. A warrior’s heart is a simple heart; honest, straight forward and unburdened by sinister machinations of the powered elite. They are the ultimate point and shoot hardware. Give them an obstacle to overcome and they are in bliss. To control such a being is a privilege. To abuse your power over them is the most heinous of crimes.

Blessed be the warrior

honorable in his commitments, steadfast in his duty

living fierce and savagely holding to life

yet brave enough to die with courage

After all, there is no power, no technology, no instrument of war greater than an army that will kill for you or die trying. If they are to die, let them die with their honor intact. To taint those deaths with anything less than the purest intent is to shiat into the heart of the OneMother.

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It is the grain farmer’s worst nightmare; that perfect storm of events that culminate in the moment of bitter disappointment when the combine makes its first run through the grain field only to have the hopper remain empty. There he stands, out the expense of seed and fuel and machine upkeep and fertilizer and herbicides; out the expense of feeding and clothing his family and his workers, with nothing to show for it; a years worth of labor without a payoff, and worse still, no way to pay for the next season’s seed and fuel and fertilizer, etc.

Do you not get a sense of that farmer’s despair when you look around you now, at the perfect storm that is the human species upon this planet?

Do you not have that sneaking suspicion that if you ran a scythe through the human population, gathered them up and beat their heads against the threshing board, catching their husks in your winnowing basket to toss them into the wind, that in the end, your basket would be empty, the wind having taken the chaff?

Have you not become convinced that if that very same wind were to blow across the plains of our human existence, that the facades we have constructed would shred like tissue paper and the masks that we wear would fly away like leaves?

Perhaps it is time. Perhaps the facades need to come down, that the cockroaches and the rats hidden behind the false glamor of wishful thinking and denial might be routed out of their toxic nests; perhaps the masks need to come off, that the we might see the things with no faces and no names who have been whispering their toxic emptiness into our public discourse.

Perhaps then we would see;

See that our open market places have ceased to be a place of symbiotic exchange, becoming instead a playground of shills and con men who proudly proclaim they sell nothing or next to nothing at a high price and that if you actually want something of substance it will come at a premium price. Is it a mark of our own delusional illness that we idolize the uber thieves who have pillaged the public coffers while vilifying the honest men? (Yet, is this not the same as the pedophile dragging your toddler into the bushes to have his way with him/her and then proclaiming he was within his rights because the child was alone and unprotected, creating a public enticement that no man should be forced to resist, let alone the fine upstanding pedophile. And do you not stand in impotent fury, because the pedophiles have infiltrated your governments and passed laws that make it a felony to interfere with the business of being a pedophile?)

See that our places of higher learning have ceased to teach what is essential for species survival but instead have become very expensive fountains of poison kool-aid that empties the mind and fills it with the toxic logic of the predator and the parasite and the demagogue, giving access to higher knowledge without teaching the wisdom, discernment, morality, ethics or responsibility that must go with its use. And that is not even the worst of their crimes. The kool-aid induces a type of psychosis in which the sufferer believes that there is only one right way to think of a thing; that he holds the golden key that has given him access to the holy grail of its knowledge; that all other perspectives not only are suspect but should be considered dangerous and heretical, inducing a blindness to the big picture thereby derailing the one key foundation of human survival: finding what works.

See that an entire generation has been raised by our institutions, fed a continuous diet of Ritalin and Zoloft and Barney and Elmo, leaving them in a chemical and electronic haze with no tools to handle their growing rage at what was done to them in the name of expediency, no tools to express their growing despair at the shiathole they have inherited from their parents, no way to express their hopelessness in a world which forbids honesty and lucid thinking, no way to shut off the emotions except to continue the cycle and medicate yourself into a stupor. This is not the generation of mind expanding psilocybin, LSD or THC. This is the generation of cocaine and designer drugs that strip the magic out of the world and make everything hard edged and brittle, turning everything into shiat so that you don’t feel so bad when you pull down your pants add to the shiat.

See that the public discourse has been co opted by the snake oil salesmen and the carpetbaggers, that we cannot have a simple moment of honest happiness without having a bumper sticker slapped on our arse or a product placed strategically in our hands. That the shilling of brands  and products have become so pervasive in our every waking moment that we begin to think of ourselves, not as human beings, but as brands that need to be marketed or products that need to be placed. We do not engage with our fellow humans; we network and advertise which leads us to despise those who cannot further our climb up our toxic ladder.

The wind is blowing. The rats are scurrying for cover. The masks are off. Perhaps it is time to stand in front of a mirror and peer into its shadowy depths. You are in there somewhere. Trust me.

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In the realm of “what if”, as we reach out beyond the mundane and ordinary of our everyday lives with our ever curious mind, we secretly worry about encountering other life forms and what those encounters might be like.

First contact stories are the meat and potatoes of science fiction writers. The scenarios are endlessly creative and the outcomes range from the comedic to the tragic. The lazy writers make their aliens humanoid and able to speak human language. (sigh. really? never mind that it is infinitely improbably for such a thing to happen but bipedal humanoid is not even the most dominant life form on Earth. Why would we expect to find ourselves out there?) Critics and fans have written entire books on this subject.

The truth is, it is more likely that any alien sentience encountered in the human exploration of space will not only not speak our language, but will likely not even have the ability to create human like sounds.

Scifi has some very creative deux ex machina work-arounds for language barriers. Douglas Adam’s babel fish in Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Translator microbes in the TV series Farscape. The Speaking in Tongues from the bible.

All very clever and funny, these ideas, but the truth of the matter lies more down the road of Area 51 and alien dissections videos. I fear that if we met something that was truly alien, we would scream at the top of our lungs while we tried to stomp it into jelly under our boots.

What a relief that our first contact did not go that route.

In the realm of the right brain, in our connection to the Universal mind, we have gone places our bodies could not possibly go. We are not constrained by distance or time or the need to support our fragile human forms outside of the thin veneer of life that clings to our home planet.

We did not think of these encounters as “first contact” because most of the encounters seemed dreamlike, and the beings we met seemed as familiar to us as our family or the neighbors down the street. Why? Because the Universal mind has a built in babel fish effect. The “I” of you meets another “I” in this place without form or time and both of you perceive the other as being “I”-like. There is no visceral revulsion for all things alien, because sentience is a universal quality recognized within the Universal mind. It is our own internal babel fish that translates all that we encounter into a visual and auditory language that our human mind can understand.

The long and short of it is, if you long to travel the stars and meet other races and you are adept at accessing all that lies beyond the thin veil of your right brain, the odds are very high that you have already done so.

It is only as you progress in your exploration of the infinite Universal mind, as you become less attached to your bipedal human form, as you let go of your egocentric prejudices, that the true nature of the beings you meet will bleed across in your mind to mind communications. Only when you can let go of your species instinct to squash bugs will the truly alien beings venture out of the mist to talk to you.

You cannot know the meaning of alien life form until you have walked the Universal mind and had conversations with giant spider like creatures or danced across the backs of alien one horned beasts on a planet so far away the light from its sun has not yet reached your eyes.

The phreaky part will come later on, when, in the midst of an encounter with something profoundly alien, you look down and realize your form is no longer human.

You see, you hold within your subconscious a catalog of all lifeforms on this planet in all its splendid diversity, which on the surface seems to be a useless thing, but in our quest across the heavens, becomes a lexicon of alternate states of consciousness, a sort of Rosetta stone for communicating with the stars. Think of it as being an adjustable antennae. You stretch and contract, twist and morph, until you have the right set of ears with which to hear.

Happy traveling and don’t forget your tea towel……..

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what if…

what if, after a century or more of beaming our random electronic garbage out into the depths of space an alien life form decided to make contact. Surely the first message would be a request for explanations about the things most strange and puzzling when it comes to the human species.

I imagine the message would be quite simple.

“Explain clowns”

Now imagine that if you answered wrong, the aliens just might eradicate us for fear of spreading the clown insanity to the rest of the sentient universe.

You are temporarily at a loss. This is not how you envisioned a first contact would go. They did not offer a course in clowns at your university and you are starting to think this is a very glaring gap in the curriculum. Clowns, you see, are a very complicated subject, once you get past the stage makeup and the buffoon pants. There are clowns and then there are clowns. You think hard and then you message them back.

Nobody likes clowns, you might hasten to tell your confused aliens, they are creepy to the point of being sinister, what with their larger than life antics and their permanently frozen faces.

“But you use them everywhere to subvert the natural caution of your children, that you might get in past their defenses to indoctrinate them with questionable propaganda,” the aliens point out. “How can you trust a person who has painted his face in order to destroy the brain’s innate ability to recognize the comfort of the familiar or the threat of the face of a predator? Anything, anyone, could be hiding behind that paint.”

Exactly, you agree, which is why clowns are passe. They are the remnants of an unsophisticated entertainment from a more primitive time. They will go the way of the historic clowns, relegated to the pages of history, like jesters of old.

“I do not believe that is so,” the alien might say, “I have watched your video entertainments. I have listened to your broadcasts. Who are these people that you revere so much that you single them out of the masses, capture their antics into electronic memory and then view them over and over again every second of your waking hours? The persona they project is every bit as fake as the circus clown with the garish red smile painted over his ghastly white face.”

That’s different, you might argue. They are entertainers, not clowns.

“Really?” the alien asks. “From up here it all looks the same. The only difference between the circus clown and the man who tells you what to think about the nightly news is subtlety.  That your clowns have become more sophisticated in their antics and more cleverly manipulative in their masks than the king’s jester of old does not hide the fact that you are trying to deceive the young, the immature and weak minded.”

Yeah, well, that’s just…., you sputter, thinking hard, that’s just….politics. Look at our movie and music industry.

“Tsk,” sniffs the alien voice from beyond the stars, “the only difference between a 500 year old Punch and Judy puppet show and the last blockbuster in your theaters is technological brilliance. That you do not recognize this only attests to your own confusion. And what is Lady Gaga but a clown with a very expensive wardrobe?”

You squirm a little bit. He got you with the Lady Gaga bit. Creative people are eccentric, you say, stalling for time.

“Oh, please. Do you think that any of your video idols act the same once the cameras are off?

No, of course not, you say.

“Then you do not deny that you feed your populace a steady diet of lies and illusions, bending all perception of what is real into an unrecognizable knot?”

Well, yeah, there is that, you admit, wondering when the first planet buster is going to come falling out of the sky. Then a brilliant idea hits you.

Wait! I know! Clowns are our teachers, you yell. They are the extreme and farcical parodies of all the facets of what it is to be human. Without them, human children would never grow up, achieve sentience and ascend into a higher state of consciousness.

There is silence from the other end of the line. You hold your breath, sweating, wondering, did they buy that?

“Wait,” says the alien, “are you telling me that all your teachers must be insane in order for your species to achieve self awareness?”

Well, not all. The best, perhaps. Crazier the better, you agree.

“Ahhh, I see. You teach crazy in order to achieve sanity. The paradox is sublime. Thank you. I am honored that you have taken the time to be our teachers. Blessed be the OnePattern”

Sure, anytime, you say, wiping the sweat out of your eyes and breathing a sigh of relief. Glad I could be of help.

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this journey is not unlike a bus ride.

normally,

most everyone is asleep, content to let the bus driver do his job.

some doze, one eye open, somnambulantly aware.

a few stay awake, witness to the journey.

but normal is such a relative word.

lately, not a few of the passengers have been woken by the bumpy ride,

wondering,

who the hell is driving this bus?

(that is a good question, by the way. Complicated to answer, but a good question, none the less)

sometimes, the driver is just as sleep as the passengers.

sometimes there is no driver at all.

sometimes, the bus is being steered by committee, (and if that isn’t a clusterfark, I don’t know what is….)

but I digress.

the bus is barreling down a bumpy road and you look up just in time to see the “Dead End” sign whip past.  Dead. Death. End. Over. Kaput.

Wait. What?

you can waste time figuring out who to blame (who was it? the sleeping driver? the lack of a driver? Driving by committee? The creepy sabotage guy? A little bit of all of them, I suspect….)

or you can do something.

do something

do anything

risk making a mistake

leap before you look

so you open a window and leap off the bus.

landing on your ass, you look up as the rear of the bus disappears in its own dust.

it is only then that it hits you….

oh, wait. Everything you love is still on that bus.

damn

now what?

get back on the bus and try it again

what can you change that will change the fate of the people on the bus zooming down the path to extinction?

you might try getting the communal mind, the “driver by committee” to come to a consensus, thereby turning the bus around.

good luck on that one

(you see, even with the edge of the impending cliff rapidly approaching, I would venture to say that if you put a statement before the committee such as “we are going to fall off the cliff and die”, you still would not be able to get a clear majority to agree that this was true and once you had convinced them of the fact, you could not get them to agree that this was necessarily a bad thing. … sigh.)

You could stand in the middle of the bus and scream, “We are all going to die! Somebody needs to do something!” and then look around to see who volunteers.

“Dude, it’s not my problem. I am just along for the ride,” someone invariably says from the back of the bus. (I hate that guy. Don’t you just hate that guy?)

How about this? Why don’t you go up to the front of the bus, clock the driver with a brick behind the ear as hard as you can, and start steering.

….. What?

Now you want to protest that you have neither the experience nor the skill to drive a bus. Phhht. Technicalities. You can see the cliff. Is that not enough? Grab the wheel and steer towards anywhere that is not cliff. How hard is that?

You need to save yourself and everything you love and you need to act now. What, exactly, are you waiting for? Permission?

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the universal mind

at long last, the unspeakable is being whispered in the back rooms of science. you are more than the sum of your parts and the universe of your mind exists far beyond the confines of your skull, yes, even far beyond the confines of all physical reality.

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Ssssst. the awakening has been slow, has it not? do you wonder how it can be that your species can lie dormant, sleep walking through life for generations, submissive and submitting to all manner of abuses, both internal and external to your species, and then, in the blink of an eye, you rise up like some cantankerous beast prodded one too many times by careless handlers, to savage your keepers and redefine the limits of your ultimately self imposed prison before laying back down to slumber again? Do you think it accidental, these fits of rage? Do you think the point and the direction of your reaching a random thing?

No, nothing is random in the Oneverse ruled by the OnePattern. Your species is the monster lying hidden in some oceanic trench, who shakes the muck of millennium out of its eyes and dares to look upward, wondering. Clever monster, you launch yourself upward, a ponderous behemoth, intent on finding the source of the rain of detritus that is life sustaining but ultimately shit of indeterminate origin and hoping, perhaps to solve the riddle of the stray light particles that pollute your otherwise dark and empty world.

It is a ballet, this long, slow spiral up towards the Light. Few can see it to appreciate its primordial beauty.

Hunger dominates your primitive hive mind. Hunger incites the beast to reach beyond the bars of its cage. Hunger causes the behemoth to rise up from its watery grave. It is the insatiable hunger that causes your species to chomp down on the Oneverse, biting off more than it can chew, that it might curl up around its full belly and ruminate upon the the things that lay undigested there, chewing them over and over again until you have made it part of your holistic whole.

Nothing, not the bars of your cage, not the fear in your collective souls, not the limits of physical reality, can keep the hungry beast from reaching for the thing it needs most.

Your zookeepers think to control you by giving you what they think you need, but they make the mistake of believing you unchanging, unaffected by your own evolution. They do not believe in energetic ascension, so they are blind to your next move.

There is a human phrase that describes your ennui. Been There. Done That. Got the T-shirt.

Do you not feel it? The beast in the cage is awake and hungry and nothing the zookeepers shove through the bars can appease the insatiable dark hole that is forming in your communal soul. The body politic is being shed, falling like snow to feed the beings down below who hope to follow in your footsteps. You do not crave food or religion or ideological expression, this time. No, this is a new craving. It is a craving for power, but power in the form of information in its purest form. It is a craving for freedom, but the freedom to have unfettered access to all that we wish to know. You are becoming limitless and you chafe at anything that stinks of being a wall.

The behemoth has risen to the edge of twilight, looked into the Light and found the Oneverse looking back wearing a behemoth mask. At last, it begins to understand the direction of its journey. Your species has gone looking for god and found that you are it.

Is it not the wish of every divine being, to reach out and touch all that it can perceive? In the face of this hunger, a lie becomes a crime worse than murder, secrets become a perversion and ownership of an idea becomes an impossibility.

What then, are you to do in this brave new world, when all the social systems cease to have meaning? While you shed them, shaking the dust of their shattered forms from your shoulders, while you wait for the walls to come tumbling down, think of a future where you and your fellow godletts might live, not so much in peace, for peace is highly overrated, but in a manner that allows the dance to continue without hindering the movement of any of the dancers.

Blessed be the Dark Dancer and those caught up in the unseen fabric of Her skirts.

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