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Archive for May, 2011

Hanna and Hit Girl and Eli, the pint sized vampire. The body count in their movies is eye popping. Do you wonder at what it is like to be such a weapon? To be normal 99.9% of the time only to become a ruthless force of nature in that other time, that 00.1%, where some fool has triggered the primordial reflexes and let the genie out of the bottle?

You learn to stay away from the things that trigger you. You embrace the things that make you feel normal and mundane. You revel in the embarrassing social situations in which you are out of your depth, because you are out of your depth and powerless but at the same time, you are relieved of the burden of being afraid of yourself and the power contained within you.

Only a sociopath would embrace that power without consciousness or conscience or remorse or regret. But these are children, not sociopaths. They are weapons built and crafted and cocked and pointed by their makers. 99.9% of the time, they are confused and vulnerable and fragile. It is that 00.1% of the time that you have to watch out for. They do not like being weapons but they cannot alter their intrinsic nature.

When they grow up they learn to be careful, traveling under the radar, staying safely way from confrontation, they may even come to believe that they have it all under control, that blood thirsty monster living in the dark hole in the center of their being, but this is only a fairy tale version of their life they live. Eventually things with teeth and guns will come out of the woodwork to test their metal. They always do. Then they have only one response in those times and it is always lethal. They are killers and it is the one thing they do very, very well.

Is this the stuff of nightmare or is this the woman sleeping in the bed next to you? Perhaps it is both. Do not think of it. It will make you wake from sleep in a cold sweat. There is a reason, after all, that killing is left to the men. What is merely a game for men, something in which honor and surrender and retreat are possible, becomes a matter of finality in a woman’s hands. Killing. Women are far, far better at it.

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My grandson has this softy fuzzy pink pig. It has been his constant companion since his sister got it for Christmas when he was barely two years old. You could watch his eyes as he stuck his thumb in his mouth and pressed that pig to his cheek and you could tell what he was thinking. When you are that little, the world is big and scary and full of incomprehensible things, things that want to reach out and suck you into their chaos of sound and actions, far too soon, way before you have figured them out and way before you have mentally prepared yourself to interact with them. Parents go to work. Sisters go to school. Kids and teachers come and go. Pig was a constant and an anchor, a place to hold on to when nothing else made sense.

Poor Pig. Matted and grubby looking, no matter how many times it got washed. Sometimes forgotten resulting in emotional cloudburst. Loved as only small boys can love. More and more, pig has begun to go the way of the Velveteen Rabbit. The thread that ties the pair together is getting longer and thinner. His sister, wiser in the ways of the world and far more experienced in the ways of love, has taught him to spread his affections around. Pig is no longer the only stuffed toy in the bed at night. He is a boy, though. They tend to be far less cavalier and more sentimental in the realms of the heart. Pig will always be his First Love.

One of the reasons the ties have grown thin is that Pig became a hostage in a battle of wills between parents and child. It is hard to learn the difference between what feels good and what is good for you. “No Pig” became the standard punishment.

Recently, in a very tempestuous battle of wills, Pig went away and was not returned. Mom had drawn a line in the sand. Change or No Pig forever.

He had no choice. Because he loved Pig, he acquiesced. It was like watching a horse being tamed. A wild colt one day, an obedient and civilized member of a team the next. I cried.

Oh, don’t get me wrong. I am glad to have the wild thing tamed but I am sad to see it go and I will miss its wild energies stomping and roaring through the house (but only when I am bored) and I hope he never forgets what it was to be such an elemental creature. Someday he will need to draw on that power, not as a wild thing being wild, but as an evolved creature accessing his Primal Core.

This story describes, in a very succinct nutshell, the nature of the main lesson every being must learn when one walks through the veil into Earth School.

Everyone loves. It is in our nature. We are hardwired to connect, intellectually, emotionally, viscerally and physically, with the world around us. We call this love. Love takes many forms but it is the one commonality between all beings. One could even argue that civilization rose up out of our need to protect the things we love from the planet’s seemingly inherent need to take that loved object away. As a tool for behavior modification, destroying the loved thing is most effective, since pain teaches with indelible efficiency. The loss of a true love is more painful and debilitating than the loss of a limb.

This is the adversarial illusion the planet casts over the wild and untamed. Change or die, the planet insists.

We resist it with every ounce of our being. It feels like dying.  It is not in our nature and it goes against all our survival instincts to submit.

As human technology evolves and we strive to buffer ourselves from the trauma of the loss of love , change has become horrifically traumatic. Change can be anything that transforms our perceptions. It is the act of walking outside of our mundane selves and climbing the metaphorical hill to see what lies beyond the horizon. This becomes adversarial when we refuse let go of the comfort of the moment even when the moment becomes toxic.

The response to the the adversarial illusion can take two extremes. There is the Keyser Soze response. Not only do you not change, you kill everything you love to make sure no hostages can ever be taken and then put up walls to ensure that your heart will be forever safe. But can anyone truly be that disconnected and separated from their true nature? Even the story of Keyser Soze turns out to be a fairy tale told to frighten the less evolved members of society.

If Keyser Soze lies on one side of the circle in the Paradox Engine of Love what lies on the opposite side as its mirror image and its equal? What is the opposite of separation and disconnection? How does one ameliorate the grief of loss? By connecting to everything without boundaries or exceptions. When you stand over a massive cauldron full of all life and death, grief over the loss of one thing is put into perspective. You still love as much as your heart is able, but your grief is diluted on a grand scale. Acceptance of loss, embracing change, learning sentience becomes far less painful. Yin to Soze’s yang.

Listen: The planet, the Oneverse, all of creation, the big G, name it what you will, She does not want to be the Bad Mom. You force the role upon her. She does what she does not out of hate or vengeance or needing to control. (You are not being punished. Everyone who is here, is here by choice. You were never tossed out of heaven. You were never disconnected or cut off. It is physically impossible to be separated from the wholeness of the Oneverse. There is no sin that keeps you from Her side nor do you have to ask forgiveness. It is you who closed the door, not Her. It is you who must forgive her, for taking your archetypal Pig, so that you can risk loving again.) She does what she does out of Love. With a big “L”. It is not random or serendipitous fortune, this game you think she is playing with you. She is playing for keeps with powerful and directed intent and she holds all the cards. She does not even care if you love her in the end. She just wants you to grow up and survive and thrive. She is your worst nightmare. A ruthless mom.

Just remember:  Change or the Pig gets it!

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On the high plains of this world, where the earth is so flat you can see the ground curve away from you towards the horizon and people live so thinly that it can take hours to visit your nearest neighbor if one were to walk, where clouds pushed along by the fastest of winds still can take half a day to reach you and even when they do, the rain has to fall from so high up it evaporates half way to the ground, where the mail truck is a thing of  note because it may very well be the only vehicle you see all day, there, in this vast emptiness, exists a certain quality to the silence.

When the air is still, on towards twilight, as the ground cools under your feet and the perpetual updrafts of air fall back to earth, one can hear forever. You can hear the lonesome sound of whistles from train a dozen miles away and the roar of jets thousands of miles above your head.

You cannot sneak up on someone surrounded by such silence. They hear you coming for miles and miles and have come out to greet your arrival. Custer learned that the hard way. He was an urban boy, used to the white noise of the shuffle of a million feet and could not quite understand the magic juju of the western Sioux tribes.

I only remind you of this because there is a place in the mind where one can surround oneself in this silence and hear forever. Think of it as the Land of Silence. You cannot sneak up on a person in this place. Thinking of them is tantamount to putting on a pair of Seven League Boots and taking one step to land in the laps of the these people. They become enmeshed in your thoughts.

One has to ask oneself: What do you have to hide? Because in the Land of Silence everyone is truly naked.

So remember, as you evolve, as the energy of this reality well rises, thoughts can kiss as well as kill, and the most valuable skill for a human of the future is to be able to calm the chaotic thoughts and practice the art of stillness of the mind, heart and body.

In the Land of Silence, you will never be surprised, ever again.

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Perhaps you read all the stories that come out of the Middle East these days. There are so many of them. Some wonderful, most horrific. There was this one.

It is, on the surface, a hero’s story, about a father in Damascus saving his daughter from thugs in the guise of the secret police. But in it, the girl, who fully expects to be taken away to be beaten, raped and tortured and yes, perhaps to die, talks about getting ready. About choosing the right cloths, about picking a comfortable, wireless bra.

This. This is the harvest of the seeds of violence and hate that we have sown in the searing arid places between Europe and Africa, that place that once was so fertile human, civilization spontaneously combusted and grew to encompass the planet.

Does it do our species proud, that young girls, resigned to the brutality of the world,  are well read and  informed enough to know what to wear to a torture session.

I weep for our species.

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Is it not a curious conundrum, that the the businesses who most depend upon a reality in which social and political systems turn the brutally primordial tendencies of the human species into an intricate and fecund matrix of civilization are the ones least willing to ensure that civilization continues?

But then, I suppose the idiots who eviscerated the goose who laid golden eggs did not believe that it was possible that there could be a world in which golden eggs and magical geese  ceased to exist.

Civilization is expensive. Peace is costly. Cutting edge progress and invention that pulls you into the future is not free. If you not paying in your fair share, adding your own bricks into the walls that keep out the chaos, or put your shoulder to the wheel that keeps the human machine in motion, then you are a parasite.

So when I hear about banking institutions who play fast and loose with the great pool of planetary wealth, the stock exchange mavens who cease to be aggregators of public risk and turn into snake oil salesmen, and politicians who purposefully derail the intent of the hive mind, I have to ask, What, are you stupid? How could you possibly think there will be bankers or brokers or politicians in a post-apocalyptic world where money has ceased to have value and true wealth reverts back to that which can be attained by the sweat of one’s brow and ones willingness and courage to battle the wolves at the door?

No. They are like that fat guy in the Monty Python movie who is offered one thin mint after an orgy of eating.

“Sure,” they say. It’s just a mint. What could it hurt?

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