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Posts Tagged ‘Transcend self ego’

While the Angels are still being written, I thought a contents page would be helpful:

1) Essays on a Version of God that isn’t religion-dependent . . .

2) A year of short stories . . .

3) The Beginning of the Chronicles of the Angels of Eden . . .

 

May you enjoy!

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In the beginning . . .

If and when the physical format materializes, I think what is to come will be part two of a four-part division of Volume one.  Most likely part two, begun below, will be called Part 2: After Enoch.

Chapter 29

Way up in Heaven, Origin Of All Existence perceived the sons and daughters of Adam and Living occupying the span of time during the life of Methuselah, and They spoke to Their Self concerning earthly creation and all that transpired there.

“It is prerequisite for the sake of Our own existence that We allow for all possibility to take place as We have upon the Earth. Having done this, however, choice would seem usurped should We have continued to allow beings without the possibility of choice to indulge their sense of pleasure upon those with choice whose choice is taken from them by these beings whom they have no means of fending off from using them as they wouldn’t want to be used. For humanity to function, these servants of Ours must be made to stop sewing their seeds amongst them.

“We should not have allowed them presence as they’ve had it amongst the humans to begin with! We knew the inevitable actions We must take as the inevitable results of not commanding them not to use the human beings as sexual playthings from the moment we gave them physical form. The responsible thing would have been never to allow them to have their fun with the humans’ bodies to begin with.

“Ech, We Are What We Are. We would have been less than Ourself had we not satisfied Our knowledge of consequence without the physical occurrence by which alone We can be understood through actual presence to be Absolute. Having satisfied Our actuality, of course the obvious transpired beyond this one 1000-year moment in time We are noticing the conversation We are considering upon recognizing this as we do all other moments in the simultaneity with which we perceive them.

“So The Metatron spoke Our will that Our servants not again impede upon the existence of choice, put upon this initial in-bred experiment, of Ourself contained within the vessel of material existence made animate.”

At the completion of the fullness of creation of concept of actualization at a particular coordinate of time in conjunction with a point in space where a particular being existed at that time, Metatron took the part of the concept directed to be a message to that particular being, and manifested itself in that perceived presence to direct the mind of God in a spoken form to the ear of the predetermined recipient best suited to fulfill the intention that one other descendent of in-bred humanity should survive where none others of that family, nor the bastard offspring of the angels, would survive.

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Excuse intermittent deviations from my typical posting between now and mid-August. I actually have the next chapter prepared, but it sits in a notebook in my car, and I have a date to see Ms. Lily Tomlin tomorrow in Napa. Time to take time out for fun. A new post WILL be up for next Sunday, however. In the meantime, please check out the link below . . .

Peace!

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I actually don’t spend much time at bars. Symbolically I think I think of bars as a place of reflection.

Cheers!

A beautiful women is looking at me from the other side of the bar. While holding her eyes to mine she’s moving her tongue up and down the outside of her straw before taking small, dainty sips while never for a moment breaking eye contact with me. I sit with my elbow on the bar and my hand on my cheek watching her as I rest, a half a smile as though to say, “How nice to share this moment with you from across the room, your company is pleasant.” She is beautiful, but I have another on my mind.

I haven’t seen her for so long that it would be stupid for me not to consider the loveliness whose eye I’ve caught as the possibility of a nest that would not be shaken by hurricanes; a place to rest my heart after wandering a desert in hopes that my memory of water is not merely one more accursed mirage. I’ve met her before enough to know she is in every way likeable, but not enough to know what the feel of her hand tells my heart and hers after communicating for five minutes apart from the speech of the rest of me. Beauty looks me in the eye and says we both have a basic common denominator; identity says there is nothing glaring to alarm. And yet my mind reminds me as I connect with a friend from a distance that at a further distance yet is the reason regret may exist where otherwise my mind would have no reason to exist.

But because I have a mind, and it remembers another beauty in another time that made my heart pump blood where before it only knew how to process bile, I can’t help but be reminded of another face by whose light I began to live as appropriate to one who should see beauty in friendship across a bar and respect that every face contains a universe that bears exploring respectfully before creating eternities more calling themselves by individual names always striving to declare “I Am.” And in light of the importance of mind to reason the desire to see another universe created to flourish, I say hello and shake hands when she brings her drink to where I sit, and we begin to discuss what we really enjoy for the rest of existence when we are too sated to eat and quenched to drink.

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Don’t quite remember where my mind was at when I wrote this one a few months back, but, it is interesting . . .

I’m trapped!

This mind is a prison. The only thing worse than knowing that I cannot escape myself is knowing that who I can not escape fits perfectly as a puzzle piece into the mind that is the unity of all other individual minds upon this planet. Myopically oriented, or aware of my placement within the perfect workings of all surroundings, I cannot escape who I become past who I was, that who I am.

No straight-jacket needed if I be deemed insane, I cannot escape myself. As a bus passes fruit stand after fruit stand; an oasis of exotic strawberry pie by the side of the road to quench one’s hunger on a long summer day. And yet I am not in control of this bus and there are too many passengers to request pulling over. Hurling myself through a pane of glass toward the quenching of desire for a taste a sign creates in my head promising simply doesn’t seem practical in the light of having a genuine impulse to be somewhere, especially in light of not being able to be anyone but this person with the desire to be there. And so hunger becomes only stronger on the way to the next stop of this bus where I have no choice but to pray food resides.

I choose my prison only because choosing liberation in a ditch chomping on poison seems so much worse.

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Lately I’ve experienced pity when running across those who clearly could choose for themselves something better. This being on the brain, I decided to write a meditation on what I would call the source of most problems. I believe this bit of writing reveals good news after all, but then again, I did choose at some point to become an optimist for reason’s sake.

Fear

Here it is so dark that as the question goes through my mind, do I even exist at all?, I cannot be sure that there was a person present to think said thought. Darkness; pure and complete. Blackness implies a tint, a comparison color that betrays some form of hope; such a concept is too bright for this place. The murkiness like drops of ink in water fill the mind slowly; cover through every brain cell and take root down into the base of one’s spine and then back through to surround the heart to stop its beating and suffocate the lungs by making their purpose null. And then the removal of the light sets in as the perfect suffocation of self-existence makes one a slave to any image of conception that could reflect light, and thus betray the broken mind into believing is preferable to the waking death where the absence of even the hope of a promising nightmare reigns supreme.

It is here where the nightmare’s noose tightens its hold around the neck unable even to gasp; to the contrary, the neck is grateful to be able to feel, it longs to have claws to be able to see before feeling that it is not alone as those claws begin to keep the neck company, and even make its acquaintance intimately.

And once the pain has declared loudly for the conception of the blind that that pain is all the world has left to offer, it is only then that an apple made of glass hangs just out of reach with a single ray of light shining upon it to remind the blessed one taken from the perfect non-existence of light that there is such a thing as hunger, such a thing as beauty, such a thing as joy, and that try as the one might, such an entity will always be just out of reach, and false if ever by accident it were to be obtained.

To the blind one made to look at the ray of light as though the only blessing in the world a voice speaks muffled by the joy of the dangling out of reach, “Look away from poverty and see inside yourself the light by which you could escape by opening your eyes to the world as it exists in truth,” and those afraid will always look away from themselves: for to see one’s self one would need first to close one’s eyes, and that would mean depriving themselves by choice of the only light they could conceive from the breadth of experience they never chose to enact for the sake of enjoyment as existence they cannot believe because despite the voice telling them something better exists if they look toward what looks like darkness from a lack of experience, their own belief of experience tells them to obey their master.

And so the false fruit dangles, and one may take solace that it is never eaten.

But fear does not like joy, and so the day comes when the fruit is placed in “lover’s” hand to be eaten; and on that day, that one prefers having food to eat as opposed to blinking for a glance inward toward the freedom of all-being burning with joy for all existence to partake.

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This one has overtones of day-time professionalism and was the brain-child of a particularly pernicious daydream.

Checking Others Out

Always the same gray permeating the air. I look out the window at work, and there’s the fog. I wake up in the morning, and there is the fog. All day every day, the fog . . .

Actually, it’s not so much a fog that effects the mind. It’s not bland or boring or depressing, at least, not when I look at it. Usually it’s just there at the periphery of my sight; it accompanies me as I go about my day. I focus on customer after customer and, staring at me from the outside, it meets the corner of my eye and keeps me company as my mind wanders and as I go about my business. But when I look out toward it, what I really see is the light behind the mists. I see the light from the journey I haven’t taken yet. I see my customers’ heads in the light’s direction all day every day.

In point of fact, this day has been rather long as it is, and I really can’t recall another . . .

I remember waking up, the fog outside my window. Getting ready; slippers to bathroom, nakedness to the feel of the water warm and refreshing. There was no hurry, I had plenty of time to get to work; I washed and relaxed. Brushing teeth and eating eggs and bacon, toast and fruit. I walked to work; the light was bright through the fog and accompanied me to the door of the store; I almost turned from the sidewalk to see if there was pure light behind the curtain of mist, but I entered the store instead; I knew I needed to work, I needed to earn my way to what I was waiting for, there would be something terribly missing if I explored the place toward the light just now. I need to earn my way . . .

And so my day began. It has been a long day. Aside from beginning my day, the rest is all I can remember. It feels like I have been processing customers for forever. Every one I ask the same question of, “Have you found everything you wanted?” They almost always say, “Yes.” I tell them to have a good day, and after I hand them their receipt, they walk toward the door, toward the light beyond the fog. When they disappear behind the veil of vapor I almost always seem to see the light brighten but for a second before returning to the glow accompanying me through my day.

When they say “no” it is almost always with a frown. And then I ask the next question it is my job to ask, “Is there something we can help you find?” If they say, “I don’t know,” I then offer them a job and they begin performing some task in the store if they accept. If they decline a job I send them to the manager’s office. I have sent a dozen or so to the manager’s office, some after they refused work; I never see anyone come out of the manager’s office.

Sometimes they tell me that they are looking for their daughter or son or other person they cannot find. I call for a woman’s daughter over the intercom, and after several minutes have passed her daughter appears from one of the aisles. She embraces her with tears in her eyes and I ask, “Is there anything else we can help you find.” She shakes her head with tears of gratitude, “No.” And I hand her her receipt and tell her to have a nice day. After they head outside the light becomes brighter for a few seconds and I return to give full attention to my next customer. It always makes me smile when I see two people reunited. I do hope my shift ends soon.

Sometimes, when someone can’t find a person, I have to call in a constable to assist one of our customers. They usually come in twos, and they usually walk with the customer toward the front entrance. Rarely there is a flash of light when this happens. Every now and then I see one of them return and take a place at a check-stand, but I never speak to them again at that point and I don’t think to speak to any of them thereafter; I have customers to focus on.

Sometimes people speak of misplacing vast sums of money, or misplacing their car keys. The constabulary is contacted in these instances, and the people are often walked outside, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen the light grow brighter any of the times I’ve seen that happen; it is rare I see that happen though. I’m grateful that when I’m done with my shift everything I could need is waiting for me at home; people seem so upset when they misplace something.

Some people complain of hunger and then wander off back into the store. There is always plenty of food here, no one ever asks me to help them find a particular food, they seem content to wander back into the rows of shelves in search of what they want themselves. After watching a customer or two wander back into the store I think about if there is anything I should buy for home, but I recall my shelves well stalked. I feel like there is something I am here for myself, but it is my duty to focus on my work so I return to giving full focus to the next customer; if there is something I am missing, I am certain it will come to me before I leave and I will get what I need before leaving.

Some tell me they are thirsty, and I point them toward the water fountain. They walk there, take a drink, then smile and wave at me before they walk to where the light brightens when my customers leave.

Some ask to use the restroom, and them pass once more through my check-stand once returning. It is my job to make sure I address everyone’s issues and concerns. Every customer’s need is responded to. If they require something that I do not know, I simply ask my manager or call upon the constabulary.

Once I saw a man caught for trying to steal from our store. As the constable brought him into the office, the assistant manager just kept asking him what reason he could have for doing such a thing. The man was repeatedly shaking his head while looking down through closed eyes and a clenched mouth. No one here has ever been denied, I do not know why he would have tried to steal when we always seem eager to give to the customers what they want; it is the customer service our company is built on, we never say no.

I know I have a break coming soon, yet I don’t feel like taking it. I wish to keep working, it pleases me to make my customers happy, and I feel that I am working for something; that the more I work, the closer I get to what I am working for. I just can’t remember what it is I am here earning for myself, but the job is pleasant enough, and I am grateful enough that I am closer to earning my way to what I am here for.

.    .    .

How much time I have spent here, I do not know, though I don’t think it can have been longer than a day; I don’t recall going home to return. I look up to my next customer and it is hard for me to ask what it is my job to ask. Recognition seeps into my brain from the distance of a lifetime called from across eternity although I know I know her at once. As the last word leaves my lips I feel the tears well to the corners of my eyes. She responds, “I didn’t at first, but I have now.” I shake from my tears as I reach her receipt out to her. As she touches my hand and our eyes do not part I know I have come to the end of a very long day; I no longer can not remember what I have come here to work for.

She does not let go my hand as she walks me passed my register and into her arms. She pulls me close and tight, whispers into my ear that it is ok now; it was ok when first my eyes recognized without recognition. I rest my head upon her shoulder as we walk out the door hand-in-hand; our receipt is shared for whatever it is worth. The world is brighter as we enter into and past the mists. I don’t remember who we were before we arrived here, only that I waited for her for I could not imagine going on without her. It is so very bright, so very, very bright. It is so very bright, and so very warm . . .

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The Monster That Comes From The Mirror

It is made of what the mirror is made of, it is not to myself I refer. It is not to myself that I refer, but it speaks with my voice. It speaks with my voice, and it shows me what I do, but it is not me.

As I stare into the mirror the monster pushes toward me my face out from the mirror. First the face begins to push out and then the rest of the mirror around it forms into a creature like a dog. Its body shows the same colors as my clothing; my neck extends into its, unless I am naked, then it is all flesh-toned. And its teeth, I suppose his teeth, curve sharply outward to contort my own mouth. It speaks what I speak with evil intent. It tells tales of an ugliness I am that I am not. The monster in the mirror wishes to make me see myself as ugly, but it reflects only itself after creating its face of the light it has received from me.

It spits and mocks. It misconstrues and misrepresents. It has no ears to hear, nor eyes to see; it returns only a coating approximating me surrounding what is inside of it: nothingness. It speaks my face as though evil, but speaks only from its own tongue: what it doesn’t have inside. It doesn’t mean to accuse me of myself with hatred, it merely communicates its own nature with the words it has learned from me. That coating which would try to be more warns me to remember I am to cultivate something passed my smile, my hair. That monster is not me because there is something more than the pearl-shine of my teeth, or my tears of confusion, or the thickness of my brow. What is it in me that can respond to it with kindness?

Is this the only mirror from which a monster creates itself? Have all mirrors such potential?

I turn my back to the distortion of myself speaking to me from nothingness. It becomes louder taunting me to punch it silent; I remember the feel of pulling shards from my hand the last time I was hurt by its derision still. I remember looking at myself in tiny pieces tinted red here and there as I winced to clean the mess I made and make myself whole again. I remember healing and how hard it was to hold my hand back as the new mirror animated just as the old. But the pain behind the bandage fortified my will not to lash out toward the nothingness sneering at me a second time.

I turn my back to the mask of me covering perfect hollowness and speaking the same; as it becomes louder I become more silent. I feel almost sorry for it for it seems to want to exist, but then I remember that there is nothing there to exist, and I begin to walk away.

I will return to the mirror to see quickly what will help my visage better express what otherwise cannot be conveyed from the heart of I am. And when the monster emerges and the nothingness begins to speak, I will walk away again; it is then that I already should have adjusted in a useful way, to linger longer would just be in vain.

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A friend of mine has expressed interest in my “dark side” from time to time. I started writing a piece as a meditation on such a thing which I intend on finishing in the not-too-distant future. In the meantime, this story idea came to me and I think it may satisfy his curiosity for the moment. It actually started as a hopeful, rather “bright side” consideration as to the idea that perhaps those things one is predisposed to viewing at a glance as evil really is the meaning of our existence. At any rate may y’all enjoy!

In The Beginning . . .

That’s the thing about humanity . . . it’s very hard for them to notice their size in relation to the rest of the cosmos. They discern that it is much larger surely enough, but they tend to lack a full appreciation for their own diminutiveness. Though they’ve existed on their “rock” for over 40,000 years, they have trouble conceiving much passed 10,000, and while they have evolved naturally over the trifling millions of years they can conceive, it’s laughable that they’ve never stopped to consider that the sole reason for their fleeting existence upon their “world” is to serve the incubation of what they live upon for the short, universally speaking, time that they do. But, though they can’t even conceive the service they perform to their “home,” the egg they cultivate is nonetheless grateful for the small and short-lived role its inhabitant bacteria play in seeing that it develops into something more than the single-celled being of the beginning stages of life that it exists as before becoming more, like so many human zygotes.

They are aware of their impending doom subconsciously, of course. They are linked psychically together so that they can communally perform the task for which they solely exist; they are all linked psychically to the egg itself, and thus directed to their task’s completion. It is their link to the egg that makes their unified subconsciousness aware of their impending demise; it is what ultimately will facilitate the final fertilization and subsequent multiplying of the cell for which they serve.

Some are aware of their subconscious mind, others not, and this is the catalyst . . . For those aware, watching those facilitating their own destruction serves as a consistent and ever-growing frustration. Of course, some are super-aware and able to meditate on reintegrating with the universe that created them; they have found inner peace. But those who see the others as destroying them unnecessarily, their frustration rises until boiling into anger; slowly and by degrees they begin the fight with those who serve completely blindly to destroy themselves in service of the egg. The more animosity created, the greater the psychic friction, and therefore heat produced to facilitate the next stage in the development of the zygote.

They only feel strongly, know implicitly, that the mining of oil and exciting of radiation to power their famous luminary inventions is somehow harmful to them as a whole; but as they notice so very slowly the cancers forming in them from the mining of these “resources” they never perceive in fullness that not only is oil and plutoniums and uraniums inevitably going to accelerate the rate of death to them by ways of cancers , but in fact they will quickly bring about the destruction of them all as the egg itself is fertilized by means of their self-inflicted poisoning. While they raise anger about “greed” they never notice that it is their anger itself that facilitates finally the full realization of the inevitable that they’d try to stop if they were more than the mucus temporarily incubating what is about to grow into a form of being so much greater than they could ever know; they could almost appreciate that they lived upon a fertilized egg, but the being it is to become they could never fathom.

And so, finally, as with all such organisms, the “accident” will finally come about. They will drill only more as the spills kill their food supply and fill their cells with the slow, painful death. And when the rage over the destruction rises enough the saboteurs will come to “save the planet.” And as bombs create ever-greater spills at refineries where containment is accordingly compromised, one country will fire their nuclear missile at another to distract the people from the toxins being mined and the retaliations resulting. And it is then their short lives finally come to fruition.

The bomb will hit near one of the many rigs and the oil will be ignited by the radiation as it should be. The “Earth” will be so filled with crude that easily a chain reaction will be set into motion in which the radiation will sweep over the oil as a flame over lighter fluid. And where other radioactive material exists, the extra heats and frictions will ignite it into union with the open wells, oil-filled oceans, and every oil-driven contraption upon the world.

As they perish over no more than a two week period of chain reactions between the materials they’d always know were purely toxic to them, the bacterium will never know that the sole purpose of their existence was to bring forth the fluids of the zygote, and mix them into the form of heat necessary to protect it and attract to it the other nourishments it needs from what they perceive of the “cosmos” so that it can multiply itself and form into the full being it will inevitably become. A short trillion years later, a being of genuine consciousness will emerge fully from the inescapable nature of the beings of fertilization that cultivated it when it was but an egg.

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Lately, it seems, life has been focused on journeys and going to concerts. Often life lately has been about journeys to concerts. I’m sure this has been influencing my writing accordingly . . .

The Poet’s Favorite Word

Going where I’ve heard the scent lingers from a rose the color of the sun’s light. They say when you enter the same room with it, you smell it in your soul. The rhythm flows through your blood, and you dance to the voice that commanded each and every star by name. They say that if you look upon her, the pain you suffer in life is joyous for it allows you to know that she exists.

Her thorn is known to kill, but her flower caresses your cheek without the asking if she likes you. It is said that in the town she resides, peace enters the heart; that in the town beside, people dance to her breath. Her music is known far and wide. Where she blooms, the universe knows why it exists.

When I arrive where I am going I pray only to feel I am passing those who have been in the same room as her; perhaps experience their presence in the same several-block radius. Should I find myself drawn to her without my own thought directing, it is her smile that will shine from my lips forever.

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