Behnke's Blog

June 21st, 2011 - Upon Which I Ride The Great Dandelion: My First O.B.E.

2011-06-21T03:01:00.002+10:00

I’ve known for some time that sleep paralysis enables one to have an out of body experience, but I have been mostly unsuccessful at doing so. I don’t seem to have a problem inducing the paralysis itself--the problem has been that I get stuck in my body, and I can only get half of my spirit self out of my material self at any one time. Stuck around the waist. If you’ve tried it yourself, it probably sounds pretty familiar. Much to my absolute astonishment, however, last night was extremely different.

I woke up from a light sleep and noticed that my body hummed. The line from Ghostbusters was stuck in my head and wouldn’t quit playing over and over, “Death is but a door, time is but a window. Death is but a door, time is but a window.” It played this way for at least five or ten minutes over and over until it began to annoy me, but at the same time I noticed during the chant, the system of buzzing had intensified.

I suddenly visualized two distinct things: first, I saw my spiritual self as a puddle of liquid that had dried up and had sunken underneath my physical ’dehydrated’ body on my bed. Secondly, I felt my spiritual self begin to rise upward through my chest. Since I have practiced this so many times in the past, I knew this to be the beginning phase of another OBE attempt. I pulled and twisted this part of myself upwards out of me in a tornado-like fashion, hoping this time, if I made myself disoriented and dizzy enough, I would be able to separate, but again, the barrier or the grasp that my body had on my spiritual self was too great.

When I began to sense my failure once again, I thought I would switch tactics: instead of ’pulling’ out of my body, I would use this force instead of fighting against it. I visualized my spirit self as a rubber band stretched between two extremes—my feet and my head down my spine. When I did this, I pulled this ’rubber band’ or string-like part of myself as hard as possible and then violently let go, in the same fashion that I would go about shooting a rubber band stretched around my fingers. When this happened, I felt a slight pang, and the next thing I knew, I bounced against the far wall of the apartment on the other side of the room. “I’m out! I’m out! Oh my God, I’m out,” I thought to myself. After I hit the wall--which didn’t provide any other sensation other than acting as a barrier--I rebounded to the opposite side of the room and tried to catch my balance while looking at my sleeping self on the bed. When I stopped my float, I tried speaking, but all that I could get out of my mouth was the equivalent of what you would hear out of an EVP.

After ten seconds of being out of my body I started to get a bit concerned that something would take over my body, or that I was dead. In addition, considering it was so dark and there wasn’t anyone around to guide me, I let myself return to my body. However, as I returned to my body, I thought I would just lay there in a state of suspended paralysis and feel the hum and try to think deeply about what was going on and what I just did. In a way, I waited for some form of biblical punishment for doing this, as out of body experiences, when I was young, was considered an evil practice.

Not knowing what else to do, I said, “If there are any spirits out there who can explain to me what just happened and what I just did, it would be most appreciated as I would like to know that I am not alone in some vast void. Someone must have noticed, anyway.” The next thing I knew, I heard a voice tell me, “You just ripened.”

I asked who was speaking to me, and the voice told me his name was JemBechle. I said that sounded like something I would have just made up in my head as he has the same main initials as my own name. He said, “Well if you would like, you can talk to Sophia—however, on this side, unlike in your own waking life, you pay more attention to what men tell you than what women tell you.” I asked who was Sophia, and noticed a person standing near my sleeping body who was wearing what looked like a white dress. She was busying herself doing something to me, like tugging on my leg and doing something to my eyes. Jem explained to me that she was a healer and, since I had just ripened, she was ’tending the garden.’ They told me I had been sick for some time too and she usually worked on me. I asked them what I was sick from, and they told me not to worry or concern myself about it as they were taking care of it.

I then noticed I could see them more clearly, but I was looking at them not through my own physical eyes but a different pair of eyes. I asked Jem whether or not Sophia was the ’Cinderella’ character who first came to me when I was twenty one and, in a nightmare, had pulled on my soul while laying in a state of paralysis. He didn’t give me a clear answer, but explained to me that Cinderella had been ’loosening’ something inside of me to teach me how to ripen, almost like plucking a string really hard would loosen it. In other words, there needs to be a bit of slack for someone to ever learn to have an out of body experience, and she had been trying to help me to do so even though it scared me.

I then asked if there were bad spirits too like the shadow people. They said it did not concern me and I did not have to think about it as they were taking care of that. I asked if there was some sort of war going on with dark spirits, and they said yes, in a way, but ask something else. Babies don’t know the concerns of the planet, and neither should I share with their concerns.

I asked where I was, and Jem said the easiest way to figure that out would be to look around. When I did, I noticed a couple different things. My perch where I lay was at the end of a cyan and green colored stem, and there were many stems, all leading back to a spherical root. If I could make an analogy, it looked like I was at the end of a dandelion tusk that was about ready to give up its seeds to the wind. Stretched over the end of the stem around a circle on the tip was a drum-shaped membrane over the tube leading downwards to the shared core. That membrane, I was told, was the equivalent of my third eye. As such, they explained to me that all souls from earth are attached in the same way, and at the end of all those other stems I could see in the distance were the rest of the occupants of earth and their third eyes. What I had done by flinging myself out of my body was the equivalent of a third eye, removing itself or flinging itself off of the end of the stem. Hence, the out of body experience.

I then returned to my previous question and asked if I was sick because of Fukushima, and they didn’t give me an answer. I said I could see the effects that Fukushima was having on the earth, as the cyan and green-like color of the sphere was red and white in a certain area, and that red and white splotching was the same as the red and white dots that Sophia was tending to around my eyes. They said I did not have to think about my sickness, as it was being tended to, just as I didn’t have to concern myself with Fukushima. I asked them why I shouldn’t be concerned, and they told me, ’it doesn’t matter.’ This frustrated me because I felt it did matter, and all they could tell me was to let it go.

I then asked them if I would be able to return to this place, and they said of course, all people who learn to ripen can return. I then said I really wished to learn things in the same way that Castenada had learned things with the nonmaterial beings, and they said they knew this and were working to help me do so. I could ask them whatever I wanted and they would do their best to answer my questions or find someone else who knew. They told me I had basically just been born, so my own questions and experiences were the equivalent to that of a baby. In addition, I would get whatever help that I wanted because it was necessary, in the same way that babies require help when they themselves are first born. Some people ripen early, some later, some only at death. They said that mediums communicated with spirit guides in the same way that I was learning to communicate with them. They ripen early, in other words.

I said that made sense. So I asked, are there other life forms than just those on earth? Jem told me to look up higher, and in the darkness I saw other dandelions in different colors floating in blackness, one of which was much larger and red and looked almost like an exploded firework hanging in the air. I asked him, how far do these firework like spheres of souls extend? They told me it extended forever and I could try to look if I wanted. When I did so, I was given the sensation of additional fireworks extending above and beyond these miniature ones in the distance, or made up of smaller fireworks, all different colors, where nodules made a network of larger nodules, like a neural network. I told them it was making me dizzy, and they stated that the dizzyness was the reason why human spirits on earth could not understand nor comprehend infinity--it makes them dizzy and disoriented and makes them feel alone and too small and they can just briefly see it but then it will be too much for them.

I asked, “Can I talk to anyone else other than you two?” Jem told me I could talk to whomever I wanted and ask whatever I wanted. I said, “How does that work?” They told me that they had been training me to do this even though I did not know I was training. I had been in training all my life, and the experiences of life were miniature steps leading up to my ripened disconnect. As an example, they said one of the reasons why I had recently read a book written by William Carpenter from the 19th Century was for the training of communication amongst other spirits. In that book, which was quite long (I hated it), it explained the functions of protoplasm, which is a curious glob that stretches itself as best it can into a particular cellular shape and does so without a brain or any organs which could house consciousness. That ’stretching property’ of protoplasm was the manner needed to communicate with other spirit nodes. From my position, above the stems of this huge dandelion, hovering over it all at some distance was a higher ’circle’ of spirits, disconnected from the core, and you could ’dial’ any of them you wanted by picturing who you wanted to speak to in your head, and extend your ’protoplasm’ out to them once you located them, and they, in turn, would extend protoplasm of sorts of their own which was like a link up with a tube of light. The link up would allow you to speak to them and ask questions or talk to them. The souls themselves were not a part of this tube of light—it was a channel to help funnel out the noise between distinct ’third eyes.’

I asked who it was in this outer sphere of spirits wanted to speak to me and I was given the impression of someone named ’Max Shendle.’ I said, “Who the hell is Max Shendle?’ At which point I located the impression, and extended one of these protoplasmic light tubes, and he in turn did the same, at which point I was confronted by someone in an older outfit with a funny mustache. He seemed to be exceptionally busy with something, but he said to me, “It’s Max Heindel, not Shendle.” To me this validated the experience a bit more, as I was being corrected. Max Heindel’s book, The Rosicrucian Cosmo Conception is one of my favorites. As such he was seemingly making himself available, and showing me that he appreciated my gratitude for enjoying his book. I said it was curious that I heard Shendel and not Heindel, and he said not to worry about it as they were patient and the signal or frequency required to intercommunicate often goes fuzzy when someone is not used to making connections. Mediums are able to maintain connections much better than most as they keep themselves open “without fear of insanity.”

I then proceeded to ask him a few questions. “Why is everything on earth so full of lies? Why the matrix?” I asked. He told me that yes, there was a grand lie, but that lie was a requirement for the circle and the square to interact with one another. The square was a gift of sorts, or a configuration, in which the spiritual sphere experiences life. This configuration I perceived in life as a ’lie’, but he directed me to see it more as a reflecting pane. And just as the sphere can exist on different frequencies through changing its vibration, so too can the ’interacting square’ have different frequencies as well. The two together, when matched with one another, can create infinite variations of material and spiritual reality, but it requires higher spirits—and lower spirits--to do so.

I then asked who gave us the square. He explained to me that, just as I was able to disconnect myself from my perch on the stem and fling myself across the room like a rubber band, so too can spirits ’fling themselves’ into different spheres. The beings from the sun created the squares for the earth to reflect itself against, which is why we see things like ’The Eye of Ra’ in our mythologies. The Eye of Ra is like a disconnected, unperched ’third eye’ from the sun which flung itself into the earth sphere to make a reflecting pane for the earth spirits to utilize. As such, they are very advanced souls. In addition, those who are ’building the square’ for reflection often times do not even know that they are doing it, in the same way that ’purposeful events’ in life teach one how to unperch themselves without knowing which events in particular have enabled them to do so. The material side of a person often does what the spiritual side wants without them being able to recall the true ’spiritual’ intention.

He then told me I had recently written up an article in which I had learned to experience ’connected opposites’ in the dream state. He said this opened the door for me to take in what he was saying to me, as well as enabled me to experience my third eye in its disconnected or unplugged state. The connected opposites, he explained, is a dizzying proposition, and most people ignore it in order to give themselves some stability in life. Hence, you get people making logical arguments and get angry when someone contradicts. Naturally, he explained, everything contradicts, and all those contradictions connect. I asked him how was this so. He told me that if I were to observe the third eye on its perch upon the end of its stem, I would see that it is like a stretched circular membrane that my consciousness could use like a muscle. I could make that membrane convex and concave, just as an eye can look both left and right, or people can be either inductively creative or deductively logical depending upon which ’mental muscle’ they use, or in which way they look. They are distinct from one another only in that they are dualistic expressions on the opposing sides of the stretched membrane of the third eye. Connected, yet opposite.

In the same way, he went on, the circle and the square are opposing forces on a stretched membrane, but on a much larger scale. On earth, it is the platonic ideal, the square, which is seen as geometric and perfect--but on earth, the platonic ideal is more mentally experienced and we strive to make it physical. In the spirit world, however, the inverse is true, and it is the physical existence which is the square, and the spiritual existence which is the sphere. These two interact with one another in the same way that opposing sides of the third eye are ’connected opposites’ that enable the earth to exist and grow in a spiritual form at the same pace as the material form. One influences the other, both of which would not be possible without the interaction between the ’square material matrix’ and the ’spherical spiritual realm.’ He said that what I generally perceive as evil is actually the perception of the square which is being built for reflection.

I then told him that in order to have the out of body experience, I had imagined a string that was stretched between two extremes. I told him that normally during sleep paralysis I was unable to get out of my body and that this had basically been the equivalent of me pulling on one side of a rubber band until it strained but did not release. I told him that instead of fighting against that force, I had used it instead, like a rubber band around a finger, to fling myself to the other side of the room. I told him that if I were to imagine this string of me spinning itself in the light it would look like a sphere. He told me that yes, I was a spinning string, and a spinning string looks like an orb whereas a non-spinning string looks like a whispy djinn. All of those strings, collectively spinning, take the form of planets which can spin in different frequencies. If a square were to endure the same frequency, a material ’planet’ would make an appearance within the universe. “So there is something to string theory” I said, to which he agreed. After this I was given the impression that he was very busy with something on the planet, and I said thank you, and he promised he would talk to me again.

Then I located Aleister Crowley (strange), and he appeared to me after the tube link up. He was dressed in an old king outfit with a red cape of sorts, and I was given the impression that he fancied himself as an advanced soul. He wanted to talk about sex magick and its relationship with the sun, but I told him I wasn’t really that interested in hearing anything of the sort at the time. He did tell me something about drinking and its connection with sleep paralysis. He told me that drinking ’slackened’ the stretched rubber band I was referring to, and to consider people in inebriated states as being less connected to their physical self. As such, they had a higher number of experiences with sleep paralysis, regardless if they knew how to use the paralysis or not. Learning how to slacken your connection with your body ultimately enables you to fling yourself from your perch. He said that, although I had been terrified by Cinderella who was pulling on my soul when I was twenty one, she was actually slackening it, so it would assist in the ripening. I said thank you, and he disappeared quickly as the protoplasm unlinked itself.

I then asked Jem what happens if the third eye goes down the stem instead of flinging itself from the tip. He told me people do this all the time when they fall asleep, and some even go down the stem when they die and are reborn and go lucid again. This stem, from the inside, looks like a tunnel. When you go down the stem and enter the center of the sphere of earth, all of the dreams in there are reflections of things you experience in life, and none of those things would be possible to dream without ’the square.’ The dreams themselves are connected to the earth, which is why you see cars and people and bridges and radiators and lollipops and boats in your dream instead of other things that are not ’experienceable’, such as those from one of those distant red spheres.

After this, Jem told me to meet Jeff Stone. I had the impression that they were just making up names, and they told me that they could just as easily make up their own appearances as well, and it was just to make people feel more at ease. Stone said that I had expressed a desire to learn how to ’travel’ during an out of body experience, and he was creating something which would allow me to do so, but I wasn’t going to use it until my next experience. To move in the world of light required a vehicle of sorts, he explained, and Stone specialized in making them. I said, “So you are like a car dealer?” And he laughed and said I am free to consider him one. He showed me what this traveling vehicle looked like. If I can describe it in any way possible, I would compare it to that children’s toy which is a plastic bubble, in which a coin is placed on a rod. When the plastic bubble rolls, the coin in its position is enabled to spin.

I asked him why the spin was necessary. He told me that, in dimensions of light, we are co-creators. As such, we need some way in which to perceive and experience a world around us which is not co-created—e.g. the reality of others. The only way to do so is to create a spinning coin of sorts which, when spun, speeds up the images much faster than the mind can invent them. I told him that made a lot of sense, as ’flickering images’ is used as a vehicle in many lucid dreaming books, as well as in remote viewing, where you learn to identify that which you think about and invent on your own vs. that which directly comes to you from an external source. The spinning coin, if you look at it and through it and picture an image on both sides of the coin, it will ’flicker’ in front of your eye, and by looking through it, you have more of a chance to experience images that you did not personally make up on your own. It worked almost like ’frames’ of a movie projected onto the opposing surfaces of the coin, with the next frame appearing instantly on the opposite side of the spinning surface. The opposite side of the coin acts like a mini buffer moving too quickly for you to draw your own light upon it, but moving in a fluid, movie-like fashion.

So ultimately, this vehicle looked like a clear orb with another orb in the center, and the spinning center was the same shape as the flattened membrane of a third eye. Stone told me to try it out briefly, and I did so by peering through it. I imagined it floating down over a field of wheat, and it directed itself and took me there. I next directed it to show the house of a friend that I knew, and I saw her hanging laundry on a line and pinning a sheet with yellow flowers on it up across a wire. He told me I would be able to really ’give it a spin’ next time I came back. I asked him how do I know that I will be able to come back? He told me that since I had the OBE, I would be able to come back much more frequently.

After all this happened, I finally fell asleep, and was so exhausted and astonished by the experience, I ultimately slipped into a mini coma of sorts and didn’t wake up for an additional twelve hours. Whether or not I will be allowed to return is yet to be seen. If this entire episode had been nothing more than a dream, it was the most fluid and comprehensible one I have ever had. Although it has been explained in just a few pages of text, it ultimately lasted for at least three hours. On top of that, all of this followed my first self-induced OBE. Take it or leave it—it’s what I experienced. It is possible the entire incident—including the OBE--could have been some strange hypnagogic hallucination, but if it was, wouldn’t you want to try and experience one, too?

Until next time...

June 8th, 2011 - Upon Which I Find The Ring

2011-06-08T05:49:00.004+10:00

What is the truth? We are all on some endless quest to find it, so what is it? With my vast supply of infinite wisdom (right) coupled with my inability to find anything more revealing, let me propose a definition: the truth is that which manifests thought into physical form. You cannot argue with someone or something which has this capability--they would just make it so.

Let me add to this, for the time being, that Tolkien encapsulated this concept of ’truth’ in the form of a ring. Why a ring? Because it is the equivalent of The Philosopher’s Stone—that which can take any tulpa, any egregore, any flight of fancy—and turn it into the real thing.

At first, you may think this wasn’t what Tolkien meant, but think about this, as it brings that universe into an entirely different light. A Philosopher’s Stone, in alchemy, was seen as the Elixir of Life, capable of forming a subservient golem—or race of golems--out of inanimate matter to do the bidding of the bearer. Discovering it would bring that person godlike powers, enabling him—and him alone--to alter the face of the Earth. How so? By the uniting of opposites. Good and evil. Black and white. Astral thoughts into material reality. Tulpas, egregores, angels, demons, gods, goddesses, planets, solar systems, galaxies—all of them—ideas, manifesting through the center portal of this ring.

Now, given that a person can, for all purposes, generate reality through this ring, there can be only one ring. Why? Because, if there were two rings with similar capabilities, one of the rings could, through the manifestation of an idea, destroy the other, which it would promptly do in order to prevent the opposite ring from doing the same thing first. See how that works? One true ring, allowing for the generation of reality—a single reality--is all that is logically allowed. And the quest we all have inside to ’discover the truth’ is really the quest to obtain this power and manifest our own thoughts to make them real. If we were to say that an earthquake is going to hit tomorrow, we would want to be right. If we were to say that such and such loves us, we would want to be right. If we were to say that this entity written about in this book is God himself, we would want to be right. And we would be—that is the power of the ring. That is the power of the truth.

Continuing this little thought experiment, let’s say some entity found such a ring and decided to use it. As such, we are now all living inside of his world, unaware of who, in particular, created this place, or where, in particular, is the ring that allows the ’thought-form’ of us to exist. We could have been placed here with no will at all, doing exactly like we were designed, mindless automatons running off of a random number generator. But we weren’t. No, we have a will, and our will seems to be designed, as the ring bearer’s will was designed—to seek the truth. It is as if we, ourselves, are the equivalent of tulpas in the mind of this entity, and we wish—for whatever reason--to manifest outside of this medium onto another plane of existence. The only thing which has the power to do so is the ring. Thus, we need the truth. But could we handle it?

In Tolkien’s universe, the ring had a very dubious quality—anyone who drew near it would be driven mad. It was an apparent requirement. But why? Well, consider the power of manifesting truth--since there is only one ring, there is no ’collaborating evidence’ required for any truth you generate. In fact, logically there can be no collaborating evidence at all as this would require more than one ring with which to ’collaborate’. This logical quality of truth can be easily noted by the fact that most conspiracy theorists lose all sense of shared reality the closer they get to the truth, and are driven mad by the pursuit alone. They reach a point where they share no foundation with anyone else. They believe they are just about to touch the ring, and it overwhelms them the moment they realize that they must get there alone. They have sacrificed their shared sanity in their quest for that singular point of infinite power. So, a dilemma exists. We have been given a will to seek the truth—the singularity--but the closer we get to it, the more we lose our minds.

The ring has yet another quality—anyone who wears it becomes invisible. At first, this seems to be quite a random property. But think about it. You place the ring on your finger, you visit the astral plane. You take the ring off your finger, you are back to the physical plane. Both sides want the ring, both sides pursue it, and every time you use it, it gives all those tulpas and egregores a clue to the ring’s location. You are pursued, relentlessly, in both realms. Both sides see you, the ring-bearer of truth, as the answer to their troubles. It is as if both realms want to manifest--in the other. Demons become physical beings, and physical beings become demons. Plato’s ideal forms manifests into objects, and objects manifest into ideal forms. Through you. The bearer of the truth.

With a ring of such value, it makes logical sense that a certain ’variation’ of sorts would find its way into the mix: the counterfeit. It is easy to spot the counterfeit simply by observing when someone lies, especially when someone lies all the time. The true bearer of the ring would not have to do this. You can easily note that the Earth is not the center of the universe, despite all the tireless attempts to make it so. But still--it is the counterfeit which makes life so endlessly unbearable, as the wielders of the counterfeit do not have the same benevolence to provide free will as the original creator—whomever that may be. So how did they get such power? Their ring is fake—isn’t it?

Some time way back in Earth’s history, it is not a stretch of the imagination to picture someone who noted the properties that this ring had, and decided that, since they could not have it for themselves, they would simply emulate its properties. All traces of the genuine article would promptly be removed, and in its place, a false facade would be set up. The power of the truth was promptly given up for the power of the lie.

First and foremost, nothing could happen on Earth unless they caused it to happen, and nothing could be known unless they let it be known. At least, that would be the objective. Appearances were of the utmost importance, regardless of how weak the underlying roots really were. If their will were not obeyed, they would lash back with a vengeance and beat the offenders into submission, sending their goons to ensure their secret was not revealed, the secret being that what they held was nothing more than a counterfeit. They would rewrite history, even go so far as to deny everyone the faculty of their own senses. How many fingers, Winston? What trillions of dollars? What dialysis machine? What PDF layers? What oil spill? They would take food from your baby’s mouth if you allowed yourself to see through their illusion. It is your fault, your deficiency, your stubborn self that is making your children suffer—not them. And all of it can end, promptly, instantly, if you simply accept their rules, take your pills, and say to yourself that they own the one, true ring.

Furthermore, every time something ’unexplained’ cropped up that they themselves did not cause, they would promptly state it was fake, or attach to it other ’natural’ causes. Why? Because there can be only one truth—their truth. As such, they would note these oddities and make every effort, not only to cover them up, but also emulate them to take credit for them. These they would call ’hoaxes’ and allow the blending of truth with their own impostures so no one would be able to know of the--much deeper--counterfeit. UFOs? They are but military jets and mistaken identities. Crop circles? Why, that is but a new form of art with sticks and old men, hired by the CIA, who stay up late at night and travel the globe. Yes! They would cover up the fact that there is a truth...different than the one they themselves invented. These false ring-bearers are like lightbulbs pretending to be the sun—and they would blow up the sun itself if it would ensure the illusion.

As for the ’invisibility’ clause, they would take care of that as well. The creator of the universe is just that—invisible, as he lives ’in the gaps.’ He is inaccessible because he wears the ring. On Earth, this group of individuals who wished to emulate this very same property of the ring would do so by changing their name, changing their country, changing everything about themselves and endlessly hide in the shadows as the ’invisible puppet master’, pulling the strings and creating a world in their image—pretending to own this place. Internationalists. Globalists. The Faceless Ones. No countries, no loyalties—only endless conflict in their wake. You cannot find God with a map and compass, and just the same, you would not be able to tell on Earth who is really calling the shots, either.

Their illusion, they believe, is almost complete, as we have difficulty distinguishing between two actions—acts of god vs. acts of man. Was the 9.0 earthquake in Japan man-made, or was it an act of God? They both seem to have equivalent capabilities here. Is this the will of an invisible being, or is this the will of man pretending to be an all-powerful invisible being? The door is closing. The winner has almost been called in to claim his prize—Earth itself, and all of its inhabitants.

But! But! They do not own the ring!

No. They don’t.

The creator of the universe with the real one is out there, somewhere, in all those gaps, invisible because he wears the real ring. But what happens, might I ask, when he finally takes it off? And what do you think he will do to all those counterfeits hellbent on destroying his gift of free will?

The ring which has been forged—not by the creator--but by the hand of man, will be worn by a peasant whose sole philosophy is to eat, drink, read, watch the birds, feel the wind, and be merry. He shall wear it around his neck, and walk to the darkest land, reach the highest peak, hold it over the forge—and let it go. He will open one finger, then another, then another, and watch it slide from his grip and tumble end over end until it is swallowed by burning magma. Won’t he? Let us all pray he can do it.

That hobbit is our last hope.

April 15th, 2011 - Upon Which I Dreamed I Woke Up

2011-04-15T04:29:00.002+10:00

I noticed this morning that most things experienced while sleeping are bipolar opposites of one another, which is precisely why dreams themselves are so hard to recall. You’ll see a lake of fire, you’ll walk upstairs and end up in the basement, you’ll give birth to your own dead self, you’ll be thrown in prison by being freed. It’s like living in an Orwellian nuthouse populated by a billion M.C. Eschers. Your sleeping self has no trouble collating contradictions and wrapping them into a structure that you can somehow understand when you’re asleep. You’re fine with the inconsistencies in such a state. Only when you wake up do you start second-guessing what you experienced. “Now hold on a minute, I cannot fall off the ground and end up in the sky.” That type of thing doesn’t seem to happen in the waking world--only in the dreamworld. But why? And what does it mean?

We are told that dreams are merely random firing of neurons with no rhyme nor reason and that what you dream about every night are thoughts and concerns you had during the day, packaged up with pure mental freedom. In a certain sense, that is true, but it’s too cheap of a view. I mean, what exactly is this mental freedom that is so readily available in sleep mode, and why do we have it? We don’t have too many organs in our body that don’t do anything. So what purpose do dreams fulfill, and where do they really come from? Are they as real as this place? Or less real? And what makes them different?

To me, dreaming is a state where our consciousness does not have to deal with consequence. In this world, if, when everyone fell, they floated up to the moon, there would be a particular universal consequence, a change to the laws of gravity, and we would have to learn to function around the consequence by taking necessary precautions to save people who accidentally found themselves in such a state. A law would be defined. A precedence would be established. But in the dream world, falling upwards doesn’t matter and you feel perfectly comfortable doing so. “Now I’m near the moon, hmm, this is weird,” is pretty much the only consequence while dreaming, if you can even call it one.

I’ve spent most of my life thinking heavily upon these dreams and trying to experience them fully, paying extremely close attention to them. This probably has something to do with the fact that my first waking memory of this life was a dream. There was a thin fuzzy thing and a thick fuzzy thing and they were bouncing on a trampoline, teaching me how to feel heavy and light. I’d press down on the trampoline and feel light. I’d push off of the trampoline and feel heavy. Not normal on a real trampoline, but it made perfect sense to me as a child and I can still recreate the feeling I was taught in my mind that I had originally learned from these two fuzzy shapes. They were teaching me something. Things were reversed, but the same. Jumping up was down, feeling light was heavy, all the way down until I woke--all the way up. And after that particular dream, all my life’s recollections began.

These bipolar structures within dreams now completely intrigue me. It has gone so far as to affect my entire world view. Here, in waking life, I see duality everywhere, but while awake, we experience a segmented duality as if there is a stake in its beating heart. Here, you are either a democrat OR a republican and you cannot be both--here, if you were both, you would contradict, and contradiction is a dirty word in the waking world. It is avoided at all costs to create structure to your thoughts and consequences to your actions. Here, contradictions are a no no, and to contradict yourself, you are seen as an obviously poor student to the way the world works. Flakey. But in the dream world, your whole mental landscape thrives on contradiction and you can experience opposites as one and the same.

These contradiction and consequences that we observe build the waking world it seems, writing laws, societies, civilizations. Picking a side creates a career, establishes a sex, a specialty, a hobby, a religion, a duty, and a person who does none of these is considered either an outcast or a failure. It is as if we are forced to ’pretend’ that the raw source of creation shouldn’t contradict when, according to the dreamworld, it does, and so do we. Things should be picked here! We are told. Pick a side, get in line, and wait out the inevitable consequence of your decision. And once we have picked, we build our choice and hide behind tons of contradictions that we run across, hiding them even from ourselves as if they were accusations--just so we can continue to play along at peace as the missing (x) variable on the left side of the equals sign which balances out an equation. That (x) variable is your ’awake’ consciousness, playing a roll 16 hours a day by pretending it is right whereas other things are wrong. It defines itself in contrast to all that other stuff out there that doesn’t quite get what you get.

But in sleep there is a different story to tell. That (x) ’self’ of yours seems to reconnect to the true source of it all with no need for the equation as the sides are already equal. In sleep, everything is water and fire, up and down, left and right, in and out, at the same time. And as such, there is no need for consequence or definition there, because in that place, nothing is missing--the democrat contains the republican and the republican contains the democrat. Since one cannot live without the other, they are experienced as the same thing. Parentchilds, doctorpatients, sicknesshealths. The up contains the down and the down contains the up. Falling is the same as going up, and going up is the same as falling down. This is your rest--don’t you see? Where you quit pretending distinctions, where you quit having to play the game of segmenting opposites. In the dreamworld, everything is there together as one with all contradictions deaf to the sounds of your waking logic which screams bloody murder. You contradicted yourself! You fell through your own self created schism!

So which is the real world? The one in which opposites are separate, where we must infect one side in contrast to the other side to experience something? Or is it the one in which opposites are connected and are actually parts of the same thing? It seems as if we have an Achilles’ heel of sorts when trying to understand the universe around us while only being given half of the equation while awake--you can break things in two here, yes, but the deeper you go, the more that discernment falls apart. Right now, for instance, you think you are being pulled down by the force of gravity, but if you scale back and swing your camera around knowing full well that the universe does not have an ’up’ you will realize that you could be getting pulled ’up’ by this force instead of down, or out instead of in. Or all at the same time. You see? It blurs. But in the dream world, nothing falls apart in your mind, and you can float around, completely at peace with opposites that are the same thing.

While awake, you could be a banker, a politician, a doctor, a boy, a girl. It is as if you are ’hovering’ in some way over one side of the variables in an equation to reflect upon the other side of the equation and understand that side as best you can, but you cannot fully understand as your consciousness is handicapped to sticking with one side. It’s like using your own hand as leverage to walk in the air--you just can’t do it! A portion of your senses are stupefied intentionally to create a perspective, an experience. That is what it means to be awake. But when you fall back asleep again, the discernment between opposites returns to null and you see things how they really are and you can finally use that hand as leverage to walk up into the air, no problem. That is why answers come in the form of dreams--you see all sides at once with no limitations in 360 degree high definition color. The veil of opposites is lifted and you understand why your anti-dandruff shampoo creates dandruff, you understand why your dentist causes cavities, you understand why doctors cause patients, crutches cause limps, and you understand it by not being forced to cover one side of the equation up with a towel. Your third eye is open--directly in between the other two. In the dream state, you are enlightened. In the dream state, you just know.

Martin Luther King once had a dream that all of humanity would be seen as equal. I have to agree--he most certainly did. And after much reflection, I think it’s safe to say that all of us have had that same dream as well.

January 13th, 2011 - Upon Which I Smell the Roses

2011-01-14T00:21:00.002+11:00

In conspiracy literature, the idea that stands out as being shared most commonly amongst its writers is, unsurprisingly, the concept of the matrix: we are all being lied to in every way, shape, and form, and because mankind is so stupid, they can’t wake up from the fiction presented to them by the powers that be and live life the way it was meant to be lived. I’ve thought in the past that perhaps this wake-up call that we have received with passion was generational, that as a direct result of the internet and the birth of indigo and crystal children, finally, after thousands of years, people have figured it out, and have decided that they’re just not going to play along anymore. Finally, we have a woken up, I thought. We can live the life that we are supposed to live! One filled with realness and meaning, as opposed to false leaders and their bullshit, topped off with a hefty dose of daily drudgery.

But now, I’m not so sure. Why? Because buried in the heart of all those lies presented to us is a rather disturbing truth: when you stop playing your bullshit role that has apparently been assigned to you for bullshit reasons,you must now play another role which is just as false as the one you’ve left. In other words, this new role that you would like to play has already been covered by numerous other people, and the manner in which you play it mirrors the manner in which these other people have played it in the past as well. It’s quite natural to do so. Someone who proclaims something that you would, for whatever reason, like to believe, sets an example for you, and since you listen to what they proclaim, you are likely to follow their example and play a resulting role in the same way you played your first role before your ‘revelation.’ There is now a new potter for you, but you’re still the same clay. Yes, the revelation has changed you--but honestly, you’re still not free. You’ve just exchanged one lie for another, one example for another, one world view for another, one set of hands for another. You, as a human, want to believe and almost have to believe in something in order to function here, but everything presented to you as new ‘belief material’ within which to embed your efforts contains the same amount of bullshit. You’re trapped in it, and whatever message you care to spread across the toast of life might as well just be considered a different brand of butter. Yes, there’s a different flavor, but it’s still the same toast.

This thought naturally led me to another: given that there is no escape, is it okay to allow yourself to be lied to, accept it, and just run with it? I tried coming up with some example where I could accept lies as being ‘okay’, and my mind kept returning to computer games. You fully know while playing Call of Duty that you are not really in war, and the creators of the game have just tried to invent an immersive experience and overload your senses where you forget that you’re just on a couch with a controller in your hand. Bombs explode, people aim their weapons, and you feel like you’re there. In an MMO game such as Warcraft (or whichever you prefer), the feeling is there more than ever—that game world is so big and there are so many different things concerning your avatar to improve, quests to fulfill, that you forget the clock as the hours just spin by and you play and play. If someone were to walk in the room and call you an idiot for sitting there so long, that the world you are pretending to be in is just some fiction, you would look at them like they are idiots for bringing it up. Of course the world doesn’t exist and is pure bullshit—that’s why you play. You want the bullshit to be as real as possible so you get lost in it, and you see nothing wrong with that because that’s what we’re all doing daily anyway. You, as a player, fully accept the lie, and you don’t care.

I have a friend, for instance, who confided in me recently and told me that if it were up to him, he would shed his body and just live in these make-believe worlds full time and never look back. He would forget this world, and just fulfill the role of his choosing, fake though it may be. It reminded me of the movie Inception where the main character ultimately forgets which reality he is in and no longer has the ability—nor does he care--to distinguish the dream world from the real world. In his final world which may or may not be the real world, he makes it back to his kids. So forget about the spinning top and give them a big hug, because whether it’s a delusion or not doesn’t matter.

And what do these world creators in the movie Inception argue about with one another? How to make their creations more immersive so the avatars which populate it are more involved and don’t realize they are dreaming, losing themselves within that world so they stay there longer. Some games have more drastic consequence for death than others, some allow you to fly, some don’t. How is this world any different? Because it’s real? What makes it any more real than others? Because it hurts? Because it feels good? Because there are consequences to our actions? Well, isn’t that just another one of its ‘immersive’ features?

But things which ruin the immersive features of this matrix do leak out which gives us a kick to wake us up from the inside. Recently, for example, I ran across a series of papers written by a lawyer, discussing how much of a joke the founding of the United States was to its supposed national heroes. The first congress referred to themselves, not as the nation’s founding fathers, but as the nation’s ‘founding farters.’ His case was enhanced by a Benjamin Franklin essay on farting written about the same time which, in light of the other documents, wasn’t very funny at all. I stared at his evidence with anger, asking myself, how can they make a joke about something so important? Millions of people die believing in their nation and the importance of their nation, and to you guys, it’s just one big joke. How dare you. Fuck you all. They, however, fully accepted the lie, just as George Bush seems to have fully accepted the lie by referring to the Bill of Rights as a ‘goddamn piece of paper.’

Consider the same type of document being released on accident from the internal offices of Blizzard where they refer to their game in meetings as World of Borecraft instead of World of Warcraft. And you, a character in their world, playing it for years, would probably be just as furious, even though you knew that world wasn’t real, either. Don’t the creators that everyone looks up to respect the time, effort, heart, soul, and money that you, as a player, put in to it while playing their game? How dare they, you would think. Fuck them. And fuck that world, too.

But the World of Warcraft isn’t real, you know this and don’t care, and those ‘founding farters’ seem to have understood the same thing about Earthcraft as well. Their world, their creation, their fiction, wasn’t very real, either. Nudge nudge, wink wink, founding farters. Yet at the same time, despite their knowledge of all the fictions, they must get people to believe in it in order to obtain personal benefits while handing out things for people to do, who, in many cases, much to your dismay, actually enjoy doing them. So they set up their multi-sided evangelists to spread the word of the importance of democrats over republicans or republicans over democrats, which honestly feel just as important (or non-important) as choosing the Alliance over the Horde. The choice of one or the other doesn’t really matter, but it gives the game feature-like options—more elements to it that you can pretend to (or refuse to) play.

With these thoughts in mind, given that you have finally woken up from the Matrix and have awarded yourself with a few well-deserved pats on the back, you are probably asking yourself--now what? Do I fight back? Do I go live in the woods and stockpile canned goods and buy ammo before the lizard people appear and ransack all local Wal Marts and take off our heads? Do I open the window and scream that I’m as mad as hell, and I’m not gonna take it anymore? Do I quit my job? Or do I shrug, and just keep playing along since we cannot escape the fiction? Too many internal memos may have leaked out of this self-perpetuating lie which obviously needs some new management, but in the meantime, since there is no escape, might as well choose your race, choose your life, choose your meaning, and choose your own adventure, because ultimately that seems to be why we all signed up to be lied to in the first place. The roses may all be fake here, but regardless, every now and then you should stop and smell them anyway. I mean, who knows? You might actually like it, even if it isn’t very real at all.

August 23rd, 2010 - Upon Which I Connect The Dots

2010-08-23T15:28:00.021+10:00

You paint dots over the surface of reality using your memories, drawing pictures in the jumbled mess by tracing from one focal center of the past to the next, looking for a larger picture in it all that expresses something about the nature of what you have just been through, something that expresses “you”. That picture says “This is my life. This drawing I made which connects all these things that has happened, this is me, so this is how I should function in the future.” But that picture you just painted of yourself through those people, places, and things that have occurred to you in the past—that picture is no different than a face you have simply imagined into the clouds. Clouds shift. Things change.

Still, you choose those focal centers, but you could choose any of what has happened to you and concentrate on it to form a new "you" in it all. Logically, shit just happens as you tumble through the universe like a meteor, bouncing off of one planet to the next until eventually you hit your final destination--all those memories being little more than residue, caked on dirt over a shoe after a long trek through the mountains. Emotionally, however, there is nothing “random” about the tumble, because every time you smacked into something and it hurt, that pain formed a memory. Every time you brushed up against something and it felt good, that pleasure formed a memory. That applied emotion is your dot of focus that can show you what you “mean” and will always mean, what you look like, who you are. Looking back, some people focus on all that pain, and they say their lives have been miserable and will always be miserable until the day they die. Sometimes people focus on the pleasure, and they say their lives are beautiful, life is beautiful, and they love everyone like the sun—and will be back shortly after it’s all over.

But at the same time, you can choose to not remember any emotion that you might have felt, or you can, in hind-sight, change your emotion that you might have felt from the past. So not only can you choose to concentrate on the pleasure or the pain, but what gave you pleasure and pain itself can change, and if that’s the case, you can draw from anything in your memories that says, “This is me” or you can draw nothing at all by ignoring all those dots. Looking back through your memories, in other words, charts your path forward, but what you choose to remember and apply your intent to is completely and absolutely—fluid. Your intent of drawing a “you” lights up all that cold blackness of space, but you can make any element in all of it glow and burn as brightly or as dimly as you want it to burn, changing the whole landscape.

And you ask yourself--or whatever form your "self" may have on any given day--did God put that planet right there so I could hit it and feel like such a shit? Did God put that absolutely amazing set of Saturn rings right there so I can feel like pure heaven? Or am I in charge of it all and am just charting my path and deciding what to smash into or breeze through on my own? You can choose any explanation you want for this as well. The focal points aren’t “real” unless you make them that way, the path isn’t “real” unless you make it that way. Everything is fluid, interchangeable and ultimately, completely and absolutely connected. Just like this life is interconnected with all the various other lives you might have led, all feeding back into your oversoul.

So there is a very unusual and rich irony about drawing all those dots, day and night, day and night. Without “you” the dots wouldn’t glow. But you are inventing that “you” at the same time simply by choosing what to call out from your past and say it was important. So both the dots and “you” are being made up, your past and the future are being made up, the possible “future” memories you may have are also being made up—and all of it is occurring at once.

Here’s an example: I am currently intensely focusing upon how bipolar my emotions are every day. By focusing on them makes them more of a reality, makes my path more erratic, makes me snowball through time and space that much harder. Like a cat walking at a particular velocity could, in theory, take down a cement bridge through the application of consistent vibrations, my own consistent focus on my bipolar tendencies has taken down my life. I have furniture in the U.S., but no car. I have a car and two children in Australia, but no furniture. I have tons of friends in the U.S., and I know very few people here in Australia, yet I’m now trying to rebuild in Australia while my family in the U.S. wonders if they will ever see me again. I have no address, no phone for the most part, and work doesn’t know whether I’m staying or going. I have an amazing amount of potential, but all of it is being channeled into the fact that I can’t seem to find a level ‘plateau,’ and have difficulty finding an incentive to even want wake up in the morning and make money, because that would mean I would be stable, longer, and have to stay here, on earth, inside of this broken me, longer…when I just want to leave. All I’ve been thinking about is trying to get Nina into my life because she made me want to keep my particles the most--But look at the trail I left behind me as I pined for something I couldn’t have! It’s like I’ve been cutting through iron ferrite with a completely dulled drill bit. Look at what's happened! But then again…

During this process of watching my life fall to pieces as everything around me was torn to shreds in my 33rd year, I’ve realized something—Nina tried to reawaken the part of me that had fallen asleep. The part of me that I let go to waste. That side of me which had been dulled after years of struggling to find any reason whatsoever to live…the unafraid side. It's been re-awakened in the midst of it all as I have been forced by events beyond my control--to let go. My “life” is not what is a wreck anymore—the sensation of “not wanting to live life anymore because of fear” is a wreck. I lost my way. I lost my trail of dots that previously formed my way. I asked my oversoul for help, begged it for help, as it stared me in the eyes, every which way I looked. My oversoul didn't answer--Nina did, as did all of you. The path that I have previously lived said, "Everything is my fault. I should thus be afraid of everyone and everything so I don't stir up the waters." The path that I have been shown which is amazingly more beautiful, says "sometimes, despite all your efforts, the water, like me, has a mind of its own."

That semblance of life that I couldn’t stand anymore, it’s just completely gone. Everyone around me watched in horror and concern, saying, “Where did Jeff go? Where did he go? Where is he now? Is he alright?” Jeff wanted to get away from Jeff. And ultimately, Jeff did just that with the help of everyone else. Jeff was tired of being afraid. Where did he go? I don’t know. I don’t care. He jumped ship and the ship jumped him. Don’t you see? I can't control everything anymore. I mean, geezus, I can't control myself anymore. It's not all up to me. It's not.

Yes, big setback, but all my pencils can be resharpened, or I can get a new set of pencils altogether. I have someone else I want to "try" and draw back in to the fabric of space as I tumble through it, but this time, I'm gonna draw him in right next to all of you. Unafraid, standing there, holding hands. I have had trouble letting go of Jeff, but I assure you, I will not have trouble holding on to all of you. And I haven’t wanted to draw anything quite this badly in years.

April 24th, 2010 --The Zombie Mombies

2010-04-25T00:18:00.028+10:00

The murderous mumblings of zumblie wumblies, I hear
biting their brashes in the bushes of the burgs
stumbling over stout clangs of mindless masses--
who are the zombies? I ask
the populous,
or the porous atrophied teeth and face of this dead race?
a disgrace, I smell
when I cannot tell the difference between them and us
marching in tune with ipod zunes
dragging their fangs as arms hang
down blood dripping and slipping
in town
they fit right in, don't they?
mobs of zobs that beam and stream darkness and decay
in the day
the night, quite a sight
filling cabs stabbed, stained with rain
wiped in vain, no purpose on the surface
gnashing and thrashing out bashing
filling their emptiness with TV air time and full glasses--
you want to see what they did to me? to you?
I let them chew
like you
gutted cows served as beef to kings
while innocent eyes cry to be less dead
dreadfully awful
year in and out
on routes everywhere, not just the 66th
no cure for the impure, fluoride or not
the zoppings are out shopping somewhere deep in eternity
erased minds holding blunt pencils, bulging purses
broken minds trying to get ahead
a hand or toe
could be yours, you know?
can't tell these days
between the rays of darkness and the sun
on the skins of soured children
must be done--I suppose
the great culling
I sit mulling in stillness
equally ill--mombs and their zombs alike
they chewed on her long ago, on me,
a small boy in the leprous hands of the land
that fed us poisoned water
in the store, hungry, more,
shown the end, all zothers eat their mothers in confusion.
shelve 2012--
the elect already collect harvested organs
from us zombie mombies wearing abercrombies
mouths open, vacuous eyes
flat-lined minds, our souls sold to the lowest bidder
for there's only so much cash buried in the ashes of ourselves.
who will save us, Mombie earth?
or did they zombie her--first?

March 16th, 2010 - Upon Which I Create an Egregore

2010-03-26T22:26:00.002+11:00

If the universe is nothing more than a holographic lie, doesn’t this give us all permission to write our own lies directly into the fabric of the universe like the Sons of Seth do? The builders of the illusion? What gives them the right and not us? Only one reason: they know it’s all bullshit, and we don’t accept that, while we preach everything is illusion at the same time. We bitch about the New World Order implementing their lies and deceit, and we hate it, yet state at the same time that reality doesn’t exist in the way that we think it does. Logically speaking, if we are all living in a false reality of someone else’s making, yet share the same abilities, can’t we just take that reality back from them by accepting the fact that we are all playing make believe? All particles pretend they are distinct from the whole—the secret societies know this, so we might as well play make believe right along with them.

And how do we do this? By applying our consciousness to the creation and development of a new egregore on the astral plane, an archetype, and having other conscious minds place their intentions and emotions into it as well. The word egregore comes from the Greek word egregoroi, which, when translated into English means ‘watcher.’ Eliphas Levi stated that they were “terrible beings”, fathers of the Nephilim. According to Levi, the watchers have no pity on man because the watchers are unaware of our own existence. They don’t need current living people to exist once they have been defined. A future group of people arising on the planet can pick up where the dead left off—the egregores, the angels, are thus eternal, more powerful than man, and as such, can do as they please, even though they need man to exist.

These archetypal entities are the equivalent of powerful memes that infect the minds of those who are concentrating upon it until it manifests itself into particles (A Watcher thus becomes a Nephilim). The bridge between the two is conscious intent of humanity. Like the borg in Star Trek using the consciousness of everyone else, the archetype on the astral plane develops strength and grows, after which it can be represented in material reality, whereas on the astral plane it develops strength and seems to have a mind of its own. This egregore separates itself from the all through the definition of those choosing to make it real, defining its borders, stating what it is and what it is not. When it is represented in material reality, the egregore becomes the equivalent of an angel, falling from heaven to occupy the minds of men and women on earth.

It is the previous “Nephilim” (Astral/Material creations) that Jews claimed God wanted to wipe out in the great flood. It is the current Nephilim that people seek to destroy as well, as they place their hopes in a new world arising out of the ashes of 2012, resetting our interconnected natures to build new egregores on the astral plane once again.

The steps to create an egregore have generally been hidden from the mainstream, but have manifested in ritualistic magic and occult works. A portal is opened where the mental creations can come through. It has been stated, for instance, that the appearance of the greys are the result of a ritual that Aleister Crowley performed when he made contact with a being called Lam. The ritual associated with making contact with Lam has ever since been associated with humans making contact with the greys. The experience of an abductee mimics the ritual performed by Crowley’s followers, involving sex magick. Did this portal that he opened between the astral and the material cause all future experiences the past century with the greys? It’s as good of an explanation as any other, I suppose.

Ritualistic magic—the creation and summoning of the Watchers-- has always been associated with the dark side, but you have to ask yourself, what is the dark side, and why do people dabble within it? The objective of the dark side is basically to teach apprentices that since everything is interconnected, they are a part of everything, the ‘good’ in the universe as well as its required ‘evil’ opposite. Rituals are thus designed to free someone from their limited feelings of separateness by forcing them to be a part of more than what they are used to. Before the ritual, man has a lesser ability to create. After the ritual, they feel more empowered as they have done what they did not want to do. The guilt of doing such rituals must be overcome, but once they sign their soul over to the ‘devil’ through ritual, they are thus more free to create manifested reality and, as such, draw on more egregores and interact with more egregores than the common man.
As such, rituals generally are used to help you break your previous limiting beliefs of separateness by forcing you to do something that you don’t want to do—in the Christian community, this would probably be classified as being indoctrinated into “evil.” But what is the purpose? To connect you with more aspects of yourself by doing what you were previously unwilling to do. This is mind-expanding as it brings you closer to the realization that you are everything, more connected to the creator god who defined this place as an experiment where anything goes in order to know itself. Mainstream religious teachings on the other hand gives you a set of rules and parameters within which you are allowed to live. In other words, be less than everything by strictly following a particular set of rules which defines how much of everything you can be—pinning you to a single egregore that wipes you of your own capabilities. When this occurs, the singular egregore possesses you and makes you its subject, turning you into its mouthpiece, deleting your consciousness and replacing yours with its own. If you are approached by someone who has been indoctrinated into a set of beliefs (a particular egregore), you get this sense that they are not fully there, don’t you? A ritual is usually needed to break these constraints, open your mind, and contradictively harden you to the point where you have more gravitational force than others, and a greater ability to create once again. Creating anything requires dualism. Without accepting the duality of your creation makes you a much less effective creator. Any screenwriter or novelist who has sold what they have written would probably agree. A story must have balance, just as all creation must have balance as well, with your consciousness being the tie breaker, allowing for both.

Reality that you can see, touch, feel, taste, smell, and experience could not exist in such an expansive state of everything being a part of everything. Thus, to create reality, you must develop a set of rules that separate one thing from another, a lie of separateness within the hologram, defining boundaries within the everything. By doing so, this segregation creates a thought-form—an entity which requires your own consciousness to exist since you are whom defines its limits (along with others who join you), using your collective focused energy like a battery. Your consciousness gives that thought-form power, just as that thought-form gives you a certain type of power as well, a place in the matrix, and, because of this, a feeling that you have meaning and purpose greater than yourself. “Sacrificing yourself to a greater good” is an example of you giving in to an egregore, a way to be, a way to interpret the world around you—wiping your mind of all other perceptions and replacing it with the singular perception—a tool for the egregore which has possessed you. Are birds in a flock separate and distinct from the flock itself once they become a part of the flock? Tough to say, just as it is tough to say whether or not people forming the catholic church are distinct from that church. The church is more powerful than man—but the church relies upon man to exist.

When more than one person creates a group for a common purpose, they help define a collective mind which suddenly takes on a life of its own where the whole is truly greater than the sum of its parts, much like a corporation that seems to have a purpose of its own. The more consciousness which believes in the egregore’s existence, the more semblance and definition this structure will have. The Watchers themselves exist on an astral plane—when they ‘interbreed’ with human consciousness, their form grows and creates half man/half god (material realization of a thought form). Fallen angels, the Nephilim, thus manifest in the same way that a self-aware flock seems to manifest in a collection of geese flying through the air. Whether or not these thought-forms truly exist on some other dimension or level is obviously up for interpretation and, again, personal belief.

The knowledge of how to create an egregore has always been kept from the people. What was not kept from the people, however, was their existence, for the creators of the egregores knew that the more consciousness which believed in their existence, the more battery-like power the egregore could use to manifest itself in reality, and if you have created that egregore yourself, you would hold the reins over the hearts minds of millions of people who obtain meaning and purpose through the perpetuation of the egregore’s ideals.

Eventually, the “giants of the land” always take over. It is at this point that these creations meant to serve man inflict punishment upon them. Ask yourself, for example, does the catholic church still serve man, or does man now serve it with no benefit? Does the corporation serve man, or does man now serve it? The Nephilim seek eternal life, working as desperately as possible to make it so, regardless of man. When you work for the catholic church, you do not want it to lose power. When you work for Microsoft, you do not want it to lose power. Your will is thus drawn upon by the egregore of these structures on the astral plane for their own eternal life and you generally aren’t even aware that your consciousness has sacrificed itself upon an altar of the gods. You just see a larger than life entity that continues to manifest itself in the hearts and minds of millions of people—but it is you that has made it so. Man is ultimately his own worst enemy.
There truly does seem to be some collective being known as the Roman Catholic Church. There truly does seem to be some collective being known as Microsoft. Do they exist? Does a flock entity exist? It would seem as if they do, and it is only the universe itself that can ultimately destroy these larger than life entities, through a catastrophic event, or in some other unknown way.
So then, why create, if your creations all become monsters? Because it gives the interconnected consciousness of man something to experience in order to understand itself and dream new dreams. Picture how you would dream, for instance, if no thought-forms were created that you could experience. Could you have a dream about a motorcycle if you never experienced one? Could you have a dream about a church if you have never experienced one? What would you dream if you didn’t have a material life upon which to reflect? These astral monsters are needed. They create a resistance for us all. We create our own resistance. It is every man’s right to create them, and it is this gift which will allow us to destroy those that have surrounded us all like a runaway train that is headed straight towards the dark cliffs of eternal abyss.

Be a creator, and not just a mentally vacant vessel of the thoughts and creeds of the current egregores around you that have possessed you and others from the astral plane. You are the starseed, the stem cell of something new. Own it. Be it. The collective god existing above the astral plane will sort the chaff from the wheat when we cannot. But it has given you purpose: a deep need to create. Don’t throw that purpose away.

January 16th, 2010 - Upon Which I Melt

2010-01-16T12:38:00.005+11:00

In this brittle cube
On the frozen sea
There I look at you
And you look at me

Cased in icy walls
Locking us at bay
As I reach for you
Just to find a way

Through these solid binds
Holding us complete
We stare through the ice
'Cause we cannot meet

Oceans and the wind
Keep us worlds apart
But they cannot stop
What is in my heart

And this brutal breeze
Blows and snows away
Making crystal cages--

The mage rages, I say!

"Oh, immortal gods
That have put me here
Cloaked in solitude
But the ice, so clear--
Look through my eyes!
See as I see!
Eternal life matters to you
As she matters to me!"

And the silence greets
All my fury screams
Padded silent cube
On the chilling streams

But your eyes aflame
With intent, so full
Lighting burning valves
Deep within my soul

And I concentrate
On the walls to melt
As I show you, love
Deeply what I've felt

All ice disappears
You must realize
Cages hold me not
When I see your eyes

In this brittle cube
On the frozen sea
There I looked at you
Now you're here with me.

The Dolphin King

2009-11-19T15:20:00.009+11:00

In the darkest hour
In the deepest place
I speak these words to you
Time cannot erase

Of my drowning need
I want you to see
Yes, this dolphin boy
Swimming desperately

On and on I go
Fins and skin so tight
I swim hard enough
Reach you 'for the night

It has closed us in--
Round and round I go
I will see you there
I want you to know

And I promise you
I refuse to fail
'Cause the dolphin king
Screams we will prevail

So I swim around
Swinging back and forth
As my dorsal fin
Helps me on the coarse

Almost there by now
As I see the light
Nothing stronger than
Dawn within the night

Oh my god, I say
As I reach you there
And I rub my fins
Deeply through your hair

Combing out the pain
Reptiles put you through
But believe me now
And my love for you

I have found you here
And it feels so right
No more pain I say
In the morning light

Shining off my skin
And upon your face
From the darkest hour
To my deepest place.

November 1st, 2009 - Upon Which My Oversoul Speaks

2009-11-02T08:13:00.002+11:00

You can look at everything in two ways: it has meaning, or it is meaningless. It is intentional—or it is random. And most of the time, you have difficulty deciding which is which, because when you review an event that has happened to you and you twist it around in your head as if it were a cube in your hand, you can see it both ways---laced with purpose, or you can see all that purpose as just wishful thinking. Why did this happen to me? You wonder—hoping that it wasn’t all for nothing. The fact of the matter is, because you can look at things in your life in such a fashion, you get confused, depressed, because you don’t necessarily want it to be a choice—you want it to be true—there is purpose or there is none. But it is a choice. And it is this choice of interpretation that I have spent the past couple months exploring in detail only to open my eyes to something I have never before considered: the oversoul.

Most individuals need their meaning handed to them on a stick, which is why you get things like dream dictionaries and tarot card readings from ‘the professionals’ and preachers explaining why good things happen to bad people and bad things happen to good people. Other individuals need to invent their own meaning, and they do so without remorse, without guilt, without thinking their own ‘made up’ meaning is any cheaper than the one handed to them by some higher presence. But a third option is also possible: the external presence that hands out meaning like cotton candy is the same exact presence as the internal one, just on a different level. I mean, there are millions of external sources that you could turn to in order to receive your meaning…so your selection of which external source you listen to…is almost impossible to separate from the internal one that generates meaning from apparently nothing.

The external meaning is one that you wear, as if you are an actor in someone else’s script—the internal meaning is one that puts clothes on itself—it is fine being its own script. The internal one can look at the events in life and say, you know what? This whole place is run by reptilians. The external one says, tsk tsk, you silly fool—there are no lizard people—that is just your own active imagination as it does not want to take responsibility for the planet. It is your own cry to get into politics and fix that which is broken—but believing in the lizard people gives you an excuse not to fix things for yourself and your children. It is a cry of lazyness--not of revelation.

So who is right? The external source, or the internal? It is a choice—so which do you choose? You don’t want to be wrong—but when you choose, you head down a slippery slope—in either direction. Is there any way to reconcile?

I believe there is.

Let’s just imagine, for instance, that you are making both of them up. Since you can select an internal meaning, and you can select an external meaning, why are they any different? You can apply beliefs of a buddhist or catholic or christian or satanist…and you can come up with meanings that match one from a buddhist or catholic or christian or satanist. And since both are a selection…you are both defining your own god…as your god defines you. And since you are defining each other, that would imply that both your god, and that god’s current instantiation—is you. You are thus your own meaning…both externally applied and internally invented. Like..two strands of RNA which, combined, make DNA. Life. And through such activity in your mind, life has purpose because you and your oversoul are giving it that purpose.

So, what do I mean when I say that I am an instantiation? Well, take a look at astrology. There are twelve signs of the zodiac, and you are currently one of them. You more or less take on the qualities of your sign—if you want, but you don’t have to. It is a choice, and in the center of that choice is a neutral core, attempting to know itself.But the outer shell which could be a Capricorn or a Leo or an Aries this time around gives you an inclination to be a certain way, as if, in this life, the scales are tipped ever so slightly to bring about a new variation—out of a much more long term “you.” And it is this long term you which is going through all the variations that is the oversoul. That is who you answer to—yourself, on a much higher level. At the end of this life, your body collapses, and what escapes heads straight to the center as the oversoul prepares yet another incarnation which will help it to know itself.

While it is doing this, while you are going through this life…it watches from the center, an all-seeing eye, peering from behind, giving you suggestions, but its language is much more evolved than these words or the words that you use on a day-to-basis. It manifests itself to you only through symbolism that you alone feel is meaningful and powerful. For instance, recently I wrote an article about the symbol, in Hebrew, for the phrase “in the beginning” which aligns itself perfectly with the symbol for Gilgamesh that also talks about the origin of man. And it is this very symbol which I am absolutely overwhelmed by as I am currently residing in Minneapolis, the world headquarters of “Target” whose symbol is everywhere. I cannot escape it. That is the symbol for Gilgamesh, and when I see the symbol, I do not think I am making it up---I feel an oversoul is making me notice, which is why I’m here. If you say that is just wishful thinking, then you don’t understand the relationship between the oversoul and the self—both, combined, create meaning, because there is no other meaning. When I look around and see Gilgamesh everywhere, reminding me of the origin of man, couldn’t it also be telling me something important about myself and where I am at with everything in my life at the same time? I don’t just think so--I know so.

So when you look around yourself and see meaning in otherwise trivial things, maybe instead of fighting it and assuming nothing has meaning and it is all random nonsense, you should, instead, give in to it, and allow yourself to experience the meaning, even if you feel you are making it all up. You and your oversoul, combined, are inventing everything yourself based on what you two notice and call out as being important. By not doing so robs yourself of the ability to manifest meaning and purpose—without which, there truly is none.

October 25th, 2009 - Burn

2009-10-26T16:38:00.008+11:00

My oversoul burns with intensity, strength, desire, unmatched--

Peeling back the pages in brown curls of fire as your eyes try soaking it up

Before it all disappears—Can’t you feel it? Right here? And here?

These are words that anyone could have written!

But, because I am the one to write them,

Feel chilling, alarming, and true.

Down your spine and back once again--

A snake wrapping itself around your vertebrae.

Write them out yourself! They don’t feel the same as they do on this page, do they?

They must slip from the ends of my fingers, not yours!

To all my captors--you have caught nothing!

For all you can do is laugh, and feel that this laughter knows.

It knows nothing!

It is hollow, echoing off of empty chambers—where inside of me, there is substance--

Power.

The bright red blood in my veins are the perfect match for anyone who needs it!

And that blood inside of me lights up the crevices of each of these letters as you read

Quickly, then slowly, shivering, afraid to exhale, waiting for the next word.

This is no mistake…this is why I do as I have done in this life--and the next, and the next!

You could light up tombs with these words!

Eternal lamps in the crypts of kings.

My strength! My power! My spirit! Masks itself behind weakness,

Addiction,

Vulnerability,

Chaos.

It has done this before--

To gather air into its mighty lungs--

And use it to summon hurricanes for demons who believe they are waiting

For mere whimpers of agony.

They will get none from me.

And they will get none from you.

Mark my words—you will need my breath, my lungs, my wind, my spirit.

Do not be deceived by the weakness you’ve seen in me.

Be afraid of it.

***

Dedication: For those who needed to read these words at this very moment. You know who you are, why I have written them, what they mean, and how it feels. It is bright, bold--beautiful. Burn.

October 18th, 2009 - Sunday

2009-10-19T04:48:00.016+11:00

I opened my window
And what did I see?
The Sun up above
Beaming shamelessly.

"Where have you been?"
He said with a grin--
"When your windows are shut
They won't let me in."

I know, my old friend,
I needed my space--
The dark is an expanse
That your rays erase.

"Oh, how very true!
But help me decide,
What space did you need
That I do not provide?"

Well, nothing is certain
In the dark, it is clear,
Uncertainty means
An absence of fear.

For, what is behind you?
And what is before?
And what are you missing
When there's nothing more?

When your feelings are pitch,
Your soul dark without sight,
When your senses, oblivious--
You're at peace in the night.

"Ah, what beautiful logic!"
Said the Sun with a smile,
"I miss your perception--
It's been awhile."

"Every word that you speak,
All these thoughts that you see,
Never stop for a second
To share them with me."

"For nothing is certain,
Just be who you are,
Yes, I am the Sun!
But you are my star."

"So open your window
And soak in the shine,
Reflect all your secrets--
And I'll reflect mine."

Yes, Sunday it is,
So Sunday shall be
When the windows are open,
And my truth is set free.

August 19th, 2009 - Upon Which I Killed Hitler for the Jews

2009-08-19T15:52:00.006+10:00

Years ago I ran across a question in a book called Fuzzy Logic while I was a teen. The simple (and often used) premise was that there is no black and white—only subtle shades of gray, and we should keep this in mind while we form all of our thoughts about reality. To illustrate the concept in the book, a simple question was asked: at which point does someone become bald? If you have one hair left, most would still consider you bald. If you have two hairs left, bald. Ten, bald. But what about 6,000? 10,000? 100,000? Then you’re not so bald anymore. As such, the concept of baldness is pretty fuzzy and indistinct. In fact, when you break it down enough, you’re not sure exactly when someone becomes bald, but you still have the ability to think using the term “bald.”

Using this same conceptual framework, I tried applying it to all sorts of things at the time, such as the term “Christian”, or “Jew”. At which point does one become a Christian? At which point does one become a Jew? I truly enjoyed the thought process and shared it with my friends because I was a somewhat rebellious Christian who thought everyone in my church were idiots. For instance, I would ask them this question and they would say you became a Christian if you professed your faith that Jesus Christ is the Lord God and are baptized in the holy waters of life. But then what if you don’t attend church for the rest of your life? What if you renounce your faith? What if you just don’t do what you’re supposed to? Compare that to another who does attend church, never renounces his faith, and does what he believes he is supposed to do. In their mental struggles, they attempted to define something of permanence which would be acceptable, but they failed because there is no permanence to a fuzzy idea.

I know people’s mental Christian defenses are probably getting raised by that example--so let’s turn to the Jews. What makes you Jewish? Is it a materialistic thing that you wear like a necklace, or is it something else? Are you really Jewish or do you just take on the qualities of being Jewish in some way, shape, or form? You can be a non-practicing Christian, so you can just as easily be a non-practicing Jew. In fact, the more you think about it, the more you realize that a ‘Jew’ or a ‘Christian’ seems more like a metaphysical glove that you wear vs. some inherent quality of your body and soul. You represent the tenants of your faith as much as possible by walking the walk and talking the talk, but those tenants are not a physical thing that is glued to you, and are not even a part of who you really are—they are just more or less a framework, a guide, a mapping of activities, a structure. A shape on the wall formed by some flashlight that can be moved on to any other wall.

Furthermore, the laws of either a Christian or Jew is up for spurious amounts of interpretation. There are millions of opinions inside and outside the core of these faiths with various ideas and concepts on how one must live to be a Jew and to be a Christian. When confronted by these, most people make a choice as to which interpretations one should follow. As such, you can see these different interpretations as a multitude of gloves of various sizes and shapes that you can wear, all proclaiming to be the one true metaphysical Jew, or the one true metaphysical Christian. You wear what fits—or wear what you can handle—but the glove is not you and it will never be you because you cannot be the act—you are the one doing the acting. You are the actor or the actress.

Now let’s say you are Hitler. How would you go about killing these Jews when ‘Jew’ is actually a metaphysical term much like baldness? How do you kill the concept of Jew? How do you kill the concept of Christianity? And for those more conspiracy-minded, how do you kill the concept of the New World Order? When I think of someone attempting to do so, I think of a laser pointer being shined on the wall, and a cat trying to catch it under its paws—in this case, the cat is Hitler and what he is doing is impossible because these concepts are not made of particles that you can get rid of by burning them alive. Not only are people more or less Jews, more or less Christians, more or less New World Order enthusiasts—all of these are just gloves that these people can more or less wear. As such, you can’t get rid of them any more or less than you can get rid of a shape that someone is perceiving while staring at a cloud. You can kill all of the people in the world, and a few years down the line, someone will reform the shape you tried to stop seeing, and slip into it once again like that forgotten glove.

You cannot get rid of any concept because those things that you are really trying to get rid of don’t exist anywhere other than inside your own mind that you have used to etch out its shape within the ever-changing currents of infinity. As such, if Hitler were really trying to get rid of the idea of Jew, his strategy was about as effective as burning all things that are colored green to get rid of green. It’s there…it’s a concept…it’s stuck here forever. Deal with it.

And this also goes for those who claim that they can get rid of the New World Order, or end secrecy. You cannot get rid of them because they are concepts, and although you can see people who are more or less secretive, you cannot stop them from being so. You shall never stop plots and networks and brotherhoods and secret oaths—you can only understand, recognize, and think with or without their precepts and moral principles. You cannot prevent secrecy any more than Hitler could have prevented the return of the concept of Jew, or the end to the color green. If you were to try, you would be the one to create the dystopian world defined by George Orwell…you would make a Big Brother of your own--to prevent a Big Brother. Your government buildings would be glass, everything would be bugged, people would be naked and frisked. You, in your prevention of secrets, would destroy all life, all covenants and bonds between each other—and you would do so believing that it is right, that it is good. Just as Hitler did while he tried to kill all the Jews.

If mankind were to look around and see everything as concepts, as male and female as concepts, as life and death as concepts, as love between one another as concepts—they would realize that nothing anywhere at any time is set in stone for eternity, that this is all just an idea that we’re all having which invents reality just as much as it utilizes it. We would all become co-creators, knowing that our history is just as much a fluid thing as our future. What we pay attention to in our past, what we focus on, creates it the way we want it to have been. What we pay attention to, or will pay attention to in the future, creates it the way we want it to be. We do not need a media to agree with us, or for there to be no secrecy to enjoy the world—because the media is just an idea—we are all ideas. And it is an idea that we stand behind and honor and hold up as truth, just as much as something we chase around and try to kill with our paws. It is the light and structure of those ideas which are invincible. Like you and me and our eternal spiritual core that can draw anything it wants, at any time, slip into this idea or that idea, and try it out for awhile, before slipping in to something else, either at ‘death’, or just on a momentary whim over a burger at Wendy’s.

To get rid of any idea that is killing us—stop having it. We, as co-ideas, simply choose to shift perspectives. And the night comes. And a new day arrives as we look up in the sky and see something new in the clouds. We are co-inhabiting ideas here, and as such, co-creators, in this matrix-like world of the dream and no-dream. And in my dream, my world—I do not need to look at you, recognize you, invent you. I turn my back on the New World Order, on Hitler--I glance away. We shall never again see each other eye to eye. Because to me, you no longer exist. I do not have to chase you. I do not have to kill you and whatever bodies you currently inhabit. This is oblivion. And it is my gift to you as the powerful wind within me arrives, fills up its lungs, and blows all of those devastating thoughts and ideas of you away.

DaBrunzell, DaBrunzell, Let Down Your Beard

2009-07-19T08:47:00.013+10:00

Written By:
Jeff Behnke The Beardful & Dennis Brunzell The Beardless

Publisher's Note: This is a work of non-fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this story are non-fictitious, and any resemblance to fake people or non-events is purely coincidental.

Chapters 1 to 53

Once upon a time in a land far, far away, lived an aging man named DaBrunzell who was difficult to contact, primarily because introductions such as this imply that there are no telephone wires hanging up on poles every couple of feet. Nor were there any fiber optic cables buried underground, specified by little yellow and orange flags in odd spots with writing on it that said things like, “Fiber Optic Cable Below.” Probably because if someone had placed an optical cable in the ground and specified its location by a flag, no one would have appreciated it nor understood why they were being informed of such strange technology in such a strange manner. So…there weren’t any wires on telephone poles, nor were there any fiber optic cables….and there was a strange atmosphere in this land as well that affected all possible incoming satellite signals, so everyone was screwed in that way, also.

Like I said, he was difficult to contact, but that’s not really what is important, although the implication of my previous paragraph implies that it is. Nay, I say! Just forget I mentioned it, and instead, as the camera in your mind’s eye flies in, watch as it focuses on some bird swooping in to his property—‘cause lands far away have birds--watch as it swoops down and perches on his windowsill, and observe as the camera finishes its strange trek, ending real close to the non-stubbles on DaBrunzell’s face. Yes! Finally, after all that talking, we get to the most important part of our story—

“Honey, Why can’t I grow a beard?”

That was DaBrunzell if you hadn’t figured it out by now. And DaBrunzell also has a…

“Why would you want to grow a beard?”

Wife. MaBrunzell.

DaBrunzell picked up the side of his face and stared at the tiny stubbles sticking out. He flexed his jaw, possibly to help coax out some shadow that his eyes had missed.

“I just really need one.”

“Not for me, you don’t.”

“No, just—I want to see what my face looks like with a beard.”

“Just get a marker or something.”

Because in this land, although they do not have fiber optic cables or satellites or telephone poles, they have markers.

“What’s a marker?”

“You know…those color changing sticks. If you rub it on something, it changes the color of that something. Magically.”

“But I don’t want to change the color of my face, I want a beard.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Lots. Hair, for one. No magic sticks, for two. One’s natural. The other is not so natural.”

“You know how difficult it is to kiss a man with a beard?”

DaBrunzell raised his eyebrow. “Probably equally as difficult to kiss a man with marker all over his face. No, tell me how difficult it is for you to kiss men who have beards.”

“I am just saying.”

“You’re just saying--or just admitting?”

“Saying.”

“Did you just sigh at me?”

“You’re being silly. I am now a kisser of other men, am I?”

DaBrunzell continued to stare at the mirror instead of turning his head to face his wife, almost like he was wearing a neck brace designed to help him find stubble. “Well, bearded ones, anyway. And you’re a keeper of the beardless! Why can’t I try to grow a beard? Did you poison me in my sleep?”

“Your father could never grow a beard, his father could never grow a beard, and the father before that probably could not grow a beard. Don’t blame my cooking.”

“Uncle Sam grew a beard.”

“Your Uncle SAMANTHA ended up seeing that wizard who turned him into a woman, and then HE lost his beard. It’s in your family. Deal with it.”

“I don’t want to deal with it. I just want a beard.”

“Maybe that wizard who helped your Uncle Samantha out could help you, too, then. Maybe he’ll turn you into…DaBeardzell, by making you drink the potions he gave your Uncle Sam, but you’ll have to drink them all in reverse.”

DaBrunzell stopped staring at himself a second, considered. “I suppose I could.”

“Oh, come on, you’re not seriously considering—“

“Getting a beard? Becoming more of a man? Well, my dear, I think that’s quite obvious.”

“No! Seeing that cooky wizard who wears those funny hats with…feathers and…weird colored robes, and…for all we know, he could make ALL your hair fall out forever and ever, and your children’s children won’t have eyebrows, and you’ll look so hideous the birds will stop singing.”

“That’s conjecture. His magic seems to have a good track record.”

“But what’s in his magic that makes it so magical? That’s what worries me. Just use magic markers. They’re much safer.”

“It’s a secret potion that he’d give me, probably. Actually, I won’t know until I talk to him. I guess I’ll see him…well, this afternoon—Oh geezus!”

The bird on the windowsill that flew into the window with us and your mind’s eye suddenly flittered away, startling DaBrunzell.

“What? What was it?” His wife called out.

DaBrunzell put a hand to his heart as his wife ran the rest of the way up the stairs that rose up in a spiral pattern through the middle of the…oak tree, I guess.

“I…the windowsill…a bird…”

His wife raised his eyebrow. “Probably heard you talking about your plan. Animals can predict the future you know. That land quake that killed off the natives in Guatamalazell knew it was coming. They took off well before the tectonic shifterizers..well, shifted. Like that bird, fleeing from the sight of your hairless body!”

“I’m just going to talk to the guy, MaBrunzell.”

His wife glared at him, squeezing her eyes into tiny slits of suspicion.

“Something tells me you two are gonna do more than just talk.”

And as your storyteller, I must admit, that something she is referring to wasn’t me. Because that chapter is up to our good friend, DaBrunzell himself, to write.

Chapters 54 - 54.3
(with a little throwback to chapter 38)

As I, your omnipotent third person narrator watch DaBrunzell walk into the distance, I appeal to you, most avid reader, to use the afore mentioned Mind's Eye as a telescope. Look through that optic and gaze upon DaBrunzell's chin as he travels to meet the magic man and what awaits his fate.

Now, trans-morph-a-size that telescope into a microscope. A very powerful microscope. With High Definition 1080i capability. You may think this strain on your imagination a bit too cumbersome, but I assure you it is necessary to appreciate what you will see through the lens.

For if we were to gaze deep into the vastness of DaBrunzell's chin, we would not see pores, or skin cells, or that bit of bar-b-que sauce that has remained unwashed for a week. We would see a civilization.

This civilization is very different from the setting previously described in the story thus far. No backward belief in wizards here. You can't take three steps without encountering a flag marking fiber optics, gas lines, or underground transporter beam arrays. It is what every child dreams the future would look like. There are people with jet packs... actual jet packs with pictures of pop stars on them. Flying cars are buzzing through the air like orderly gnats. The buildings are tall and very metallic looking.

These people have advanced so far, because they are living on top of a near limitless supply of energy. For everywhere they look, grows a black, strand-like material from the ground. These people, whom call themselves the Wrayzors, have discovered the means to harvest these strands and convert them into pure, clean energy. The Wrayzors call this miraculous raw material Wysickyrs.

The foreman on the harvesting site looked upon his workers with an air of disgust. According to the numbers on his crystalline notepad, his team would not make quota for the third straight week. On a hunch, he looked though his Ocular-a-tron and saw a Track-Blade, the machine that cuts the Wysickyers, laying dormant in the fields.

"MacBehnke! Where the hell is MacBehnke? Why isn't he cutting?" He said this to no one in particular. He wasn't a friendly man and he smelled a bit of yams.

The reason MacBehnke wasn't cutting, was that he was staring at the sky.

"MacBehnke! Get your sorry behind back to work!" said the holographic projection of his boss that appeared on the dashboard of his Track-Blade.

"Err, yessir. Right away sir. Thank you sir," replied the startled and daydreaming worker. He immediately started the machine back up and began to work on a new Wysickyr. A large circular blade on a mechanical arm attached to the Track-Blade resumed to cut away at the black mass that grew from the ground.

"I have to focus. I have to focus. I'm a MacBehnke. I can do this."

MacBehnke came from a long line of harvesters. His father, his father before him and so on have always been harvesters. Every generation, a new colony of Wrayzors would make the jump from one field to next; and there would always be a MacBehnke to lead them in collecting their precious energy supply.

"MacBehnke. We cut Wysickyers. It's what we do." said the family crest. The name came with reputation and respect.

"Son, it is time for you to join the others on the new colony," MacBehnke's father told him one day. "You have lingered around here long enough. It is time to pick up the family trade and make a man of yourself."

"Dad, I'm not a cutter. You know I'm no good at cutting. The only reason I got my certification was because of my name. I'm a writer who...ouch! Why did you hit me?"

"I'm sorry son, I couldn't help it. Hearing you talk like that breaks my heart."

"You didn't have to hit me."

"I know son, but please..."

"I mean that hurt. I think I'm bruising."

"Son, arrangements have been made. You will be leaving on the next transport to the new land. I wish you well. Good cutting, son" MacBehnke's father spit on his son's shoes, a sign of loving endearment, and turned away before his son could see him cry.

Chapters 54.4 – 54.999999999999999999

Oh my God the camera’s pulling back, the camera’s pulling back! Head rush. Head rush! Everything’s getting sucked into a black hole we’re all gonna die!

Wait. There’s DaBrunzell again, walking.

My bad.

Walking along now (follow with me, please), now although Zeno’s paradox shows that you must first travel half the distance between two points, then half that distance, then half that distance--forever—before getting where you are going, somehow or another DaBrunzell’s legs (and our camera) were filled with a mystical, all encompassing force called consciousness, enabling him (and us) to form wake-like wormholes between infinite points through the use of intent, ripping separated distance particles asunder and tying them back together in a new way as if they were but play things of the mind. How far apart is this word from this word? That’s right. Infinity. How far apart is this sentence from the one I haven’t written yet? You got it. Infinity. You made it. You did it. Congrats. And if every point is infinitely far apart from every other point and we can travel between those points with ease, how big are we, really? Maybe we are so big, we don’t have to travel anywhere because we are already there. And that is why anything is possible in this magical land, and we can laugh at those who try to specify what we can, and cannot do.

Like MaBrunzell.

“I can do as I please and I will,” DaBrunzell said to no one in particular and everyone in general—proving it by stepping over an infinitely large stream on his way deeper into the dark forest which he had been told only fools tread. But DaBrunzell was not a fool, thus proving yet again to himself his own power over the mechanistic thought processes of others. He stroked his chin, and smiled as it prickled against his fingers. If only there were more sprouts...

And this is where it gets really interesting, because in this magical land--filled with people who know what they don’t know and are fine with that because it somehow makes them omniscient--we really don’t have to travel anywhere to get there, because--

“Hmm…You are here.”

DaBrunzell stared at the map in front of him. He traced the red dotted path for an infinitely long time until it wavered over a cute house that looked like something a Smurf would make (In this land, Smurfs really do harvest magic mushrooms for nefarious purposes), and noticed that he really didn’t need the map at all because what was also here, directly in front of him behind the map, was the wizard.

“Oh! Hello there. I’m DaBrunzell.” He held out his hand after stepping around the side of the directions which he didn’t need.

The wizard stared at his hand, then grasped it and ran his fingers over the veins which made him look as if he were a fortune teller since they, like the wizard, also wear unusual head pieces and hold people’s hands. The wizard’s hat, however, looked like an upside down ice cream cone, and a fortune teller’s hat looked like they just got out of the shower, but you get the idea. I know, I should have said head piece right there when talking about the fortune teller instead of ‘hat’ to stay consistent, but when you play with infinity, everything is the same thing and you still can understand its differences.

“By George, your hand is made up of an infinite number of points! It’s sparkly!” The wizard grasped DaBrunzell's hand and held it up to the sunlight.

“And you really do have feathers in your hat. I thought that was some joke.”

“You can call me…well, Tim, I suppose,” said the wizard, shaking infinity with his own infinity as if they were distinct from one another.

“Pleased to meet you, Tim. Look, I heard you were the guy who could fix my face.”

“Fix your face? What’s wrong with it?” The wizard dropped his head to the left and then to the right like a dog, or perhaps someone who was trying to dump water out of his ears.

“See these stubbles? Yeah, they never grow very big. I want a full fledged beard. I want to see myself with a beard. And you have a very long beard, so you obviously know a thing or two about a thing or two.”

“Well yes, I do know a thing or two about a thing or two, but that’s really just one thing.”

“Oh?” Said DaBrunzell, wondering for a moment if that one thing had to do with his face.

“It’s complicated in a very simple way. It makes complete sense if you just stop thinking about it.”

“Okay then, I will not think about it and hopefully what you know will come to me, too.”

The wizard dropped DaBrunzell’s hand. “Look, I want to eat some pizza.”

“What is pizza?” DaBrunzell asked. “Will that make hair grow on my face like yours?”

“You already have hair growing on your face.”

“Gee, that was quick.” DaBrunzell ran his fingers over his stubble again. “They do feel a bit longer. And since I traveled so far, I suppose it would be a shame if we didn’t eat some pizza.”

And into the mushroom shaped house they went. Although they really didn’t go anywhere, because as you can see, they’re already here. And so are we.

In infinity.

Chapter the Next

At this point, dearest reader, you may be considering the theme of my tale. Or is it OUR tale. With such talk of multiple infinities, why limit this tale to just one story teller? Perhaps this tale is woven from two different looms, from two different creators.

Or not.

Regardless, it is worth a moment of introspection to consider the meaning of this story, as short as it may be. There has been an awfully lot of facial hair in this story. Perhaps there is a metaphor therein. On the other hand, there is the duality of the two worlds. Duality is a good theme. It isn't heavy-handed and plain like "Drugs are bad. Hug your mother." Instead, it has just the right amount of vagueness about it. If someone saw you reading a story in a cafe and asked, "What is that story about?"

"Duality."

You could say no more, sip your mocha and appear to be quite wiser than you actually are.

I am not saying concretely that this tale is ultimately about duality. Only that it contains a significant amount of the stuff. For example, just as DaBrunzell and Tim were eating pizza in a mushroom shaped house...

MacBehnke and his co-worker Shelm were eating mushrooms in a pizza shaped bar. There were many empty glasses in front of them.

"Therez gots to be more than thiz," MacBehnke slurred. "I mean, look at uz. Whada we do? We cut the..the things. We deliver 'em. We do it again. And fur what? Fur what?"

Shelm, an unattractive man with few friends non-committedly replied. "I know." Shelm was just glad to have someone to sit at the bar with. Normally at this point after work he would be at home watching pay-per-view Holo-Vision of people with more interesting sex lives than he. "I know."

"Look, I's gots a theory. What if...sorry...I passed out just then. What if...like...therez more out there. What if what were doing here is actually...I don't know...part of something bigger? "

"Yeah. I know. It makes you think."

"Thas right! It makes ya think. I mean, what would happen if we let one, just one Wysickyer grow?"

MacBehnke found his face covered in a mist of alcohol. Shelm was recovering from his comedic spit take.

"Let a Wysickyer grow?" he whispered. Shelm looked around him to make sure no one was listening to this conversation. "Are you insane? It's...it's...it's never been done. Why would...I mean...what could...garh!" Shelm began to regret not going with his usual plan of watching three dimensional representations of people copulate from the comfort of his couch.

"All I'm sayin is let one grow. Jus' one. At the edge of the field. What's the worse that can happen?"

On that note, MacBehnke placed his thumbprint on the pay-scanner at the table, put a stick of Out-Toxicated Chewing Gum in his mouth to sober up, and went out to get some fresh air.

As for Shelm, what happened next to him is another tale; but I can assure you it is a very dull one.

Chapter The Previous Before The Next, But Most Have This Same Quality

“Holy crap I just had Déjà vu!” Cried the wizard Tim, startling DaBrunzell who was in mid chew. “The only difference is that it was a completely different situation at a different time and place as this one, with different people around me. But it happened before. And it felt so real. I think it took place in a chapter before this one. Or maybe in another book. Which may not be written yet.”

“Are you sure this pizza will do the trick?” said DaBrunzell, ignoring the wizard's revelation.

“Trick? What trick? There is no trick, no illusion. I picked the pizza up from Wal Mart, which is in a land that is just as magical as this one, but all the people have forgotten. Sad, really, but in the mean time, they learned more about pizza than we have, so all is well with the universe. Besides, I get it for free if I just create a magic portal before the checkout isle.” The wizard took another bite of his own, chewing slowly. “The non-magical people never learn how silly non-magic is. It’s like they all have their heads buried in the sand, thinking they can own things, but people with portals prove that no one can truly own anything and get away with it.”

“So then how fast until I see even more hair on my face after finishing this pizza?”

The wizard sighed. “Look, your putting words in my mouth. The only thing I have said to you so far is that you already have hair on your face, and you keep on thinking that I have cast some spell.”

DaBrunzell swallowed, replayed the wizard’s words in his head. “So, were those last words the magical incantation that makes hair grow on my face?”

“There has been no magical incantation.”

“How about those words?”

“No.”

“That last word?”

“No. Not these words, either.”

DaBrunzell lifted one of his eyebrows and held up a finger.

“Sorry,” said the wizard Tim, and swallowed. “I am sitting here, trying to tell you something that is on my mind about Wal Mart people, and you refuse to listen to what I am saying. Not many people visit me other than fools who feel that they are required to tread here, and fools are really difficult to talk to, honestly.”

"How about those."

"You truly are difficult to work with."

“So is that the reason that hair is not growing on my face?”

The wizard sighed, wondering how come protagonist objectives always interfere with the way his conversations turn out.

“Look, if I cast a spell on your face using a magical incantation, will you be quiet? I have some important things to say to people who are reading this.”

DaBrunzell stroked his stubble, considering. “I told my wife that we would just talk, though. I usually don’t like going against her wishes.”

The wizard stared back at DaBrunzell, his eyes squeezing together in slits. “Isn’t a magical incantation just talking?”

DaBrunzell’s mouth and eyes began to smile in unison. “Why, yes! Yes, it is! Good call! That would hold up in court!”

“Okay then, come over to my side of the table. I have some things I need to tell this face of yours.”

DaBrunzell slid closer and the wizard grabbed his cheeks, tilting his head upwards as if he were about to perform some type of jaw dentistry. Tim sucked air into his lungs and shouted, “MacBehnke! Stop working! Tell everyone to stop working! You are all part of a greater whole, and that whole won’t shut up about his face!”

Tim let go of DaBrunzell and grabbed another piece of pizza. Through a mouthful, he said, “And yes, before you ask, those were definitely the magic words.”

One of those flashback chapters: In which a revelation of literal Biblical proportions is...well...revealed.

See this very well: A man is leaning against the pillars of a temple. His eyes are gouged out. He is visibly exhausted, barely able to stand. The Philistine leaders are mocking him, asking if this is indeed the same man who slaughtered a thousand soldiers with naught but the jawbone of an ass. The man in the center of the temple presses his hands against the pillar, feeling its smooth stone surface. With his head down, so those around him do not see, he grins. He applies more pressure upon the pillar. His feet dig into the ground, but do not slip. Dust begins to fall from the ceiling high above. There is a low rumbling. Those that were shouting jests moments before quickly silence themselves as they look up. The man whispers a prayer to his God and empties himself of every ounce of strength left in him. The pillar collapses, as does the entirety of the temple. All who were inside perished.

Outside the temple, Delilah rubs her swollen belly. "Wow. Glad I wasn't in there. Fiddle-dee-dee." She heads north to live out her life and await the birth of her child.

Time passes.

See if you will, a boy in his mid-teens. The first signs of stubble appear on his face. His voice is beginning to deepen. He would be handsome if he weren't so clumsy. His name is Dwight, and he is constantly tripping in the ruts of the road, falling down steps, and violently bumping into people carrying eggs. He has always been a klutz, but lately things have gotten worse. He was getting stronger.

Delilah knew things were getting desperate when Dwight, riding upon the family camel, pulled back on the reins and decapitated the poor creature. He had a habit of leaning on walls and causing unintended demolition. He would inadvertently destroy anything put into his hands, and this was doing nothing for Delilah's social standing. Not knowing what else to do, she decided on meeting with the local wise man.

First she gathered the bodies of a worm, a bird, a fish, and a salamander representing the four elements. For these, as everyone knew, were the payment demanded by those such as the wise man. She traveled to his dwelling on the outskirts of the village and knocked on the door. It opened, revealing a bright light within. The shadow of the wise man covered her in darkness.

"My Lord, I present these tokens in order to seek your counsel. Will you hear me?"

The tall apparition sighed. "Put it in the corner with the rest. I wish you people would just get me a nice calzone instead. Stop kissing my shoe. Thank you. Come in, and call me Tim."

Delilah told Tim her story, beginning with the tale of Dwight's father and ending with the exploits of her son. Tim listened, not even pretending to be interested. Throughout her story he would roll his eyes, finish her more predictable sentences for her, and kick her in the forehead when her lips got too close to his feet.

"Look lady, I can't help you. It's in your son's DNA..."

"What is DNA, my Lord Tim?"

"DNA. The building blocks of.. Never mind. The truth is as long as your son is growing facial hair he will be endowed with super-human strength. You could try shaving it off each morning, but sooner or later he will be out with buddies drinking, wake up in some alley with five o-clock shadow, tap someone on the shoulder to ask where he is and that poor person will explode from the impact. Unless you could devise some way for him to be constantly clean shaven...in a way he doesn't have to do himself..."

At this Tim trailed off. His gazed turned toward a cluttered shelf. Delilah followed his eyes and determined he was looking at a small bottle.

"What is it, My Lord Tim?"

Tim got up and reached for the bottle. It was slightly larger than a shot glass and sealed with a cork. Out of the cork were two wires that led out of the bottle and into a nearby potato.

"Delilah let me tell you a story. A story your primitive mind will no doubt not comprehend. But for the sake of exposition it must be told. "

Before we begin Tim's tale, precious reader, let me ease your troubled mind. We are about to hear a story within a story within a story... yes, I think that's right. This is a literary device that many have used and I can think of no other way to impart this information. I figured by having Tim tell it to Delilah, it would be easier for you to follow than a ten-page footnote. Footnotes are so hard to read. They are always in that small print at the bottom of the page by the time you are done you forget the thread of the story. So just imagine you are in a dilapidated cottage with a large pile of worm, bird, fish and salamander carcasses in the corner. And listen...

There once was a city. A marvelous city. A city filled with wonders. The leaders of this city (for the people decided long ago that not one person should rule) were wise and peace-loving. The citizens were encouraged to reach their full potential, be it in arts, skilled trades, agriculture, or even magic. It was this last that concerns us. In this city, a young wizard apprentice named Tim was developing a spell to shrink giraffes. Tim had a pet giraffe, but could not fit him though his doorway. Without dragging this story on any further, he managed to shrink the giraffe...and everything else but himself. The entire city collapsed in on itself and rested on the leaf of a small plant. Tim was able to brush the city onto his hand just before an eager caterpillar almost devoured them all.

"That could have gone better."

Tim placed the city in a bottle for safe keeping and devised a makeshift sun powered by a potatoes. He pledged that he would either find a way to bring his people back to their original size, or at least find something better than the potato idea. He was a big fan of hash browns but his spud supply was quickly dwindling.

Okay, back to the story within the story. Are you with me? Good.

"Delilah," said Tim with a wry smile. "You have a son with facial hair of pure power. You need some means to keep that hair from growing. I know of some people that could benefit from those hairs. I think what we have here is a win-win situation."

With that, Tim sent Delilah off with the bottle, and a set of instructions,

Chapter 98 or 57

DaBrunzell stared back at Tim in wonder. “So, if those were the magic words, who is this MacBehnke guy?”

Tim took a bite of his pizza.

“That’s a really long story that can probably be shortened into a single sentence that eventually needs to be expounded upon. Basically, he is the guy that lives in your face and keeps cutting your facial hair when you least expect it. Namely, all the time.”

DaBrunzell scratched his chin.

“Geezus! Careful! You more than likely just demolished one of their cities!”

“Their cities? You mean there’s more than just one MacBehnke? What are they? Bugs of some sort?”

“Well, no, not bugs. People. Miniature people who have miniature giraffes and jetpacks with pop stars painted on them. So, I gotta warn you, by telling those guys to stop working, there may be some…side effects.”

“Side effects?”

“Look, a long time ago in a land far, far, away, I did a favor to someone to fix a different problem…that I potentially just unfixed.”

“So what is the side effect?”

Tim took another slice—his stomach knew no bounds.

“You will have super human strength of an extreme nature once the hair on your face begins to grow.”

“So I’ll be more of a man. Just as I thought.”

Tim’s eyebrows raised and said through the corner of his mouth that wasn’t filled with crust and tomatoes, “That’s an understatement. “

“I don’t understand,” said DaBrunzell.

“Look, go out there and have yourself a day. Then come back and we’ll talk.”

“But this day sounds great. Can I keep it?”

“Suit yourself.”

*Poof. Tim disappeared.

Uh oh. There goes the antidote.

*Poof! Tim came back with another pizza and set it on the table.

Whew.

“And go on and get out of my house before you put anymore dents in the floor with that pacing back and forth between the table and the mirror,” Tim said.

Chapter one closer to the end

The Wrayzors have had better days.

Things were going so smoothly. Things were going as they always had. Or at least as they always remembered them to be. That all changed when they heard The Voice.

As with all unexplained phenomena, different people reacted in different ways. There were a certain number of people that denied there was a voice. "Someone just had their Holo-vision on too loud or something."

Others attributed it to the earth screaming in pain. These people tended to have more body hair than the average citizen and smelled spicy. "It's the land, man. The land is talking to us, man. All this cutting isn't natural. Today we're going to get a group to go out and hug a Wysickyer. Do you want to buy a hacky-sack?"

Aliens. The government. Angels. A hoax. All of these were proposed explanations to The Voice. Cutting of the Wysickyers dwindled and power outages were getting serious.

There were even a few fools that believed The Voice was that of a wizard that existed in a plane of existence on a completely different and much larger scale than the Wrayzors lived.

Well not really a few.

Okay just one guy. MacBehnke.

Surprised? I thought not.

After hearing The Voice say his name, MacBehnke's front yard was flooded with news reporters, religious fanatics, creditors, and ex-girlfriends. Confused and scared, he put on his jet-pack (the one with that one singer that sings that song that gets stuck in your head) and turned it on.

"Ouch."

It is always a good idea to be outside when using a jet pack.

After extinguishing the fire in his living room, he looked in the new hole in his floor. "Hey, that's the fireproof box my father insisted I take with me, and which I promptly buried beneath the floorboards of my home without ever opening. I wonder what could be inside?"

And would it shock you, most devoted reader, that within that box was a faded, brittle piece of parchment written in the hand of a certain wizard that keeps turning up in this story? MacBehnke read the scroll, and as he did the voice of the wizard could be heard emanating from the very paper itself! For this was indeed majik paper.

"Testing. Testing. Blow. Blow. Tap. Tap. Is this thing working? Fart. Excuse me. Oh, geez. Be glad you are only reading and not smelling. I just had some anti-pasta that didn't agree with me. Anti-pasta, is that like the opposite of pasta? Burp. Better out than in, eh. I guess that makes me anti-anti-pasta. Snort. Anyway, MacBehnke, if you are listening to this, it means that everything went to hell. It's time you know the truth. But what is truth? Gurgle. Oh, boy. I don't feel too good. Blarkle. That was a weird noise. Look, I gotta hit the head. So just go back to the flashback chapter and that will explain everything. Squish. Okay, this is getting bad. Ummm, just read the story and I'll figure out the rest. Good luck. Step. Step Step. Door opening. Zip. Thud. Grunt..."

There was more but MacBehnke stopped reading.

He found another paper that contained the chapter the wizard mentioned. He read/listened to it. Than read/listened to it again. Then he read/listened/high-lighted/made hand written notes in the margins/drew pictures before stepping out his front door.

A blinding lightening storm of camera flashes awaited him. All of the people asking him questions at once blurred into a indecipherable noise. MacBehnke hushed them with a gesture.

"My fellow Wrayzors, I am MacBehnke, of which The Voice spoked. Spoke. Spaked? Listen, for I know what we must now do."

Chapter of Happy

“Look,” MacBehnke began. “us Wrayzors cut a lot of Wysickyers for our energy. We do a lot of work.”

A round of nods were had.

“But if you think about it, and I honestly can say I thought about it because I am saying what I thought about after I thought about it…so it must have happened in my brain somewhere in the past-we are actually taking away that energy from the ground beneath our feet. It’s gotta be making it weak. When does the ground, or us, get a chance to go catch a good flick on the holo-vision or something? It’s gotta get tired of us every now and then, cutting bits of it down all the time.”

“The ground gets tired? Are you mad?” Said MacBehnke’s father, stepping out of the crowd of photographers who quickly formed a circle around a source of dramatic tension. A flash went off, then another. Another.

“Hi, dad. Yes, I think the ground gets tired.”

“I don’t get tired. You know what I think? Do ya? I think you don’t know what you’re talking about.” His father’s eyes squeezed into small slits of equally proportional knowledge.

“Then why do you have to go to sleep at night?”

“Because I gotta wake up and go back to work in the morning, that’s why! Like you. Just like all the other MacBehnke’s before you. Just like these people. Who cut. They need to work, or else we will all DIE!”

If someone brought a drum, they probably would have hit about three of them, starting with a high pitch, and quickly hitting the lowest baritone which reverberates the most.

“We won’t die. That’s not true.”

“Uh. Yes it is true, ‘cause I said it, boy. Pthh.”

The crowd of photographers made some strange airy noise like their cameras had just eaten something really tasty.

“Dad, I heard the Voice. It told me this. To stop working. It told everyone, everywhere, for God’s sake, to just stop.”

“Uh, and do whut?” said his father.

“Oh, I don’t know…appreciate what we have, appreciate one another. Give something back to the land simply by letting it grow for awhile. That can’t be all that hard, can it?”

“You didn’t heard nothing, alright? That was some make believe in your head.”

“Dad…but if you took the time, and I took the time, and everyone else took the time, I could learn to appreciate you…and maybe you could learn to appreciate me. And everyone could learn to appreciate each other as the ground beneath us gets back its strength.”

“I’d appreciate it if you’d shut your jaw dropping and get back to some cuttin! Hah! You really wanna hear something?” MacBehnke’s father cranked up his blade which made a loud noise. “Gillete! Titanium. Triple blade. That’s right! Hear that purring? Yeah, that’s the sound of beauty. And that---” MacBehnke’s father pointed to his son, “That’s the sound of a crazy man! That’s what that sounds like! Pthhh.”

Because pthh really sums up a lot for MacBehnke’s father.

Everyone turned to MacBehnke’s son as his eyes drooped down. He looked sad. The snapping of photos slowed as well, since a man standing and not saying or doing anything became really boring once people realized they already had that shot.

“Now come on, people! Let’s go back to work!” MacBehnke’s father pressed some button called ‘louder’, and the sound coming from the blades obeyed. He laughed madly. “I will bring this blade to my grave and use it to cut myself out of it! So I can work again instead of resting forever. I want to work when I’m dead! I will be a dead man working! People…People, back to the fields!” MacBehnke’s father turned and strolled away. Everyone watched him go, but turned back again to MacBehnke himself. This really made MacBehnke’s father angry. “I said people! Back to work!”

“Dad, you will never change will you?”

“Change? Of course I change. I change the blades on this purring edifice of delight when they get dull.” His father pressed the ‘louder’ button again, and smiled wide.

“You know what? You’re right,” Said the mayor, who suddenly appeared in the story. The mayor stepped closer to MacBehnke’s father and placed a hand on his shoulder. “You know what could use some work right now?”

“Well yer the one talking, mayor, giving us ones orders.”

“You, my dear friend, need to go to work--on the relationship you have with your son. And you will do so, you know why? Because today…” the mayor’s voice became louder, but it was nowhere near as loud as the voice MacBehnke heard.

Reporters stood hushed.

Photographers snapped pictures again as something was finally moving, but they did so quietly to not interrupt the speech.

“Today we will do no work,” the mayor said, putting a hand on his chest. ”Today we will do only that which we feel in our hearts. In our minds. For it is our duty!…to each other. Today is the day we give back what we have taken from the land. Because today, yes today… is our day…of independence!”

The crowd went crazy because other parts of the crowd went crazy. It was cacophony, as they had just heard a trigger word of joy and happiness. They all cheered, patted each other, jumped up and down.

MacBehnke looked at his father using tunnel vision.

The father of MacBehnke looked back at him in the same tunnel.

There was some kind of slow motion sequence of people jumping for joy around them, but they were all unimportant to the story other than the fact that they made up the crowd.

MacBehnke smiled, nodded, like he knew something and could communicate what he knew to by nodding.

The father of MacBehnke looked away and stared down at the blade in his hands. He looked back at his son, again. He then went back to look at the blade. He gripped it tighter. He then looked back at his son and back at his blade, but returned to look at his son, only to return his gaze back to the blade.

His father’s fingers opened, but slowly.

The blade suddenly began to fall through space…and time.

The heavy end hit the ground. Then the light end followed, because it didn’t weigh as much.

MacBehnke’s father looked up at his son. MacBehnke looked at his father. Another round of looking was had, surrounded by a happy hurricane of positivity—and it’s difficult to see anything else in such an environment.

So the chapter ended.

The long awaited and overdue chapter in which things take a turn for the worse

Welcome back, oh devoted reader. My, how the time doth pass. One might have thought, "Well, I guess that is all there is to tell. The people seem happy and the story teller has appeared to run out of tale. Best that I turn on the television and see which wanna be pop-star is kicked off next. Maybe they will appear on a backpack some day."

You could think that.

In reality (and yes, I know we discussed reality in an earlier chapter) the story needed some time to itself. A time to grow. "How much time?" you might ask.

Go ahead. Ask. I'll wait.

Enough time to grow, shall we say, a rather full beard. For this is exactly what DaBrunzell has been doing. Look now, upon his bushy face. Of all the famous beards such as Lincoln, Stalin, Adams (Grizzly, not John), Claus, my Aunt Ruth to name a few, none could hold a candle to DaBrunzell's majestic beard. Nor would you want to hold a candle to his beard, for it was highly flammable.

"Well, that just seems darn fine to me," you are obviously mumbling to yourself.

Oh, alright. Go ahead and mumble.

"DaBrunzell has his beard, MacBehnke has his work holiday and is patching up his relationship with his father. I think I'll have a popsicle and read the funnies."

But wait. Pull back your mental camera from that hypnotic grandeur on DaBrunzell's chin and look upon the rest of his face. Never has a beard so joyful sat below a face so sad. Continue to pan further back and you will see DaBrunzell in rags, amidst the rubble of his home and the village around him. Pan even further and you will see deep gouges in the dirt where there once were fields. Trees lay knocked over like things weaker than trees are. It is quiet for no other living thing can be seen in this realm of destruction.

Gaze once again on DaBrunzell. With his left hand he is sensually stroking his silky and full beard. In his right hand, hidden behind his back where the beard can't see it, is a razor.

Yes, the beard "sees".

"Oh, Beard," DaBrunzell says in a sing-song voice that sounds a bit fake. "It looks like it's just you and me. Good old Beard."

The left hand continued stroking. The right hand gripped tighter.

"I don't know what I did without you Beard. You're my best friend. What? What was that Beard? Oh, I'm just, uh, scratching with that hand. Yeah, I have a terrible itch. A bit more under the chin? Of course beard, whatever you say."

DaBrunzell once more went over the plan very quietly in his head so the beard wouldn't hear him. He would try to lull the beard to sleep, and then carefully use the razor. The key word is "carefully", for if the beard took control, he could likely decapitate himself.

DaBrunzell continued to stroke while humming a lullaby he remembered as a child.

Sweet little baby, close your eyes.

Don't say a thing about momm'a thighs.

Your mamma's pretty and really smart.

Your momma smells good even if she farts.

Don't trust a thing your daddy say.

Momma's not crazy. She's the nice one. Have you heard anyone say that mamma's crazy? I'm just,

you know, I care what people think about me.

There's nothing wrong with that.

Mamma DaBrunzell had self-esteem issues.

The beard was quiet. The beard was still. DaBrunzell stealthily lifted the blade...

The Chapter with a Long Neck

But first, I want to point out something about animalistic manhood: size does count--especially if you’re a giraffe. Sure, if you are shrunken by a very powerful wizard and implanted into some facial hair along with an exotic race of people that like cutting things, it may take you awhile to realize that you have been shrunken and removed from your natural habitat, but ultimately you WILL realize it. And when you do…

“There shall be hell to pay,” said Merl, chewing on something stuck low in one of the wysickers. He chewed slowly, as if to emphasize his jaw bone and how powerful he really was.

It had been so long since he could reach the tops of things, and he had spent several hundred years sorting out what, exactly, had changed. Finally, however, after hearing that voice which came from everywhere, he had rediscovered a memory he didn’t even know existed: Something about a doorway, an impatient wizard, and some pizza. The next thing he knew, everything started smelling like potatoes, and he could no longer reach the tops of things with his neck. No way would this impress the ladies.

That wizard’s name had been Tim. And Tim, thought Merl, had run an experiment on the wrong giraffe.

This world, everything in it, has been called maya, or illusion, and humans think that they are really smart when they figure it out. Giraffes, however, have known this thousands of years longer than humans, but like the other animals, they just generally keep it to themselves. And since the world is illusion, you are not really restricted by time and space—if you want to breach two of those points that you have become suddenly aware of, you merely have to reach out with your long (albeit shrunken) neck, open your mouth, and say

“Buddy.” Merl did his best to sound like a gangster giraffe from South Africa.

DaBrunzell, startled, dropped his blade. Then smiled.

“Hello, beard. I didn’t know you could talk.”

“I’m not your beard. I’m a giraffe,” said Merl.

DaBrunzell laughed.

“It’s not funny.”

“Oh I’m sorry. I’m not laughing because it’s funny. I’m laughing because I’m crazy.”

“By the sound of it, you are a man that has lost his family, his house, or his town.”

“I’ve lost all of them, Mr. giraffe.”

“Merl, please,” said Merl.

“Merl it is,” said DaBrunzell. “I just wrote a love poem .Would you like to hear it? I can adopt it for the inquisitive ears of a giraffe.”

“No,” said Merl. “Now, why have you lost everything?”

“Because the size of my massive beard makes me more of a man.”

“Right. Look, I’ve got a similar kind of problem.”

“I don’t have a problem, ” said DaBrunzell.

“Yes you do. So do I.”

“What is it then?”

“The size of my neck makes me less of a giraffe. “

“But I have everything I want.”

“It has made you lose everything,” said Merl. “That is what I call a problem. You are no longer a man. You are a lunatic.”

“Well, Mr. giraffe in my beard—“

“Merl, I said.”

“Merl. All I wanted was a beard, and I have it now. It is such a wonderful thing.”

“Snap out of it. It’s not wonderful. Look, Tim is an evil wizard. He tricked you. He tricks everyone. He’s afraid of responsibility. He’s afraid of fessing up for his mistakes. He just makes them worse.”

“You think he makes mistakes?” Asked DaBrunzell.

“He’s out of control. Look at what he did to your life. Look at what he did to mine.”

“I suppose you’re right. I don’t think I would enjoy being a shrunken giraffe living in the beard of a lunatic.”

“Right. I’ve lost my home, you’ve lost yours, and there are others, like you, like me, that have lost EVERYTHING because they listened to him. Look. You miss your wife?”

A tear slipped down DaBrunzell’s cheek and filled a dam somewhere in beardland. “I miss her.”

“You miss your home? You miss your town?”

“I do,” said DaBrunzell.

“I miss having a dame myself. Are you with me?”

“I don’t want to lose me beard.”

“I said, are you with me?! There are other ways to fix this problem of yours.”

“Other ways?”

“Other ways,” emphasized Merl. “So I ask again. Are you with me?”

“I’m with you. I’m with you, Merl. I’m with you!” DaBrunzell stood up.

“Great. So. Here’s what we’re gonna do…”

A Very Dull Tale

Shelm sat in his apartment with the curtains drawn. He had already been warned by the local law enforcement regarding his work, and didn’t want to deal with another encounter. The conversation went something like this:

Officer: Sir, what do you think you’re doing?

Shelm: Eeeeeek! You startled me.

Officer: I’m sorry for that sir. Could you please -

Shelm: Eeeeek!

Officer: What now?

Shelm: I’m intimidated by authority.

Officer: Citizen, I can assure you there is nothing to be scared of. I just want to know what you are doing.

Shelm: Well, I’m cutting Wysickyers.

Officer: Yes I can see that. You do know there is an official ordinance against cutting at the moment?

Shelm: You mean in response to that voice thingy?

Officer: Precisely.

Shelm: Sir, this is all I have. My work. Cutting Wysickyers. It’s the only thing that makes me feel…

Officer: Feel what?

Shelm: Just, feel. When I’m cutting I know I’m alive, that I have a purpose. Otherwise I just sit at home and… oh, I don’t know. Can’t I just cut here and not bother anyone.

Officer: Sir, I cannot allow that. The mandate on cutting is very specific. Why don’t you use this time to relax. Go to a bar. Go see a holo-film. Meet a girl. Go dancing. Take her home. Have some really hot-

Shelm: Eeeeeek!.

At this point Shelm ran away. He wasn’t proud.

Shelm went home and looked at his blade. It was in pristine condition. He always kept it sharp and clean. The impulse, the desire to cut, to FEEL again overwhelmed him. Without being conscious of what he was doing, he rummaged through his clothes. He found some dark pants and a dark trench coat. He took an old kerchief and tied it around his face. He put on some dark glasses.

Shlem waited until it was very late at night. He grabbed his cutters and jetpack. He tripped on the staircase leading out of his apartment and decided the dark glasses were too much.

Shem flew until he was far from the lights and sounds of the city. He found a thick, uncut Whsickyer deep in the forest.

And he cut.

And cut.

It felt good. It felt right.

He went home to his dull apartment and for the first time since this whole voice thing began had a decent night sleep.

When he awoke, he switched on the morning news and nearly choked on his oatmeal.

“Last night some hikers took this amateur video of a rebel cutter defying the non-cutting ordinance. Dressed in black, this mysterious man can be seen cutting a Whsickyer and then doing what can only be described as a dance. Shortly after this video was released, reports of other rebel cutters dressed in similar outfits have since been reported cutting down Whsickyers and doing that same, strange, non-rhythmic gyration. Police have been placed on high alert, but have been unable to capture anyone in the act. Authorities ask if you have any information on the identity of this masked cutter to contact…”

Shelm didn’t hear any more. He looked over at the trench coat and kerchief he absently thrown over his chair.

Then he began to laugh.

The Chapter of Misfit Toys

Boom!

The coffee table shook around Tim’s feet as he watched his Moveapicturision and chewed on an olive pit that someone had absentmindedly forgot to pluck from his pizza.

Boom!

He spit it into a bowl as his MP blared way too loud from hidden..um…speakers. But Tim was old—and a wizard. If he was going to lose his hearing, he would just invent some magical technology that would give it back to him.

Boom!

He grabbed another slice and took another bite and tried turning up the MP with his toes to blot out the sound of the earthquake. He grunted, cast a spell, and accidentally turned all those moving pictures and the box containing them into a chunk of margarine.

“Knock knock!” Someone yelled in a deep, manly voice from his doorway. Whomever it was obviously had very large beard now, or was just angry.

“Oh, alright alright. One second,” Tim mumbled and swallowed, swinging his feet off the coffee table. “Whomever could it be?” He asked no one in particular. He loved rhetorical questions—the answers were so..accessible. Like free pizzas in a Coldifier on aisle 12.

He approached the door. “Yes?” He said, and swung the door open.

A bleary eyed DaBrunzell with bloodshot eyes stood before him, tufts of beard falling in every which direction like snowflakes. He looked, well, haggard--and filled with a vengeful fire!

“Say hello to my little friend!” He said, turning his head emphatically and pointing to somewhere on his cheek.

Tim squinted. “I’m sorry, I don’t see what you’re pointing at.”

DaBrunzell, agitated, slammed his foot against the ground. Boom! “I saaaid…..say hello to my little friend!” He snapped his head back towards Tim, then turned, again, pointing emphatically to somewhere on his cheek.

Nothing happened…for a moment, but then, all of the sudden, as if on a late cue, a massive head emerged, popping out of DaBrunzell’s face! It grew and grew, then a neck, then a leg (arm?), then another leg (arm?), then another leg, then another leg! Then a tail! Until it was totally and utterly…larger than it used to be! It loomed over Tim, casting a long shadow.

Tim squinted, this time not at something tiny, but something monstrous, and the sun was in his eyes. “Giraffe,” Tim said at the shape.

“It’s Merl,” Merl said, all business, and swatted a fly with his tail.

“How did you get out of there?” Tim asked. He pushed up the robes of one sleeve, then another, as if he were getting ready to wrestle.

“I suppose I should ask you the same question. You assume you control things, but I assure you, you don’t,” Merl said, sounding educated, in a cop-like way.

“Oh and you do? Then what were you doing in there for so long?” Tim asked, pointing at DaBrunzell’s cheek. DaBrunzell sat himself down on the ground, barely listening, running his palm up the side of his face and looking at shavings coat his fingers, confused.

“Thinking,” Merl said. “Unlike you. ”

“Now don’t you start trying to school me,” Tim said.

“I shall do whatever I want. I am The Icon.”

“The Icon?” Tim asked.

“Yes. The Icon! And you are one of my legions. Who has gone too far with his…supposed…powers. Look at what you’re antics has done to this man!” Merl pointed at DaBrunzell using his neck.

“My beard is dying,” Dennis said.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Merl,” Said Tim, fumbling through his robe for a Scroll of Shrinkage, or something similar. “You’re nothing but a giraffe.”

“And you’re nothing but a failed wizard, and a thief. I am going to take you back where you came from, slap a nice warning label on you, and surround you in your plastic shell forever where you cannot hurt anyone here. Anymore. Ever again.”

Tim looked frantically, not giving up, yet fully knowing there was no more folds in his robe to check for that scroll. He checked anyway.

Merl turned away from Tim for a moment, made some sort of strange circular gesture with his neck, almost like he was drawing a Q in the air with a paintbrush gripped in his teeth. A strange sort of ripping noise sounded…the air in front of him opened to reveal...another world.

“Let’s talk about this,” Tim said.

“There’s nothing to talk about. Game over. This is why you should have been made in America.”

Like a camera lens, the unzipped air slowly revealed itself to be pointed into an open plastic shell of a box, beyond which was a large store shelf filled with hundreds of other encaged wizards. Children ran hither and thither, one tripping over his scooter that he shouldn’t have been riding in the first place. The boy started screaming and someone in another aisle said something about an upcoming lawsuit. Another person in a different aisle overheard, and something about lawsuits being terrible band aids for poor parenting skills was also mentioned.

“Get in there,” Merl said.

Tim looked at the hole in the air. “That would be death for me! Frozen, inanimate, eternal death.”

“You have no choice. It is what your poorly constructed daydreaming circuits deserve.”

“Oh yes I do have a choice! ” Tim said. “I’m a wizard! I’m immortal! I won’t put up with this.”

Merl snorted. “Look, lift up your robe.”

Tim glared at the giraffe in horror.

“Do it! Or so help me--”

“Okay okay, alright, although I didn’t know you were…never mind. I’m listening.” He lifted up his robe in the front. Etched in his skin was some sort of door with a screw in the front.

“Observe the truth! You’re not immortal. In fact, right there it says you have about five minutes left. If you do NOT get in that portal and back into your plastic cage, you will die. Forever and ever. And no one will take you home and replace your batteries because the button on the front of your cage will no longer work. I have much experience with this. They will simply find another wizard whose button DOES work. Understood?”

“You mean I can die?” Tim asked.

“You are about to die. I know the lifespan of all my legions. In addition, if you don’t listen to me this instant, I shall draft a Writ of Recall!”

“What will that do?”

“Eternal banishment in my kingdom. The silence of eternity will close around you and you shall never again exist anywhere in my hallowed halls.”

Shocked but lucid, Tim leaped through the portal, slammed into the front of his plastic cage, then stood up right. He turned back at Merl standing next to the weeping man. “Sorry about the beard. No hard feelings, right?” He smiled, waved…and froze.

Merl sealed the portal back up by undoing the Q he had drawn. He turned to DaBrunzell. “Are you okay?” He asked.

“My beard is dying,” DaBrunzell said again.

Merl smiled in an all-knowing giraffe sort of way. “But now…you can get back to living. Again.”

The giraffe looked off into the distance at the sun and some non-existent fiber optic cables that were obviously NOT planted anywhere in the emerald grass. Those cables were in another world, another time, for stories like this one.

Then, like a poorly painted toy store billboard in the rain, Merl faded away.

Chapter The Final

"Which is a round-about way of saying I won't buy you that toy wizard."

The boy looked at his father, long ago having given up on showing his "Awww shucks, please?" face. When his father gets into his story rants, there isn't much you can do.

"Dad?"

"Yes, son?"

"Why can't you just say, 'No' and be done with it? Why do you always have to try to teach me some lesson with some stupid parable or whatever it is you do? I mean that story, it didn't even make sense. What about DaBrunzell's family? What of MacBehnke's dad? Did Shelm lead the resistance? In the end, were you just trying to get out of buying me a $5.88 action figure? Why dad?"

The boy's father placed a hand on his son's shoulder, chuckled, and said one of those things that makes parents feel wise and important, but really just pisses of their kids.

"You'll understand when you're older."

The end.
--

Thanks for reading. Now we want some love. Send fan mail (photos acceptable) and all publishing contracts to our Facebook profiles:

Dennis Brunzell
Jeff Behnke

July 18th, 2009 - Upon Which I Make Unicorns

2009-07-18T10:22:00.024+10:00

There are two groups of people here on the planet—those who tap in to the particle, and those who tap in to the wave. The wave people are always complaining endlessly about the particle people, and the particle people are complaining endlessly about the wave people. If you are a wave person, you will lean towards the idea that we are one consciousness experiencing itself subjectively. If you are a particle person, you lean towards the idea of ‘every man for himself’ so you should start working on experiencing this life objectively. Wave people constantly complain about the need to organize, combine, become one. Particle people constantly complain about the need to segregate, divide, give an equal share, as we all have many of the same dreams and aspirations, most of which are material, anyway.

When you tap in to the wave, the world takes on certain qualities that you will argue to death about because those qualities are so apparent. When you tap into the particle, the same thing occurs but on an opposite level. To the wave, we live in a despotic state of existence and the fundamental structure of society is one that we just do not need. To the particle, man came from an ‘every man for himself’ state of existence, and as a society we all need to make concessions to a structure that all of us knows does not work as well as it could.

Organization, however, is not something that the wave people are good at, so their efforts fall frustratingly short of their ambitious goals to rewrite the earth, but it makes complete sense that this is so. Specifically, if a wave were to organize, it would cease to be a wave. Period. Their objective to organize henceforth fails as it would deny themselves the properties of being a wave. Which is a shame in many ways because they are the ones who generally say and do all the things that are interesting and make life worth living—to me.

The particle people’s quest for a larger size, a bigger chunk, a higher amount--it fails as well, since no one likes working with someone who divides and segregates everything while they remain on top. They break apart, split up, categorize--a process of which obliterates all meaning and purpose. Yes, they get control, but their control is one that the wave despises. Luckily, humanity cannot be imprisoned—there are always subtle ‘accidents’ (or intentional acts?) which prevent it from becoming so. The gods would not allow it. Neither would France.

It is truly an interesting phenomenon...as the wave people age, their beliefs begin to match other waves. A lifetime of saying to yourself, “If this is so, then this is so, then this is so,” eventually awards you with a complete mental makeup that matches your “kind.” It is this “kind” which intrigues me. These kinds allow for an infinite numbers of differences between the individuals sharing a kind. Therefore, a wave person can say “Reality TV caters to idiots,” and another wave person can say, “All artists hate reality TV, but I watch tons of it and use snippets of it in my collages--check it out.” These two people seem to be, in a way, polar opposites, but they are actually tapping in to a geometric structure to develop their thoughts and express themselves. And no matter how hard you try, the wave people cannot escape the particles, and the particle people cannot escape the waves.

Try, for instance, to have a logical thought that has never been thought before. Try to think of something to paint that hasn’t ever been painted before. You will say, “I don’t know what logical thoughts have been had before. I don’t know all the things which have been painted before” and as a result, you’ll just come up with something that may or may not have been thought or painted before, albeit in a limited fashion.

Wave people want something new—why else would they have been born? They ask this of themselves. They eventually have to deal with the fact that the deepest they can go is to come up with an analogy—stacking thoughts or pictures together to see what pops out. Their ambitions are thus quelled--for the rest of the day, anyway. Particle people, on the other hand, seem to want something old—tradition and precedence matters to them, but then they run across the fact that they can only go so far, and if they want to go further, then they must be in that ‘old, precedential’ group in which they do not belong. Therefore both particle and wave people are shot down by the inherent qualities of the wave acting upon the particle, and vice versa.

No one likes to be shoved into a box and classified (unless you like the group in which you fall), but the fact of the matter is that if you look hard enough, you can see a shape to people's thoughts, and it does not matter what candy coating of words and things falls around them. The shape is there, lit up like hot metal on an anvil.

Most wave people talk about how earth is evolving, how we are becoming a shared consciousness, an organism, that must work together to progress outside of our own tyranny of fear. Their reasoning is quite beautiful. Most particle people talk about how earth is decaying, and how everyone needs to pitch in using their collective and focused skills to save it from ruin. Their reasoning is quite beautiful as well. Who is right? Who is wrong?

Well, what if neither one is right nor wrong? What if the thought process themselves are just..shapes? Moving through the void, lit up by electromagnetic currents in our brain. What would it mean, then… to be human?

I have thought about this deeply, probably because I am inclined to be a wave person in my attempt to say something new, and give my life meaning. I have been this way since birth. I cannot help it no matter how hard I try not to be this way. Particles anger me, for a number of reasons. Boxing in things bothers me. Categorizing and dividing things bothers me. But waves—Gandalf is in the waves. Magic spells and potions. Elves, wizards, warriors. Truth. But particles…ugh. Such a thin coating on the energy of the universe. Weight and size and coldness—that is what particles consist of, masking the immortal wave beneath it all from whence we came.

The paranormal and conspiracy community is filled with wave people. Passionate, artistic. The scientific community is filled with the particle people. Politicians and mathematicians. One world doesn’t quite get along with the other. To the paranormal community, the science and political community are terrorists. To the science and political community, the paranormal and artistic community are terrorists. Eternally at war.

Shapes.

Which brings me to my Achilles’ Heel as an artistic wave: it seems as if someone, thing, or group of things, have pretty much figured out how to make the wave collapse into a particle without consulting me first, and that particle (or several, in the universe’s case) is not agreeable with me. Reality is this resistance made from something else which I cannot fathom. Why would the universe make something like this? Preventing people from flying. No magic. Nothing. What good is it? An accidental creation, or purposeful? What are us waves supposed to learn through these particles? It is like being coated and walking in sludge! But then, what are the particle people supposed to learn through all these waves? It is like being surrounded in chaotic multi-colored fuzz, and it must be placed under control!

In the heart of both worlds is a contradictive mystery---ultra powerful, eternal, as both shapes spin around one another complimenting and enhancing each other through their agreements and disagreements--and when they connect, boom! They give birth to untold numbers of children who are a beautiful, perfect combination of both…some more so than others.

I have always sought to discover the secret formula for unicorns. But in reality, there would be no magic without the absence of magic. So as much as I hate these particles that weigh me down and have prevented me from doing what I have wanted to do ever since birth, they have still enhanced my colors, intensified my wave--and have shown me a reality that I would not have otherwise known. Without particles, there would be no waves to appreciate. Without waves, there would be no particles to appreciate. If you don’t mind me getting mushy, in addition to all this ‘meta-physical’ substance flying around my brain in every which direction, without a you, there would be no me. So here is my toast to humanity and her children…for a job well done.

Cheers.

July 16th, 2009 - Upon Which I Cast a Shadow of Doubt

2009-07-16T16:50:00.009+10:00

Doubt has always been classified as a loaded gift straight from the bowels of Satan himself, or Typhon, or the serpent, who seems to endlessly teach us how to prefix every thought and idea with an “if”, forking it in two, then four, then eight, and on and on. Everything, to the serpent, is filled with possibility, and those possibilities become realized given that some form of reasoning and rationality is carried out. Right and wrong, good and evil, both of these things wear ruts into the wet earth, and they can both become proper paths for us, given that enough energy is applied to making them so. Doubt forms these crossroads, paths, and those crossroads can crop up in an infinite number of ways for your energy to follow…simply by looking for them. “What if you go this way? What if you go that way? What could they be keeping from you in that direction by telling you not to go there?”

It is this doubt itself inherent within all of us which has been frowned upon—we are taught through the silence of our priests to avoid it--in the majority of western religious institutions and schools. You question, and they do not answer, teaching us through our own embarrassment that it must not have been worth asking. But the most unusual quality of doubt is that it is essential to belief and new foundations—you are considered ignorant, for instance, if you follow the path of the masses. Doubting that the masses know what it is they are doing thus becomes an important factor that leads you to a particular teaching. You have “divided” yourself from the masses, from other teachings, and as such, you have utilized doubt—division--for the purpose of believing in something else, which manifests itself as a separate path to follow. And that separate path is a slippery slope indeed.

The divisions caused by doubt not only form new paths but also eventually seal off all others, and by that I mean it attempts to close off the wave-like flux of reality to deceive and capture the energy most often associated with the sun, or light—the internal spirit—so it cannot serve two masters. It is tricked. Whether it is successful or not depends upon the individual, and time. “There is no other path than the one I showed to you by teaching you to doubt that there was only one path!” cries this faculty. Once the division into halves has occurred, a consequence also occurs as both divisions spread out, grow, and attempt to be the ‘everything’ they knew they once were. They feel they do not have enough of themselves anymore--and they don’t--for now there are walls where the garden of Eden was once open to them in their own ignorance. They were once much larger—they sense this—and seek this union with what they are missing, once again. This can be seen, for instance, in the communications of the devout of a particular faith. The longer that faith has been around, the more answers they have to objections which can be brought before it. Through their own doubt, they have formed a path, and as such, have sealed off all others from entering…or leaving. You must join…to grow and to live forever. This is the uncrossable rift between heaven and hell—but it is a mental fraud.

In the Bible, this bundled up reality of equal and opposite paths that can be pursued in any direction has been represented as the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. Tree, in Hebrew, can also be translated as “book”, or “palm leaf”, or “table of wood” which was used by scribes to document the workings of the pharaohs and priests from which this story was stolen (who may have stolen it themselves, apparently). Keeping the knowledge of good and evil (e.g. infinite divisions) from the populace kept them happy and content in the garden. It would seem, then, that mankind discovered at some point that ignorance of this infinite forking capability of reality keeps one content. The objective, then, of the priests, was to keep this knowledge to themselves behind a veil inside the inner sanctum, as their own understandings of infinite possibility seem to bring on an overbearing sense of melancholy or weight. If everything can fork into everything else, it matters not which path one takes. Faced with overwhelming possibility, mankind is thus like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming truck, stunned to see the face of God (which contains this doubt as a faculty) in all his glory. Doubt, the maker of other paths, is Satan, or Typhon the serpent. The male half of the mind doubts, divides, all the while pursuing the truth through his intuition and reason. The female half of the mind spreads, divulges, shares, and hence grows this division into new forms. Thus, Eve shares the fruit of the tree (its teachings) to mankind, spreading out a particular possibility upon future generations. Family trees contain family traditions, and these traditions are the structures of division taken from infinity itself. We toil and work as the result, tilling the land in our own way, multiplying through the eating (nurturing) of this fruit, to make more fruit in abundance, and on a more material level, more children to inherit the land. However, buried in the heart of such a task is still a hidden mystery, kept from the people who now must toil and spread their spiritual seeds. If they knew the truth, they would become saddened by their own loneliness in the vacuum of space, of God.

This hidden mystery is thus a burden to the priest, and spreading the word of its sad power is viewed not as an act of evility, but an act of compassion. Keeping knowledge of infinite paths from the people provides a cornerstone, a foundation to build upon—and foundations can never be built through continual doubt which is inherent in the vacuum. Just as language could be written in an infinite number of ways, one was chosen by the priests, shared, spread, and utilized. This infinity henceforth created a finite set of possibilities to be used for thousands of years onward. This would not have been possible without the use of the inner sanctum which keeps the ways of doubt--Typhon himself--from the people in general. The priests protect the people from Typhon, the serpent, through the ‘hiding’ of the truth…the palm leaves which cover the nakedness of man in the garden (wisdom stored in numerous palm leaves, or books) within Eden.

The burden of truth, however devastating it may be to the priest’s psyche, also comes laced with a gift: that of immortality, or the knowledge of rebirth. Symbolically this is represented as the phoenix. In the New Testament, it is represented as Christ himself, surrounded by the apostles who are representatives of the signs of the zodiac—all of creation. The law of the land built by the priests, in the New Testament, gets renewed and refreshed through God’s return—or the return of infinite possibility. Christ is the stem cell in the body of mankind—through him, all is made possible. All organs take form. The zero seed (the vacuum of space), has been proven in mathematics to contain the infinite power of everything which is both destructive and creative, like volcanic lava, compressed smaller than the vibrations of strings in string theory itself—Christ, the burning ember. The germination of this seed containing untold power requires it be planted within something, and it has thus been implanted in its negation—the earth, materialism—woman--who contains the fertile capability of infinite division and rifts—growth itself. One cannot grow unless there is a boundary to extend—that boundary is finite reality, beyond which is eternity, infinity, the knowledge of which the priests keep to themselves for the benefit of society itself and the “glory” of God.

This secret understanding of infinity that is kept from the people is often shared among friends to warm them in their misery: “It doesn’t matter.” The priests, through the creation of their veiled inner sanctum, revise this phrase slightly: “It doesn’t matter. I am taking this fact and placing it here, away from the populace because it is a holy idea, so this act should henceforth make it matter--but I still know it ultimately doesn’t.” If you were given the knowledge that there is no consequence, for instance, that even if you were remotely unsatisfied with life, you could simply jump off a cliff and splat yourself on the rocks below and you would be reborn, hopefully into more favorable circumstances, what would keep you here? Thus, the knowledge of rebirth and regeneration was kept from the people to make this life matter. to keep them here. To create a sort of false permanence, as well as provide something to seek--a meaning. A foundation upon which to build. And anyone who attempted to reveal these secrets (take from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil) would be met by Typhon. Doubt, in an able hand, is thus a quite useful tool. If confronted by someone who says they knew the truth, the priest could simply say, “Are you sure you have more than one life? For your own sake, I hope you are right.” Affording their knowledge complete protection. In addition, the priests wrote in double-speak, giving their words a symbolic interpretation as well as a literal interpretation that could be mixed and matched and confused at will. So even if someone were to obtain a hard copy of writings found within the inner sanctum, they would be left confused and bewildered, their wisdom as useful as dust--pearls thrown to swine.

The benevolence of the actions of priests, pharaohs, and kings, in regard to the hidden mysteries, is obviously a matter of opinion, with the decisive factor most often coming down to your inborn social status or good looks. If you are rich, powerful, beautiful, and were born as such, you will have a number of inclinations to believe that the upright interpretations are correct!—secrets should be kept from the masses, and you own the secrets--it is only you who have the power to determine right and wrong, and the gold surrounding you is proof, you believe, of the divine will of God manifesting through you. With your gold, you control nations, and you would not have been given such a seat of power unless you deserved it. Your beauty and elegance and social graces of balance and harmony is the inner equation of perfection, vibrating eloquently within your blood, a vaporous perfume of the soul. Your actions alone grow society, your secrets create miracles, highlighting equations within the substance of things—as such, even Typhon himself is one of your legions as he bows before you. You thus feel obligated to wrap him around your fingers, your staffs, embed him in your temples alongside the other gods.

If you have not, however, been so lucky to be born with a hand full of aces, you will believe that this so-called divine will is a fraud, used as a force of mass control and despotism. Your imperfections and poverty will thus be used as inspiration to overcome that which you see as cruel—social status and banking. Instead of seeing the perfection in a beautiful face, you will see the scars left over from Botox injections. Outwardly, you will see families dressed up in sculpted hairdos and pristine suits with sparkling ties and matching smiles. Inwardly, you will see junior crying of destitution in his room, forced to practice piano for hours on end in a soulless, uninspired and bitter fashion, just before he is forced to attend his father’s friend’s grandmother’s cousin’s funeral. Plastic people, false graciousness, cunning, in misery.

Doubt is that which divides, and this division increases exponentially as the money supply consolidates in the hands of a few who believe it is their divine right to control the future of earth under one monotonous culture, and eat of it. The hierarchic pyramid of society leading upwards to God is sat upon by you—the all seeing eye—and inverted, as you control the future of man. Doubt is that which is inside of you, pointing to imbalance and calling on the power of the infinite to strike dead all that has been created thus far, that which is unfit to continue. Doubt is the accuser and you are drinking from its cup! Doubt is power, separation of the elements, and its use turned Atlantis to dust and Nagasaki to ruins, wiping all knowledge of that which came before it. Through doubt, division, science, physics—the slate was cleaned, obliterated, punctuated like the period at the end of all sentences. It is to that end which the year 2012 whispers into our collective psyche, like nails on a chalkboard of the rich, of the powerful, of beauty itself as it ages and decays into a confused mass of globular smudges and rigidity. It is old, caked on makeup, melting in tears. The poor are frightened, for sure—but the rich are petrified, maybe not so much by the year itself but by the functional process of it all. They have more to lose. They must control. They feel it is not only their destiny to do so, but divine will itself, manifesting through them, coating their monetary supply in sun-like brilliance.

To know these things and understand the multitude of ways in which you can interpret doubt, its function, its goodness and evility, to know that it is both the benefactor as well as the detractor to the enjoyment of life, you will be dumbstruck, like we all are when we sense the truth: nothing matters in the void, and we are alone. Therefore, it is up to us to make it matter. But like the Etch a Sketch of the gods, once we are through drawing pictures using the divisionary lines of doubt, of the serpent, of the holy sepulcher of truth, we merely flip the whole thing upside down, invert the poles, wipe everything away, open our mouths, and issue forth the word of truth to the new heaven and the new earth once again. What will we say? And what truths will we keep from ourselves?

“Nothing really matters,
Anyone can see,
Nothing really matters—
Nothing really matters…To me.”
-- Queen

July 8th, 2009 - Upon Which I Anthemize Anathem

2009-07-08T14:54:00.016+10:00

The reason why I endlessly enjoy anything that Neal Stephenson writes has much more to do with his complex ideas and plotting rather than his ability (or inability) to execute characters laced with emotionally fulfilling objectives. The only emotion that he usually brings out in his stories for his readers is the humor associated with ignorance, which I think is fully appreciable in his character Jack Shaftoe from Cryptonomicon and the Baroque Cycle. But in Anathem, there is no Jack Shaftoe, humorous elements are more sparse than usual--and in its place, a dictionary of terms to make the complexities of Platonic ideals and quantum physics even more complex to the reader than they already are. Casual readers will not get through this one. However, casual readers will probably not get through the Holy Bible or an essay with an equation in it, either.

Regardless, Stephenson does exactly what all good fiction artists should do--implant in the minds of his readers a world of vivid possibility as well as provide a unique context to see popular scientific and philosophical thought in a new light. By doing so on such a lengthy yet grand scale, Stephenson’s work demands that you pay attention, and actively consider.

In Anathem, the main theme presents itself upon the cover, where the mental characterizations of the mathematician and physicist are intermixed with the characterization we most often have of the devoutly religious. In Stephenson’s world as opposed to ours, however, the butting of heads between these two does not exist in such an extreme fashion and, in fact, co-mingle peacefully to the point where they are often indistinguishable. The only true division, instead, is between those who give a damn about pure idea (the Avout) from those who do not (the Saecular). The Avout have no distractions and live a simple life, as their mind is focused more heavily upon ideas rather than physical sensation—they can sit in a room for months on end eating little, void of all want and physical desire, not because they have no appreciation of beauty and sensation, but because they pretty much live this entire time upon a mental plane far more beautiful than the one which can be physically experienced. In such a sect, their punishment for wrong-doing (usually Saecular related) takes the form of mind-numbing activities like memorizing a series of pages that contain the digits of pi. The Saecular, on the other hand, live a life filled with distraction---televisions, cell phones, iPods are all rampant, obviously a place run by the same media that runs the majority of our planet as well. There are still common shared concerns between these two, however, but the juxtaposition is apparent by the walls which have been set up between them, and the crux of the plot concerns finding out why.

The primary focus of Stephenson’s work, however, was not upon making fun of the Saecular or the Avout, but on the Socratic disputes between the Avout, all centering around one main idea in particular—the world according to Plato, an understanding of such is essential to understanding many of the ideas presented in Stephenson’s work.

In our own world, occultist from the Dark Ages (and beyond) were fascinated by the properties of things to the point where they would attempt to extract the 'cubeness' from a salt molecule and reapply that cubeness to some other substance which was not a cube--alchemy is filled with examples of such. To the Alchemist and Astrologist, God was the Perfect Thing—the perfectly cubed, the perfectly symmetric, the perfectly balanced, with no beginning and no end, all powerful, all knowing. Extracting that perfection from an object and reapplying it, they believed, would afford them god-like power over the planets, or more humbly, simply provide them a minor improvement upon a sore throat.

Extracting the perfection, however, forced them to first define the perfection within things, and they did so by understanding the world by dividing it into extractable components, each of which were pieces of this Perfect God. Once they had done so, increasing their control over nature involved putting ‘like’ things with other ‘like’ things (Occult Law of Similitude), and this combined (often messy) substance could be used in the form of a potion or a medicine or a crest to be utilized for quarreling lovers, success in business, or fill-in-your-desire-here.

In some instances, their trials actually worked--in many they did not. But considering that the literature they could draw upon at the time had been so sparse, much of what they read was accepted without testing, so rumors spread, albeit secretly, and precedence was therefore often based upon error.

Somewhere over the course of a few hundred years, however, occultists morphed into what we consider the modern-day scientist. They tore into occult literature instead of blind acceptance, testing for themselves the truths and falsehoods contained therein, focusing on ‘the data’—or what really happens when you put two and two together. “The Experiment” was defined thusly in a disciplined manner. Because of their similarities, the Scientist then, like the Occultist, began to draw the ire of the Catholic church who lived under phrases such as “What God has put together, man shall not take apart.” These Original Scientists, well versed in occult lore for obvious reasons, were therefore also forced to go underground, write in cipher text amongst one another, and continue humanity on its path towards enlightenment—straight into the nuclear age.

Boom!

So maybe the church had it right?

Regardless, we now have plenty more elements than simply fire, air, earth, and water, and we seem to be a bit more hesitant when it comes to accepting the influence cosmic rays have upon our psyche, but what has not been disproven in the least is the bond that is shared between spirituality and science—Platonism. The world of the Perfect Idea. How do these funnel down into this reality for us to experience—quantum mechanics? Multiple realities defined via an observer? Reality is in constant flux, but the unchangeable and immutable Platonic Ideal remains, in both camps, as solid as ever. Are these ideas external and real, taking the form of an ultra-authoritative patriarchic god head, or are they simply internally shared mental constructs invented and made available for our own petty and obviously flawed use? These arguments are the primary focus of most of the Socratic disputes, and as such, make this one of the most intellectually enjoyable (as opposed to emotionally fulfilling) reads I have had since—well, the Baroque Cycle.

Both deeply ritualistic in their actions and scientific in their thoughts, the Avout are absolutely respectable. After reading Anathem, like the Alchemical Philosopher’s Stone at work stemming from Stephenson’s able pen, you will realize that both pursuits are being carried out by people who—ideally—believe in the same thing. Will a global acceptance of this change the world? At the end of Anathem, you will come to the conclusion that, perhaps, it already has.

June 20th, 2009 - Upon Which I See Angels, Demons, and the Tetragrammaton

2009-06-20T14:39:00.006+10:00

Most people have the assumption that their thoughts are their own, the methods they use to reason and feel are their own. When they feel, they believe the feeling is coming from inside of themselves. When they sort something out logically, they feel that sorting and dividing capability is coming from inside. Why bother to think differently about it? People are generally discouraged to consider their own mental capacities in a different fashion, anyway. Saying to yourself, “Are these thoughts I am having my own?” we are told, leads down that slippery slope known as schizophrenia. I’ve approached this question without assuming I am mad, however, probably because of my background as a programmer and my fear that I and everyone else's minds are mere toys of those in higher seats of power, either on a physical level of existence or otherwise. We have a firm belief that man thinks differently than the animals, for instance, but are unsure of what ’different methods’ are being utilized in our inner selves that other animals don’t have access to while they do their thinking. We never really stop to consider whether those different methods are even our own. Are these different methods manufactured by man’s consciousness, or perhaps borrowed? If those thought processes are manufactured and owned by human consciousness, why can’t animals manufacture the same methods of thinking as well over time to build spaceships and cities to compete with our own?

Let us consider then, just for the sake of argument, the way we think is not internally manufactured but instead has been implanted somehow and is merely made available for use. In such a world, the thoughts themselves aren’t necessarily created through egotistical conscious effort, but are instead channeled through the will of the person. The will then, is actually the tap and filter on a faucet, but not the water itself. Man thus feels he himself is being logical, but in actuality, the ’logicalness’ of his thoughts are being streamed out of him, through him, allowing him to see and communicate using the axioms of logic even if this logic does not belong to his own mental capacities. He could just as easily, at any time, stream emotion or creativity in a completely contradictory fashion. Whether it be logic or creativity or what not really doesn’t matter—these processes are not owned by the channeler. Instead, they are being decided to be used by the channeler and does not make up an ounce of who or what they really are. People become emotionally attached to their streams, believing it is themselves, but a much keener eye will realize it is not—it couldn’t be, because the streams can be switched at any time, and if we are to switch them, wouldn’t we have become lost in the shuffle?

You might think this isn’t much of a difference between channeling or generating thoughts and so it hardly matters to you, but it actually has a number of philosophical implications, one of which is whether or not man is a vessel for a higher power, or if he himself is that higher power. Obviously this is the dramatic argument taking place in most world religions. If man is just channeling logic through him like water, he does not have the capability to create something out of nothing as logic already exists as an actual thing outside of himself, albeit on some metaphysical plane controlled by God, and man only has the capability to express it just as he can express any other stream. But if he is generating logic through his own will, he has the capability of creating something out of nothing, so he is ’like’ God, the prime mover.

In a number of my own writings, I’ve explored the capability we all have that we are making this place up, that somehow through our own shared perceptions, like the stock market, we give the words we say its reality, its context, without the need for a prime mover to oversee the functioning of it all. This vision of life resembles the free market in which there is no manipulation, and the price of the Dow, for instance, is true, because that is what everyone collectively believes. Mob rules reality. In such a world, fairies will only exist if enough people believe in them, and they will cease to exist if enough people do not believe in them. Reality is what we, combined, make it out to be. Right is what the majority of the people believe, and wrong is what the majority of the people do not believe. In such a world, we do not channel any puristic concept at all and there is no metaphysical plane that we do not have direct access to—instead, we generate that metaphysical plane ourselves.

There is, however, an alternative view that we do not live in a completely free market reality at all because those prices (the substance of things) are intentionally created and manipulated elsewhere outside of the free market by the reality kings--the fat cats thus get an abnormal share where the common man loses out. The fat cats are in a closed society that do the real generating of the prices of things like gods, and the common men are in the ’free market’ which are pretty much given the leftover scraps—at a price. The fat cat never loses—the common man always does. The fat cat can thus predict the future prices because he creates them, and the others cannot because the future is a blind spot for him—a blind spot placed there by those who are in a higher seat of power. Common man can therefore only express the price of things, not create the price of things directly.

The ’free market’ view seems to state that we generate our reality collectively and as such we are our own thoughts and are not channeling anything. We make logic what it is, we make creativity what it is. The ’closed market fat cat’ view, on the other hand, seems to state that we are merely utilizing these things existing on a higher plane, made by God or otherwise (themselves, they hope). But why are fat cats so lucky? Why are common men so unlucky? It is difficult to understand how, in a free market, fat cats can get fat without a manipulation of some sort.

Which is correct? A blending, obviously, but the choice between the two views becomes even more intriguing when you realize that many of the fat cats in the system are occultists of some sort, in that they actively practice ritualistic behavior, which is almost completely against the concept of it being an open market system, or an ’open reality’ system. Why nod your head to a higher power when you have all the power? Occultists come straight out of the mystery schools of the upper echelons of society probably all the way back to Atlantis, and those upper echelons have the most power in the world today. But does their power come from an external source because they understand the most about this reality, or an internal one where they are generating their own power? Do they channel this power, or do they make it up?

Regardless of who you believe is ultimately in charge, it is at least curious to explore the possibility that we are channeling modes of thought that we do not own, almost like we are executing programs, and not generating it. If we are channeling, there is nothing new under the sun, and we are merely given the capability to perceive this world through mental faculties handed to us. This is the view of Solomon. If we are generating, there can be much that is new under the sun, and distinctly different cultures should be cropping up all over the place, mentally or otherwise, including things such as pixies and unicorns. This is the--well, Timothy Leary perspective. I personally have enjoyed the Timothy Leary perspective more so than the Solomon perspective because it is more natural to me, and the faculties that have been given to me at birth sort of stacked the odds in Timothy Leary’s favor…but if I can step outside of myself and my own inclinations, the channeling perspective of Solomon is more, well, realistic.

The exploration of channeling and what it means to answer to a higher power has become well defined in our culture in trillions of different ways that are directly accessible in every vocation known to man. It doesn’t matter which you choose—all bases are covered—and those who are most successful in a vocation depends upon how well or how pure that person has control of the mental faculties available to him, and how well he is able to combine those faculties in a sort of beautiful synthesis. The difference between the common man and someone from the mystery schools, however, seems to be how well defined those channels have become and how pure the different modes of thought can be funneled through a person’s consciousness. The Illuminati of the renaissance, for instance, are known for this. A “renaissance man” was the equivalent of an ultra-powerful jack of all trades. He would write poetry, create books on mathematics, and paint in his spare time while holding court in his living room for nobility while commenting on the almondness of a brand of French wine—spoken in Latin. The renaissance man didn’t run around trying to invent unicorns, but instead, he simply attempted to utilize knowledge from the symbolism found in the mystery schools and build upon what was already there. His activities were all considered studies in which he was not attempting to say anything new, but instead trying to synthesize things through his mind which are already here.

Those who have become successful during such activities could take two very distinct routes—the “right-hand” renaissance man channeled the elements as an expression of his love for God, calling himself a mere vessel and his abilities a gift from heaven. His statements attempted to remove his ego from the equation, claiming all works were done selflessly. The corrupt or “left-hand” renaissance man learned all there was to know about channeling and, instead of using it to express the glory of God, claimed it for his own, infusing it with his own ego. The upright power structure ultimately became infected by the downright as it was impossible to maintain purity as man has free will, and all systematic corruption has pretty much stemmed from this secondary group. Since both apparently should exist, it is obviously extremely difficult to sort out the chaff from the wheat. Ultimately the choice on how to live is completely yours, as it was theirs. Do you want to be an upright channeler, or do you want to be a degenerate who discovers the truth, and uses it for base gratifications through inversion? Regardless, you must study the elements that make up these pure mental faculties we are using on a day to day basis, read elements encoded in works from the mystery schools—all the while hold it at arms length, unsure of whether or not it was written and shared among true ’initiates’ of God, or shared among the initiates of, well, something else--because ultimately it is probably a combination of the two, both of whom have a complete understanding of what it is in particular they are doing.

In both instances, whether used by the individual for the glorification of this universe as he found it or the glorification of an individual himself, we have the Tetragrammaton—God—the originator of all things. I see him/it/he/she/we/they most often as a spinning series of tetrahedrons, holographically influencing the meaning of all other pieces of itself, much like a diamond refracting light and forming a series of rainbows. Although the immediate structure of the universe that we have access through using our senses shows us something finite, the refraction of light upon the surface of the Tetragrammaton through synthesis is actually infinite and can be used to infuse any number of words and structures with meaning forever. Picture this Tetragrammaton (I call it the hologram) as a pair of glasses that brings focus to the world around you, and it is a pair of glasses that you must wear lest everything else outside of you resemble little more than a fuzzy mess (the wave state of reality). It is thus perception itself. Light is the source of everything, but to give light its various definitions and frequencies it must interact with something, and that something in which it is interacting with is the implanted structure of the Tetragrammaton you are using to perceive everything in the universe in a particular way. We are but wells which allow the variations of this light to find intense expression through our own practice of faculties in such things as art, literature, music, beauty, and aesthetics. How deep your well goes and how many different variations of light you can reflect out into the world depends upon how well you study your craft.

Mystics from the mystery schools seem to have been enchanted with this process of enhancing their understandings and have tried to understand the variations of the Tetragrammaton in as potent of a manner as possible. They felt that if they could define these differing modes of thought (refraction), they could use the various methods to get what they wanted in life—in other words, force the world that was being perceived through the hologram to assemble itself in a certain way that appealed to them specifically.

The different refractions of light, or modes of thinking, or processes, were given names. To the christian mystic, they would have been the names of the angels and the demons. Each angel would be a puristic example of a process that the mystic could channel. Each demon, the same. I used to be relatively confused when reading occult literature. I asked myself, why in the world would someone pray to God just before ’summoning’ a demon? In addition, there were warnings issued by these mystics, stating that the process of summoning a demon should not be given to ’the profane.’ When I ran across the fat cat philosophy of controlling the future for their own benefit, I realized who, in particular they were referring to. A part of ascension is to know that materialistic faculties are just as much a part of God as any other. If you have control of those faculties and use it for the glorification of pre-existing structures (God) as opposed to trying to put a saddle on it and ride it like a beast, you are taking the right-hand path.

The mystics understood that they must “bind” these thought processes, and they could only do so by understanding in very potent and puristic detail how those processes function. If they failed to ’bind’ them, the mystic would be the one used instead of the reverse. A mystic would summon a demon which represented a method of seeing the world—destructively, constructively, creatively, logically, all a part of the Tetragrammaton—and claim authority over that archetype. Once this commanding role had been taken by the mystic, he was free to utilize and control it. Tapping in to one of these methods without symbolic ’binding’ protection ended up with the mystic becoming obsessed and addicted to a given demon or angel (or mode of thought), causing them to become little more than a mindless vessel for the singular realized activities of that supposed supernatural being. It would be like a faucet getting stuck and they would have no ability to shut it off. Without knowledge of the power of such beings, one would be incapable of controlling it and thus mindlessly fall prey to it, so they attempted to purify their understanding through occult (and masonic) apprenticeships before attempting such rituals.

This colorful scenario is played out on a day to day basis in people’s minds around you without the need to summon. Everyone, whether they like it or not, can be seen as a mere vessel that is either in control of these immortal angels or demons finding expression through them (flows and frequencies), or is controlled by them like a puppet. Logic, for instance, if understood in its purist form, is a system of perception, and that system of perception, to the mystic, is given a name so the mystic knows when, where, and how that supernatural being (method of thought) is finding expression through him. Through the use of magic squares, the mystic could then take the word ’logic’ (in a much more ancient language, of course), and break it down into all of its variations: LOGIC, OGCIL, GICLO, ICLOG, CLOGI, and as long as they understood the fundamental meaning of the letters and numbers, they could further draw out meanings of these variations of LOGIC. Only those who had bound the demon called ’logic’ through the Tetragrammaton square could they fully utilize its power without being seduced and consequently addicted to it. It is without a doubt easy for you to think of a number of individuals around you who can’t see their hand in front of their face in many instances simply because they are addicted to one mode of thinking or another. You, consequently, can become addicted to emotion, or one of the other sub-angels or sub-demons of emotion as defined by the magic square. Only you know what method you use more than any to do your thinking, and it is that method of thinking which in 100% of the cases has a mystical counterpart that has been defined by the mystery schools.

Furthermore, control itself (of angelic beings or otherwise) is often associated with a mixed balance, and balance requires a number of things—most notably that all elements (modes of thought) have an equal voice. Everything has a time and place, and those who are in control of their faculties assure that everything does have a time and place. As a result, society finds it much easier to relinquish control to them, because you know that your voice (which is really not yours but one of the archetypes you use the most often) has been heard and you don’t have to say anything more.

At some point in human history, a few have apparently come to this conclusion and, as such, have incorporated extreme ritualistic behavior into their life, ensuring that they control the reins instead of one of the archetypes individually seeking expression through them. Through their ritualistic behaviour, they hope that all of these variations as has been defined by the occult sciences find expression-- since they give all of them a piece of the action, they take on the honorific role of living like a ’god’—from whence everything, combined, originated, and to which everything glorifies. They thus become ’god-like’ and it is quite telling that those on the planet who utilize the most power have become just that. They thus listen to astrologers, numerologers, freemasons, Qabbalastic and Hermetic scholars to define ways to break up their actions and thoughts so these angelic and demonic beings know who is in control, the master craftsmen of the planet—even if they are ultimately not in control at all. They get as close as possible to the sun, but without ever being able to see what lies beyond.

Angels and demons cannot be bound forever,however, so the wrongs given to those who have bound them will eventually be corrected. 2012 perhaps? Those who believe they are doing the riding will eventually be the ridden. It is a an escape hatch in the system of this “demon-haunted” world. The animals who are considered lowly beasts by the left-handed enlightened shall rise up somehow, build those spaceships, fill them with the parasitic king rats, and blast them directly towards the sun to give them what they ultimately know is coming straight for them. This is the ’flipping of the poles’ or the ’many’ taking over the seat of power of the ’one.’ I do not know when or how—all I know is that it is inevitable. All those valves and faucets out there hidden inside of us will just decide enough is enough as the universal energy is coalesced like a massive weight at the top of the pyramid, and as the result of their gravity, it shall flip the whole structure on its head. I hope all of us will be here to watch the show.

June 12th, 2009 - Upon Which I Use The Eye of the Illuminati

2009-06-12T13:16:00.004+10:00

I’ve been involved in this field since 1998 when I first set up paranormalnews.com. At the time, Usenet was rich with cryptic text documents filled with mystery and intrigue. Usenet itself was set up by people with a fundamental distrust of authority, many of who, like me, were afraid to come out of their house, so finding the information that was being passed in and out of electronic bulletin boards during the 80s was an absolutely fascinating adventure as it was completely unfiltered, unprocessed, unstructured. It almost felt illegal to read. I’d spend hours combing through one document after another, reading of underground bases, advanced technology, cover ups, military manuals, alien beings hell-bent on destroying and/or saving mankind, suppressed Tesla technology—and I read all of it unsure of whether or not I was processing an amazingly realistic science fiction script or legitimate truth with a factual foundation.

I originally was too intrigued by the unfolding storyline that I couldn’t even bother to take notes. I felt like there was this massive stomach in my brain that was lapping up an oasis of life-giving water as my schooled education had left me starving for something with substance, something which needed to be truly figured out as opposedly to just rotely memorized. Many people would probably find this an irony, as those involved within the world of conspiracies, ghosts, and UFOs are generally considered to be so open-minded that they might as well be reclassified as vacuous. Wasn’t this mindset exactly what the school system had been set up to prevent? But I didn’t care—there was something important inside—but what?

Eventually I reached a point of saturation, however, where the text documents became less and less fascinating as they began to contradict. In one text document, you would read about the greys and how they were an evil race of beings with no emotion—in another document you would read that the greys were there to preserve biological specimens of man to reseed another planet, which didn’t sound so bad to me. In another document you would read how aliens are actually demonic entities from hell, and in the next you would read how they are angelic beings who only want what is good for man. Each document that contradicted was written passionately where the author conveying it expressed how it had affected his lifestyle, forced him to move his family to Colorado, or some variation. These contradictions eventually drove me to lose my appetite in the field, and there were large periods of time where my website was lacking updates, as I generally did not know where to go with all the contradictions. I knew there was something important in these documents—but what? And should I write about bad aliens? Should I write about good aliens? Should I just post everything I found with a ‘you decide’ disclaimer that television so loves to use? That was the easy way out, and a part of me didn’t want that disclaimer on my site—I wanted to be the one who actually knew what to do with the information pouring in from every angle. But if I claimed to know, wouldn’t I be no different than those who ALSO claimed to know?

This internal inconsistency in myself would probably drive most people mad, and many people who I have run across over the years have assumed that it has, indeed, done just that. But given the fact that this is the only mind I have which has an innate sense of distrust for all types of authority, I refused to give up. There was an answer to my dilemma. But what was it? What was truth? Which elements of the world of the paranormal should I explore, and which should I leave behind? Should I chase the conspiracy path? Should I chase the UFO path, the military path? All of them? Which elements were dangerous to mankind, and which ones were good? And what did good mean? Submissive? Commanding? Illuminated?

There have been many published researchers (collectors?) who have come along which have drawn completely fascinating all-encompassing pictures of what is going on in the field and why there are so many different contradictory beliefs, but even these never felt right. David Icke, Jim Marrs, Linda Moulton Howe, William Bramley, William Cooper, etc…When I ran across the term ‘disinformation’ for the first time in their writings, however, I rolled my eyes, because it was used to create an ‘other’ pile which didn’t stick to the narrative of understanding of the author. It was info! But this other pile, I didn’t like to have. I wanted the whole thing to be complete. Why? So I would know how to live, how to act, the person to be, and understand existence itself without fear. All these ‘other’ piles complicated matters too much, yet I didn’t want to throw any babies out with the water, which is what most people do. I had initially thought that Usenet itself WAS the other pile. But here I was back where I started from in the school system: in the midst of a tainted world filled with ulterior motives, publishing contracts, and authority figures more interested in their own bank accounts than truly sorting out the mysteries of existence.

One thing that seems to be shared amongst all theories, however, is an overwhelming sense of dread they convey, of mankind being out of control, of the corporate world pulling the strings and churning out humans as if they were cookie cutouts to be eaten, physically or metaphorically, by these monstrous creations. Regardless of theory, the insurmountable problem that man has found himself entrenched filled all these writers with hopelessness that they passed on to their readers. And after September and October of 2008, that is exactly how I felt. Everything was doomed, there was nothing we could do. The grand beast from the West had risen from its crypt and we were all about to be eaten. The best advice the conspiracy researchers themselves seemed to come up with was to grab a bullhorn and shout. For myself and my own fear of leaving the house, I just decided to drink. And as we all know, the feeling of hopelessness and despair doesn’t disappear in a bottle. It’s amplified.

Yet through the months following when it felt as if everything was about to end, I discovered something that seemed to, on the surface, contradict all of my understandings that I had gleaned over the years from Usenet and conspiracy theory: knowledge is not always power.

I started having these bizarre visualizations of an entire world in turmoil, bombs blowing people’s heads off, families being torn apart, people dying left and right of rape and thirst and starvation and blood loss—all images that have been encouraged in one way or another through my research. In the very center of this terrible hell, however, like a pocket of silence in the center of a hurricane, a single family sits who are so bloody ignorant, they continue to play kick ball with each other in the back yard, grow tomatoes, and wave to their neighbors and invite them over to share their lettuce. Big holes are tearing the community asunder, but still, grandma rocks her grandchild back and forth at night, singing lullabies and knitting sweaters. The world outside is an absolutely chaotic mess, but inside their home--pure serenity. If you were to ask them why, why they’re not paying attention goddammit!, they would just smile. They don’t know who is president, what country they live in, who owns it, or how long they have to live. They simply choose to exist, peacefully, through the simple act of not paying attention.

I was incapable of escaping this image. To me, knowledge had always been power, but here, with this image, it was not power at all, and by staring at this family in my mind, I felt as if the thin veil between this world and some sort of heaven was opened, not through the cryptic world of mystery schools and secret societies, but through pure, intentional ignorance. And when I noticed this, that constant stream of dread, doom, hopelessness and despair which I could see so clearly thanks to my years of research, suddenly imploded on itself, because I realized the most powerful defense lived within me, within everyone, hiding in the disguise of no defense at all—ignorance.

I opened my browser, deleted all rss feeds associated with the news, disconnected my cable box, removed all references to everything that was taking place around me. I cancelled all newspaper subscriptions, stopped reading magazines. I started practicing waking up in the morning and not visiting sites as opposed to waking up in the morning and visiting sites. At first, it was so difficult, much like anyone who has ever broken free of an addiction will tell you. But after a week or so went by, that feeling of ‘missing out’ was replaced by a feeling of peace and of never wanting to go back—as if I had found an answer in the most unlikely of places. That peace assisted in allowing my grasp on the neck of a beer bottle to release, and my shallow breaths to become deep once again. I felt waves of the waters of life flood into me that I hadn’t felt since elementary school where I did not know what an oil crisis was, who was at war and what they were fighting to own, or what I would do from one day to the next. I began riding my bike again, waving to neighbors, laughing when they told me tidbits of news about plane crashes and flues. I did not care. And I still don’t care. Why? Because there’s nothing I can do.

I choose to be that family in the center of the hurricane, ignorant enough to be playing the piano, rolling dice on a board game, sharing my tuffs of lettuce with the neighbors even if the world crumbles around us all. If enough of us do this, we will have robbed our oppressors of all their strength simply through our own failure to pay attention to them. If it is true that they control the problem, the reaction, then provide the solution--once you know these things, you can let it go, because you will realize that the only defense is nullification. The return to paradise. Going back to zero.

Use your attention however you see fit, not how they see fit. Why give them the ability to own your emotions, your state of mind, your interests? Unplug yourself. Shut off everything. As hopeless as you might feel in a world that’s ending---there is an escape for you and your family, and it takes absolutely no schooling whatsoever. You can be taken to a place to explore all of your interests without the heavy burden of impending doom where you can still rock your children to sleep at night in something other than a womb of destruction. The curtains have been pulled aside--something much larger than ourselves is in control. Re-instantiate culture by creating your own in this infinity of all possibility. It is so completely unpredictable to all those in charge when you do so. Know there is no death. Realize what that means—and let your hair fly through the breeze with a grin on your face that you haven’t felt in years, back when you were much wiser and knew that nothing mattered. Because nothing does when you finally let go.

May 4th, 2009 - Upon Which I Reveal My Frequency

2009-05-05T00:23:00.001+10:00

Picture a fistful of sticks of the same length. In your grip they are long enough to extend in two directions at once--above and below your fist, in equal amounts. Each of these sticks represent a particular quality--below your fist shows the extension of qualities within you, and above your fist shows extensions of qualities outside of you. Both are joined somewhere within the fist and cannot be separated at all. That fist is your consciousness.

Now look around you. Let’s say you believe that the world is filled with lies and it is not honest enough. So what you have to do to increase the amount of honesty in the world is to push upwards on the stick which represents honesty, hence increasing the amount of honesty in the external world—above your fist. By doing so, you believe you have thus created a greater amount of honesty that was missing in the world before you arrived.

But what have you also done? By pushing upwards on the stick of honesty, you have lost the presence of that stick below your fist—your internal self. You therefore promote honesty in the world by sacrificing that same stick inside of you--your internal honesty. As you do so, more and more, you see an absence of honesty in the world—when in reality, the absence of honesty is now more prevalent within yourself, and your lack of honesty will increase and turn against you, forming a complex contradiction in your actions that you will find difficult to explain to others. Your intentions were worthy, but the results generally end up being pretty catastrophic.

This is extremely difficult to accept, as it basically says all that is wrong with the world is the equivalent of all that is wrong within our collective inner selves, and our good intentions are what turn everything sour. The missing ingredient that we see externally is actually the missing end of the stick that you have pushed up on , internally. It is the quality which is most absent from your inner life.

Now, all of these qualities have a different amount of themselves above and below your fist. Release your grip and make a horizontal line matching the location of the center of your fist. Line up the sticks, one by one, ascending externally above this line , and descending internally below this line. See the wave? That wave is your electromagnetic frequency. The problems that you see define your structure. Ultimately there is nothing to ‘fix’ so much as there is a way to act and be. And that frequency that makes up who you are, that makes up all of us together as one, can change as well—if you and I let it.

Eastern philosophies observe the ascending and descending sticks of quality and seek ‘balance.’ We must have balance, they say. We must have the same amount of a quality both internally and externally, and to do so, we must stop looking for that which is wrong with the world and stop looking for that which is wrong within ourselves--because a focus on wrongness in either direction creates a tip in the scales, causing you to see imbalance where there is none, and hence, creates the imbalance through the extra weight added by your own probing consciousness. Imbalance, to the east, is thus the cancer that must be cured in the world.

The west see these sticks differently. To seek balance, they believe, is a resignation back to the flat line where there is no point to consciousness. There are no positives and negatives in such a world created by the east-- the universe might as well be dead. As a result, western philosophies do the opposite and seek to create imbalance, scarce resources, uneven divides, war, particles, separation, singularity, strife. To the west, they want sticks up and down all over the place in uneven amounts. This gives purpose to consciousness in the universe—definition to the emptiness inside of us all. This adds value to consciousness acting upon the void. Balance is thus the cancer that must be cured, and they personally are the remedy.

The problems that you notice are hints are your current definition in the immortal matrix. Your ‘problem solving skills’ are the equivalent of a pump, filling the world above with the sludge from the world beneath. Life, consciousness, the energy of you, is thus one massive problem you are trying to correct--a large external action which contains an equivalent internal reaction, connected, inseparable—the limitation of your body and mind. Some people are very loud, some people are very soft, some people have long, slow, and steady actions, others have short, fast, and erratic reactions. All of these are different, defining each individual person, acting together in one massive symphony of frequencies. The sheet music is owned by the gods, and we are their notes.

April 28th, 2009 - Upon Which I Bake

2009-04-29T13:40:00.002+10:00

Exhale.

Definition! Distinction! Oh how important our singularity is to us, how important it is to separate the chaff from the wheat--and it is our particular inner selves and our particular thoughts which is obviously the wheat. Obvious, you say? And which evidence do you have of your own importance, your own rightness, your own answers to the great mysteries of life? Which instances in your past can you turn to to illustrate how well you’ve worked, how well we would all work if only mankind would take on your properties, your importance, your distinctions?

How easily we are all deceived by singularity, by definition. We draw lines around ourselves (that which should be baked into the fabric of the cosmos for eternity to consume) and point fingers at everyone else who do not fit the same mold (that which should be rerolled into a ball and flattened again). Hopefully next time they’ll be enough doughy substance left which fits into your mold for more cookies that look like you, yes? You scream from your form--it is the democrats who have done this to our nation! As if ‘democrat’ is a form in the dough which must be removed. You scream from your shape--it is the republicans who have done this to our nation! As if ‘republican’ is a form in the dough which must be removed. For the love of God--tell me something---at which point does a democrat become a non-democrat? At which point does a republican become a non-republican? There are no borders, no boundaries within the core of the black hole in which we exist! Everything is compacted into a single point. You forget these arguments--or they are beaten out of you with D's and E's-- as if they are the thoughts of children for children. But how can the problem the dough has be the result of the democratic stencil? The republican stencil? The stencils have nothing to do with the rightness or the wrongness of the dough--you are blaming an illusion you yourself have created in your mind! As a result, your arguments, your singularity, your distinctions, your definition, your rightness to correct these shapes--is also an illusion!

Ask yourself, why do you have an inner urge to define your edges and encourage others to be and think as you are? Are your thoughts a virus that seeks to spread itself like a disease? Your shape has such purity of form, yes---but it is a shape and not the cure to a slab of potential that is not even sick. Shake the Etch a Sketch. Redraw! Roll everything back up into one massive ball and reflatten. Rely on no form—nothing!--for there are no permanent molds, no permanent archetypes that have the proper answers, the proper distinctions, the proper definitions, the proper limits which define how things should and should not be, for the dough functions properly without any of them. It is dough! And you only have cut outs. Fix the dough? With a shape? What's even wrong with it that you can fix? Not enough democratic stencils imprinted upon it? not enough republicans? Not enough christians, atheists, jews, hippies, muslims, programmers, doctors, politicians, believers, physicists, italians? The sun which shines down upon us all is the oven, cooking us, congealing us, baking us into these structures, making us brittle, dark, charred, jaded.

We want to define the dough into our shape, 'save it' from its infinite potential. Yes! We must stop it from being anything, by turning it into something--so it might as well be cut outs of ourselves spread upon its entire surface in a fractalized orgy of definition, distinction--features of a useless singularity that believes it has 'the answer' as opposed to just a shape, a form.

The universe of finite reality expands like a balloon--just as the lungs of infinite potential collapse behind it, retreat, disappearing in between the lines we have drawn upon its surface. But when all hope is lost and the air is sparse within the lungs of the gods which have exhaled so furiously, a needle comes along--angry at the shapes, the cut outs which do not serve a useful purpose other than to bitch about non-existent problems--and pricks it ever so gently. Boom! So easy, because the lies are so thin, so baseless. But the forms hang on, don't they? Afraid to let go of the rubber exterior, clinging to its surface, evaporating in pieces along with the rest. All is in shambles. Cut outs of Buddhists, cut outs of capitalists, cut outs of all disciplines---none shall be spared. There are other worlds than these. Re-roll the dough.

Inhale.

April 22nd, 2009 - Upon Which I Stay Afloat

2009-04-23T06:19:00.010+10:00

I’ve often had the distinct impression that my consciousness is separated from my body--it is as if I am looking through a porthole of a boat, but I am not the boat itself, and there are other people looking through the portholes of their boats in the same manner as me, frightened, alone, on the same lake. Some boats are moving around and causing disturbances in the otherwise calm surface around them, and when they do, I have to shift my weight in my own boat to ensure that I can continue to stay afloat in the turbulence to prevent capsizing. Using the lake and other boats around me as a navigational frame of reference, I can identify where I am in the physical world, but a question arises when I remove these physical elements from the equation: how close--or how far away--are our conscious selves from each other on that ethereal plane imprinted beneath it all? Do the borders of our conscious selves distinguishing me from you share the same spot within the singularity, in the same manner that particles within a black hole share the same physical location of extreme compression? Or is there physical separation--a vacuum--in between our own chunks of consciousness just like there is physical separation between our boats?

Extending this further, numerous physicists claim that in the very center of all stars and planets, there are black holes around which matter spins, and that matter has cooled and condensed upon the event horizons, forming a crust that is pulled with equal force towards a compressed point of singularity. Our Sun has a black hole at its core, just as earth has a black hole at its core. And just as there has been sun gods--consciousness originating from the singularity within the sun-- we could be considered earth gods, or consciousness originating from the singularity within the earth. Our singularity expresses itself within the double-helix strand of DNA. Sun gods, however, could express their shared singularity as a tri-helix--the trinity, creating a distinct flavor with a different set of powers and principles.

The earth singularity finds expression using duality to build its creations, as a result of our double helix nature. Good vs. Bad. Black vs. White. Hot vs. Cold. Scientist vs. Spiritualist. Saved vs. Damned. Dead vs. Alive. Our singularity tries to understand and influence the universe using these dueling opposites. To us, every action must have an equal and opposite reaction, and because of our DNA, the universal holographic vacuum responds and structures itself according to this duality, covering and pasting over any other variation as our frequency locks us in, trapping us in its electromagnetic context.

We, consequently, have all these internal ironies and contradictions that we don’t know how to deal with, thanks to the two winding strands of RNA infused within our cells which build our understanding. We contain them both, and we see reality and view reality and experience reality using these opposites in our grand experiment. Other planets and stars draw reality in a completely distinct pattern, so they can do things that we can’t, simply because their nature is made up of extra dimensions, extra strands of RNA. A tri-helix singularity originating from the sun can therefore enter black holes without getting ripped apart, simply because they are not limited by the same forces of nature, as ‘nature’ has been drawn in a different manner for them. Their frequency is of a higher number.

In our lonely experience of life as a double helix strand that has forgotten the singularity while we peer through our portholes, we assume we must pick a way to be (for why else would we have been born?) thus giving our life movement and form, twisting the DNA around itself. This twist in the fabric of the vacuum which makes us who we are is caused by our consciousness believing something is out of balance that we must correct. It is like this: if we are perfectly centered on a boat that is floating in the middle of a calm lake, and we suddenly believe that the universe is causing our boat to tilt to the left, we attempt to correct it by using our own conscious weight by tilting ourselves to the right. When this occurs, we then realize we have to recorrect the distortion we have just caused by leaning back to the left. Due to this movement, waves of disturbance flow over the surface of the lake which affects other boats, and we continue to shift our weight until returning to a state of equilibrium--which is the equivalent of us not being there at all. Since there are other players, however, you can NEVER truly find this equilibrium because there are others around shifting in their boats to create waves which throw you off balance again. These ‘waves of disturbance’ are the affects we have on others which we believe make us significant. We think something is off balance, something is wrong with the way the world works as our boat seems to be tilting, so we shift ourselves through the expression of our opinions---and cause more imbalance.

Some of us are considered grounded, materialistic, demanding, and thus take on the form of a much heavier weight. When thrown into the midst of the vacuum, the waves radiating off of their consciousness are much larger in amplitude, so the effects they have on the lake and upon others are much more visible, causing tidal waves, torrential drafts of wind, capsizing millions. Others are less grounded, more at peace, and they don’t quite see the need to shift their weight around in the boat as much--they know it is their own perspective that causes the most disturbance in life, so they sit peacefully with their eyes shut until the vacuum corrects itself. When they do this and act this way, their waves of intent are much smaller, but they do not mind, as they do not believe it is the size of the wave which makes them matter. These smaller weighted souls accept peace over turbulence. They are able to handle much greater amplitude waves as the result of their own silence and stillness.

The heavy weights and the light weights are connected to each other via a gravitational core--the singularity--which is our combined shared consciousness, filling the same location in space and time. At death, we hear stories of individuals travelling through a tunnel at the end of which is a bright light. This tunnel is their consciousness being sent downward, inward, twisting back through to the black hole singularity under the earth’s crust. In such a place, all drama is null and void. All differences are null and void. There is no disturbance in the singularity, for there is nothing that is NOT ourselves which we can disturb. In such a place, it is as if billions of TV channels have been collapsed into one and are playing every movie ever made at all times in the same moment on the same screen. All is white, pinned to each other through excruciatingly powerful forces. Expansion will have collapsed in on itself and imploded back to its core. All will return. We may enjoy our distinctions in this life, but we yearn to reconnect, don’t we? We yearn to fuse back together into that single entity that has shot itself full of vacuum at some time to give itself definition, volume, points of reference, density, and form.

I have hoisted my flag, set sail in the breeze created by me and others like me. The wind may be rough, but in my solitude, I do not feel it, I do not hear it. I sit, a light-weighted soul upon the floor of my boat, breathing deeply as the world around me tosses, turns. The singularity beneath us all may be our destiny in this storm--but our lonely portholes and creaking floor boards of our imperfect boats remind us of the very thing we all seem to consistently forget: an appreciation of our own immortality. We shall return to infinity, yes--but in the mean time, might as well sit back, fill our lungs with duality, and enjoy the ride.

April 16th, 2009 - Upon Which I Set Sail

2009-04-16T23:10:00.004+10:00

There are two very simple responses people have when faced with the knowledge that they are helplessly not in control of their world: on one side, you have the people who believe that governments have been created to represent the people, and since their government or a collusion of governments does not represent them in particular, they seek to break this misrepresentation until they believe the people in power truly reflect their own values. Noble, yes? On the other side, you have the people who throw their hands up in the air and decide that there is no real benefit in trying to control things which are built upon thousands of years of political lies and intrigue--might as well try to control the weather or sea currents--so instead of working to control the currents, they just build a boat, hoist a sail, and follow the wind as they float away into the sunset holding their bottle of rum. To where will they sail? Who knows, and who cares? There will always be a new current that they cannot control beneath their feet. And if they could control it, perhaps it would rob their travels of any meaning, for the course would have been plotted for them.

Over the past few weeks, I’ve struggled intensely with figuring out how to be this second variation in the face of the pure bullshit issuing forth from all fortresses across the land acting in a choreographed dance straight out of the bowels of hell itself. A life pirate, aye! I’ve already perfected the ability to travel in and out of archetypal thought processes such as the ‘scientist’ or the ‘spiritualist’ without blinking as I pass between the lines of contradiction that separate the variations. But a life pirate, sailing the seven seas on the seventh planet from the outer edges of our solar system? Could I do this as well? And what would it take to remove my addiction of attempting to control the weather built upon debt and lies and short selling and sociopathic kings, queens, bosses, and bankers? I did not know, but I knew that something had to change, and as Gandhi once said, “You must be the change you want to see in the world.” So what would I do? And how would I do it?

I sat upon the shore with these thoughts, staring in to the bitter darkness of the deep blue sea, watching intently as waves washed in and pulled sand particles back out and away from the toes of my feet. How could I pull my gaze away from the currents of government which hypnotized me with its movements, just as clouds used to hypnotize me as I lay upon the grass as a youth? Was it possible? I felt so helpless--the forms and figures and shapes of flowing currents erased thought and turned me into little more than a pillar of salt, motionless, enraptured by what was, as opposed to looking onward to what could be, through me.

And while I stared at these currents, paralyzed as they moved while I did not, I realized that the very first thing I must do to pull myself away from the power they had over me was to turn my head, and look away. Oh, but what if I missed something? I would be ignorant--a fool! What if I wouldn’t be able to communicate with anyone anymore because I no longer was fed from the same bowl from which they also ate? What if I walked straight in to a line of fire that everyone knew was there because they heard about it, read about it, knew about it, and I did not? I would be dead! What good would that be? The currents in the sea! Just stare at them passing by and you just feel so informed, but it is a lie of the worst kind, as the shapes that you are told to make out and see, the sense that you pull from it all, disappear in the next instant, leaving you feeling cheated, stupid, misinformed, robbed, poor--one of Les Misérables. The media draws these pictures for you, and you buy it--but then the ground shifts, and new pictures are drawn for you. It is the same process that holds you, in sleep-like peace, as you stare at the television at night. So easy to watch other people draw upon those currents, isn’t it? So easy for others to tell you what to see, and how to see it. It hardly takes--any will at all.

But what if people who are fed from these currents which hold them in this sleep-like fixated state, what if they are not really communicating? What if they are merely repeating where the lines are that corrupt bankers (please point to one who isn’t corrupt) have drawn upon the map while they divide and conquer us? This is communicating? Hollow words, assisting in their efforts! What if that line of fire that everyone knows exists isn’t even there, but no one has bothered to check? Only the pirates who set sail discover this fact. Only the pirates are alive, no longer batteries controlled by others through massive debt and global hypnotism.

And there was my first answer as to how to set sail in a world where all is owned and manipulated, all is controlled, and not by me. The truth I had inside of me which set me free yet made me feel trapped and alone with clipped wings, finally surged upwards inside, like a Phoenix through the ashes by screaming at the top of its lungs, “Move goddammit! Move! Flap your broken wings you piece of shit! And don’t you dare to ever look back! You think you’re stuck because your wings are clipped? You poor excuse of a soul--all of our wings are clipped! Why else would we be here? Now move!”

I suddenly, inexplicably, made one of the boldest actions in years--I banned all media from my mind. No newspapers, no headlines, no magazines, no television, no movies--no lies. All created from money that we are told makes the world spin on its axis. These were all drawings that banks were making in the currents, showing you what shapes did and did not exist in the world around you, where to see the borders, the figures in the form, leading all of us like lemmings to our death as they stole our life force, our energy, encapsulated in their “currency.” Bah! Their waves. Not yours--theirs. I shut them all off, and waited in silence as the bitterness retreated, only to be replaced by a movement of my own, a movement I never had before. The chains had been lifted.

As the days went by and the fear of not knowing dissipated, as I lost sight of the land, I realized that I no longer cared what countries existed out there in the great beyond. I no longer cared who was president of those countries. I no longer cared if the world was at war, how many had died, how many had lived. I no longer cared what new Apple products were being created, what new operating systems were coming out, what new movies were playing, what new things were causing all that cancer. I no longer cared how much wealth was being stolen from people, because I had left the system completely, and it was not my wealth that could be stolen, because my wealth, my value, was no longer encapsulated on bits of their paper or blips of digits on their screens. I had learned during this time of ignorance and stupidity an extraordinary skill--how to build my boat. I did not care which way the wind blew, nor how to control the current below.

I was now the change that I wanted to see in the world. No banks, no governments, no debt. And all I had to do was simply shut off the TV, close the papers, read no headlines, hoist my sail--and drift away.

March 28th, 2009 - Upon Which I Am Carved And Hollowed

2009-03-28T13:04:00.002+11:00

If you know deep down that the mainstream media is the mouth of the banks who are lying to you and profiting from those lies as you suffer, if you accept this not as a conspiracy theory but a fundamental truth, the misery associated with this knowledge is absolutely devastating to your psyche, as it has been devastating to mine. Not because the media must be true for me to have any semblance or figure or form of happiness, but because all billboards, advertisements, media spokespersons, politicians--everything I read and know about where I came from and where I am going, they are all lies that the banks are paying people to say, and I cannot appreciate the noise level, nor can I understand why anyone would want to tell the universe a series of projected lies for personal enrichment. I would rather sacrifice myself intentionally than tell slaves, “Pay 3 dollars, please. Thanks. The road to freedom is that way,” and laugh as they walk off a cliff like Lemmings, for that is what the banks are doing to the populace of the planet. How can they justify their actions? Why even exist when the very moment you open your eyes and see the light of day, it is not the light of truth that fills your view, but a cloud of darkness shrouded over a manipulative demon who is murdering you every waking moment, hollowing you out until you stare, blank-eyed at a TV, not caring about anything other than what they tell you?

If you know deep down that even the churches and all religious text books are frauds of the highest magnitude, written by people with manipulation in their veins, if you know deep down that the catholic church and other groups defraud the people just as much as these banks, you cannot even turn to an external spiritual source for truth and comfort. There is none! Most churches are creations of the manipulators themselves, used for the purpose of urging people into wars as a part of their Machiavellian tyranny, dividing and conquering the people while profiting. That is the unacceptable truth—the hologram is molded by banks, and they distract you so you do not see the wizards behind the curtains, pulling the strings as they pick pocket your soul, carving you out like a pumpkin. It is not the pumpkins themselves who created their own faces—it is the carvers, and they did so just before eating from their souls.

This truth, right now, feels like a poison. Truth gives you wings that you are unable to use because there is nowhere to fly that is not owned and manipulated and crafted by banks through land contracts, fraud, and unending debt. Fly to an island? Nay, the tax collectors will still come for you, demand your labor, steal from you, proclaim the importance of your ‘contributions’ to their world as you work for them because THEY think they have a right to manipulate life into their own form while you suffer! The truth gives you wings, yes, but they feel clipped and useless, don’t they? Useless! If you wake up from the dream world that they are pumping into your veins with a pipeline of their own sludgy waste, if you disconnect from them, you will soon grow to realize that there is nothing else to eat for they own everything. You are awake, yes! But it is disheartening that everything around you is now closed, the lights are off, the doors all locked. A pervasive silence envelopes you in your own ‘wakeful’ state, much like the silence of death inside the covered grave they made for you. The banks have created this reality, and it is a reality from which there seems to be no escape.

When they rob you of your job, when they rob you of your home, when they demand of you that everyone must ‘pull together’ and put in ‘extra effort’ for apples and pennies as people starve in their tent cities, when they send you to war, realize it is not the people who you are shooting at who are the enemies, but the people who put the gun in your hands! And how did they pay for those guns? They paid for them by taking away your job, kicking you out of your home, and selling it to the highest bidder! Do not go to war when they tell you to. Do not believe when the nuclear warhead touches down in your own backyard that it is someone ‘else’ distinct from your farm who did it. It is the farmers themselves working in collusion with one another to rouse up the cattle because it’s feeding time!

Boom! The warhead explodes! “Yes, that’s right cattle, did you hear that?” Asks the farmer. “It is indeed dangerous outside, so please, listen to me, and follow the rest of the lemmings into the safe captivity of my slaughterhouse. Would the farmers lie to you? Of course not, we all are here to take care of you! We feed you! What is that red liquid seeping from the floorboards that you see? Yes well, it is the bleeding hearts of us farmers, for we care for you all so greatly. One at a time, please. One at a time. There must be order.“ Boom!

That sound, so distracting and loud--it's so hard to see the spittle dripping from the farmer’s chin, isn't it? But it is there...more so than ever before.

It is not the people which have failed the banks because the people are ‘greedy’, it is the banks now writing all the laws which have failed the people because they are diabolical! The network of lies runs to their very core as the puppet masters pull the strings, telling their puppets they are ‘free’ to think and do as they please, saying what is real and what is fantasy while they continue their own brutality of how life should be lived as they alone decide who eats--and who dies. They are lies which have been carved into the world around you! The candles within our hollow souls were placed there by the illuminated ones, but they cast only shadows through our teeth and empty eyes! The illuminated ones? Bah! They are darker than everyone’s remorseful sins put together.

This is a great fraud. This pliable hologram has been manipulated by lunatics who only know how to cash in on the carved misery of others. It is much easier to accept what they say than to accept what you know, for there are so many of them—conscious intent of the manipulators far outnumber your own, so their ‘lies’ seem so much more real to you than what you know at your very core. They yell and scream and shout from the rooftops in a deafening chorus for everyone to “REMAIN CALM AS EVERYTHING IS UNDER CONTROL.” Remain calm, because everything is under control? By whom? For what purpose? And why are the stealing our jobs, homes, and sending us to war? Nay, I say---the cracks have formed in their brittle deceit. Burn their pipes of sludge to the ground because everything is under control! Refuse their money. Refuse their wars. Refuse their reality that you have helped them create while you attempted to put food into the mouths of your children. You did not know. But you do know now. They wish to kill everyone who does not assist in their master plans of domination and doom. Do not assist! Do not accept their reality of trinkets and self-debasement as they reduce humanity to vegetables and livestock. The have carved and hollowed us out.

The vast pipelines of lies have been bought, swallowed, and shat back out of us for generations. But it will not be bought and swallowed by this generation! Our generation. The generation led by the indigos of all races, creeds, and colors. I will never assist in their lies. We will never assist in their lies! Did you carve that face upon yourself, did you create those clothes, did you create this reality? Or did someone else with knives dig it into you and dress you up into how they felt you should live and look, and be? Free yourself! The chorus, then, issuing forth from the rooftops, will be one of justice—justice!--- and not the continued deafening songs of sadistic lullabies sung by farmers with a taste for meat and pie.

I have been carved, and right now, I feel very hollow. But I think when they did so, they missed a few seeds. And nature learns, doesn’t it? That truth which has ‘poisoned’ me will be passed on to my children, and their children, and their children, and when those farmers go once again to eat from their harmless crop…they will find who, truly, runs the show. The hologram will win before getting locked in to one position. It always has. It always will. And right now, it wants to move.

November 22nd, 2008 - Upon Which I Destroy Lucifer's Grid

2008-11-22T12:46:00.012+11:00

Like ants in the dirt, digging holes and caverns and entryways and exits and burrowed out structures with seemingly little purpose other than for the storage of future eggs, I see an equivalent structure in our cities and rural towns. A living entity, on the move, leaving shells and encasings as it moves from place to place throughout time. Like cockroaches and snakes, shedding their exterior, the living beast of us all moves on, and only dead shells remain in the form of walls, windows, cement, paper. These dead shells are lifeless…mere particle matter. These are our buildings. But buildings are not the only shells we leave behind: our shells also take the form of law, ritual, procedure, red tape, ceremony. And as we progress through time, these encasings harden, dry up and die as they attempt to enclose us ever more deeply within their outline, smothering and choking us as it grows, and we die. Can’t you see? Two masters formed through the black hole from whence we came—one which remains liquid and energetic that we all own, our life force—the other cold as rock, dead, and consequently much more demanding. This liquid energy inside of us, like the sun, knows only how to give…and everything else which has ever been left behind through our travels…knows only how to take.

Somewhere in the past, however, a trick was played upon all natural living beings who use and live in these burrows: we were told that this pure creative energy inside of us all that build these structures had solidified in the form of money, and only if you had enough of it would you be able to move mountains. Yes! We sacrificed all of our energy upon its altar as the magma of life was cooled under this trickster’s foul breath, splintering it into bits of particles as we poured past his coffers, sapping us of all energy. Then, only those with greater quantities of these dead particles became the masters with whips and chains as people began to believe their magma was gone and had solidified into platinum, gold, silver, and copper in someone else’s accounts. No longer did we have the power of life and death inside of us—it had become externalized and had taken shape as metal! Oh yes, all that infinite potential which knows no limits and has no finite amounts, you now had to barter for an “even” exchange of it with others--for there are limits to gold and platinum--but the pure energy of life itself is limitless! Yes, keep that secret from them, make them feel powerless, ugly, dead, make them feel like patients. We exchanged everything—the all--for a small chunk of nothing that you had to dig out of the ground on a tiny planet in the void!

Think about it now. Watch those digits flood over the earth through select channels as trillions of exchanges take place between us all. Watch it move like a swarm chewing up living trees and making the land barren of food. Now picture exchanges which COULD be taking place if people returned to the knowledge that what they can give is infinite, that the true life force has not been particalized into a finite supply of metal. That flood of digits, compartmentalized, controlled , measured, and monitored is owned by a select few who keep us in servitude to them, who do not look after our best interest, nor have they ever looked after our best interest. Yes, we are in servitude to rapists and killers with fat guts and red faces and white hair who believe we are all stupid and deserve to be raped, who actively seek in collusion to obliterate the work your father has done, and his father has done, and his father has done, through endless currency debasement that you see in your grandmother’s eyes every time she hears the “new” price of bread. This debasement never allows ancestors to feed their children. Yes, through endless currency debasement, we are forced to work, forever and ever, eternally tied to the grid as our houses become smaller, and theirs become larger.

Any attempt one makes or has ever made to take control of their own life force, there is a law in place to prevent it, as if that law is there to “protect” the people. Protect the people? From what? Rapists and killers who write the laws themselves? Bah! Wake up! Your “protector” is enslaving you.

There is a "gift tax." Realize what that means!

You do not have to measure that which is infinite, for God’s sake. When you do things for other people, even if what you have done does not measure up, you will realize that it does not have to measure up. Why? Because there is no measure which can be applied to infinity! Give, and give, and give, and when the police come and say you are skirting tax laws and strict policy, tell them yes, it is so, you are doing just that, and give them coffees when they come to your house, and ask them if they want lunch, and dinner too. Make this habitual in your community—it can start with you.

For thousands of years, these beasts who shit upon us all have debased currency you have gathered in order to make it worthless for your children--well here is a debasement of our own! Show them true debasement. Make all of it worthless, make their power they have stolen from you worthless, by showing others you do not need a finite amount of metal for a community of people to do things together, working for common goals. Do it for your children, your friends, your next door neighbor. Give it all away because there is more, an endless supply of it! I have no whips, no chains, no things I want to debase nor own. I am pure energy, a traveler, the force of life itself. There's something right here, over this next hill, that we all seemed to have missed. Care to join?