2.1.18 (Finding the Third Eye, The Great Mystery, Tom Robbins, The Great Chain of Being, The Nuemenon, Atheism, Gnosticism, Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young)

 

Strange days. I feel like February came with a bit of a sigh, a pleasant sigh. A gentle exhale. Okay, we’re here. Listened to Finding The Third Eye, by Vera Alder, read by Jimbo’s Info Depot on YOUTUBE. It a gentleman reading the book, with some commentary and context added. I’ve sort of lost the super magic ability of superhuman reading. I don’t know if I just if I wore the power out, or if other factors are at play, say homestead, and possibly worse general disinterest. Been picking my way through Tom Roobins skinny legs and all, a book at full prowess I would eat in a week, but now just stays about a quarter finished. Anyway, I’m finding I like someone reading a book to me like that. I’m finding the Vera Alder listen. It’s the exact sort of whoo-whoo that I’m attracted too, the Big Mystery, the occult history of mankind and self.

 

 

 

The Great Mystery is the theme of that Tom Robbins book in fact. General plot is an Arab and a Jew open a restaurant in the front of the UN. And it keeps being attacked by extremist on both sides. The pillars and mounds are symbolized by a stick and a sea shell. There’s a couple silly, humping artist types that make it interesting.

It’s funny how we all keep retelling the same story. I’ve read a couple other Robbins books, Even Cowgirls Get The Blues I think was one I also liked. That was the one with girl with giant thumbs? No? Anyway same sort of flavor, and I love it. Big truths, gurus, idols, sex, humor, history. Seeing yourself in the text. And what is that? When we find ourselves in the text, in the Art, in the other person? Somehow it feels like we’re all the same somehow? Copies of copies. The Great Mystery is about that, the Force, how it runs up and down a great chain of being, pillars and mounds, 1s and 0s, being and nothingness, rolling in circles, eating its own tail, a roller coaster ride through eternity.

But that’s the poetry of it, the word salad of the thing. The issue, the central engine of the theater, is  the vast majority of human beings have a critical level of unwillingness to discuss it. The have not a sense to see how the sausage is made. Yet they completely aware and reactive to the white elephant in the room, them phenomenal and limited aspect of life. Phenomenal meaning sensory, and transitory the world, apparently consisting of multiple planes, dimensions and deities, sentient things. The deep game that the Gods, the Great NouMenon (where’d I pull that one from I have no idea, but a double check in the dictionary tells me it’s the exact word I mean, the thing beyond sense experience) that sits on top of this plane of existence, feeding on our spirits, energy and ideas. The thing beyond that permeates and copulates with this thing, our thing. Because that’s the important point, it’s not like there are different planes or layers in a massive cosmic lasagna. No, it’s all poured together and swirling in an ever great organism (organization), onward and upwards, turtles stacked to the sky.

 

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World Turtle

 

I like that. You can talk it down in ways. But I’m at the point where the talk down doesn’t make much sense. Seems too unconsciously authoritarian to argue purely “material” explanations for humanity and the world. That the concept of a “spirit” is a made-up word and thing. And everything we think and care about is just a passing phenomena in the great vacuum of space. I wouldn’t choose to believe that. Atheism is based on the straw-man argument that there is no empirical evidence for God. Yet the Mystery Tradition, which is really to say all religious traditions were never claiming an individuated sense of the God, but that God meant that which is in everything. Begging the question, faith based, non-negating nonsense, of course but that was the rap. Not angry Santa Claus waiting to talk in the cloud space about jerking off (that may happen though, remember MYSTERY).

It’s always been one great chain of being. It wouldn’t have made sense other wise. No, for the more outrageous bits there are intricate explanations, meanings, and interpretations, which anyone is right to be cautious of, but to stand at this point in history and just say we will ignore the Christians, the Muslims, the Jews, the Hindus, and Buddhist, and the every other cultural tradition that had ever existed, is inherently invalid, and we know the truth. Which is that there’s no you, no God, no eternal life, but we have got a  giant, possibly conscious, phantom zone full of energy, and spooky behavior at the quantum level, and we will build super-computers, that will be artificially intelligent,  made in our image, so we can copulate…wait a second…

 

 

It’s probably no time to be a smart-ass about it. I’m trying to slow it down a bit. Everything. It’s difficult. Controlling yourself. Just breath. That’s about all you can do. Breath and enjoy it, I mean, of course. There’s a more important point in the mystical ramblings. About the consciousness elevation, the upgrading of self that can go on, if that’s what you want. It also appears you can sit in the surf,  coast through reincarnation. Get an existential suntan.  Stay a Virgo forever. Or Cancer. Or whatever you are.

 

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A New Sacred Space

Morning Musings

Saw a bus advertisement yesterday said, “Blankety Blank Investment Firm: Not Run by Robots”, and had a picture of a cartoonish, 50’s robot on it. I pinched myself. Was this real life? Had I crossed over into a 1980s Sci-Fi movie? I’m well aware that stocks and all that sort of thing are largely, mostly, ran by computers, with artificial intelligence. So I also couldn’t help but ask, would I really want to go with the people on something like that? I mean the machines had to have the edge. Right?

Summer, popped up from the grave, grabbed our collective wrists yesterday. It was over 80 degrees out. People sported shorts, grabbed another tank of propane. We have had half a dozen viewing of our house in its first month. A little slow, but we also just got it listed as FHA available so I think that should pick things up. Also got an open house tomorrow. The house has never looked so clean. So yesterday evening the whole gang went up to the park. Me in truck with Dante and Cujo. Mom driving the three boys in the Honda.

The park is idyllic. My gang and the other kids at the park incorporate effortlessly under the warm night sky. I do laps with Cujo at the park. Coen, two years old, walks next to me giggling the whole time. He loves dogs. Loves seeing the dog at the park. The park is next to a the community center. While walking, I notice someone getting out of the car with a giant Amish hat. Sort of like a pilgrim hat, but wider brim, dome on top. I love it. The anachronism, the symbol. The other-worldliness of beliefs like that. I like to imagine that person staring at a purple haired punked teenager with a can of Four Loko. Lock them in a giant garage together, feed her hospital grade amphetamines and give him endless woodworking projects. See who changes who, you know?

Driving later, windows down, fresh air mixing with hot dog slobber, and Sam Bush on the radio. I see a lady, wearing the same hat. I get a nice long look at the stout and dignified optics. The hat fills the car, it fills everything, a blackness. Her tight white mug rolls under it, squished down until she’s nothing but a mouth, dense, bone, uncracking, never hitting a Coca-Cola in her life. She’s tougher then me, could probably take me. Knows more about living and life, then I could ever know. But there’s that blackness filling the car. I heard somewhere those hats symbolize the planet Saturn. That with many the Judeo-Christian and other religious sects, it’s all one big ode to Saturn. The little black boxes on the center of the foreheads. The Kaaba itself. The Kaaba is wild. So are the hats.

8:02AM I go upstairs, look out our freshly cleaned window. Do you know how big a difference a freshly cleaned window makes? Winters coming so it was dark well into seven o clock in the morning. I look out and everything has a pink Polaroid feeling. We eat our breakfast together. At one point, Coen, does one of his new bits were he takes juice in his mouth, parades it around, building dramatic tension, and then spits it on the ground. We are working on cultivating positivism, so Mom tries to manage the situation calmly. Ultimately, she’s forced to put the cup in the fridge. Then, and note the cosmic nudge of fuckery, she knocks last night’s chocolate-milk cup out, spilling. The forces work for the children. She grunts, shakes a fist. I call to her through the deep. Don’t do it. Turn back. Stress. Remember what we said.

She sits down on the table. The fuzz clears. We start to breathe. Coen smiles. Equilibrium achieved. He continues, ornery, until we find a bit we can all get into. Enter the Man-Eating Table. More like Toddler eating table. It begins as Coen stars to slide under the table, from the big chair. I start to feign terror. “On no! The table is eating Coen! Somebody helps him!” He take the cue, continues to slide under. Britney joins in tries to save him. Chay runs around the table tries to help, but it doesn’t work. Then the next thing you know the table eats him too. Thing have reached a critical mass. We’ve been halved. Mom goes next. Kein rushes to save her, but fails. We stare at each other over the warn eatery expanse. I feel one of its tentacles grab my ankle. “On no, my boy,” I yell to him. “It’s got me too! Save your self!”

Five of us pack in under there, like Jonah in the belly of leviathan. It feels like that, dark, warm, damp. Everyone sort of scared, but happy too. We realize the only solution is for Kein to slap the belly of the whale. To for it to throw us up. Keep it simple. We spill out. Saved in the nick of time. 8:30AM