16.8.10

Mourning Stars

“You cannot comprehend the universe as it exists unto itself; you can only act, thus creating the universe as you wish it to be.”
-The Prophet

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You have come here because of war, the represented allure and enticement for an unknown other. War is a synthesis of duality, the process by which binary oppositions engage in mutual confrontation. This relationship fuses past, present, and future together, contextualizing each battle to provide meaning for each participant. How should one fight without knowing why they fight, or what their fighting is for? The very process implies connection, purpose, and an ultimate ideal worth pursuing; namely, it is movement. I will share with you a secret—war fuels everything. Religions and empires rise and fall, and history is born in the movement of war.

The phenomena we react to, what is seen, recognized, and ultimately rearranged, appear to us as light, characterized and differentiated by time and space. Each separate coordinate is absorbed and encompassed by the totality of light, encoded and inextricably bound to its identifying selfhood. As fractals of light, our perpetual intent to synthesize this fragmentation necessarily introduces the relevance of other coordinates, a process inferring time (for only after we learn can we ever truly know) and so, the movement of war. Each of us moves to assume control over all else, ensuring the constant intake of information, energy, and power, alluding to a continual struggle bordering on distinct suffering.

Though perhaps even preferable to a state of Nonbeing, we are trapped in the parameters of a described Self of Being, its energetic matter rearranged through intention like wildness transformed into a garden. The mentality of Being thus initiates its own physicality, providing for self-directed identity. What’s left is choice—what shall be thought? This is the holiest of questions, as Self alone authorizes the transference of Nonbeing into Being through emanations of personal imagination.

I will share with you one last secret: our creation has been dreamed backwards so we might fully understand each moment of the universe and the nature of our singularity, from infinitely large to infinitely small. Still, we have yet to build the mechanism by which to dream ourselves into Existence. That process extends to the future, represented in the war for knowledge, understanding, truth, and ultimately for the peace found in its midst. This is the story of that war, the dream of a singularity envisioned by its fractal…

GENERATION:

“Mommy! Mommy!” The child stood at the doorway, visibly panicked and shaking. Ripped away from her dream, the mother tried to recall the image she had been trapped inside but the memory faded with the colors.

“What is it, baby?” The mother sat upright now, rubbing her eyes and pulling the blankets down to make an obvious place for the child. The man next to her snorted loudly and rolled over in an attempt to escape the light from the doorway where the child stood. The darkness, destroyed for the moment by the moment, retreated outside of the home, readying itself for when everything would return to normalcy again.

“I’m dead.” Silence followed the statement. Everything, even the war outside the house came to a halt as time ended along with the child’s words. The man stopped his breathing and the sirens, for the first time in such a long time, ended as well. The mother wondered at what age she herself had learned about death. She patted the makeshift bed again, signaling once more for the child to come to her.

“What do you mean you’re dead?” An awful feeling surged in her belly, causing her to put a hand to her mouth to contain the nausea. Was this an evolutionary process that every person came to know? The realization of the end of reality, that nothing would eventually consume everything?

“I was dreaming. I was sitting on the floor, looking at the two of you, and then something small ran into my face and crawled into my head. All of a sudden everything stopped and I was lying in the darkness in my bed.” A nightmare. Strange that such a young child had understood death before even knowing what a bad dream felt like. “He told me death felt like after the end of a sentence, when nothing even existed anymore. There was nothing after it crawled into my head. Everything ended. I’m dead.” The child seemed content now, coming to terms with the newfound realization. The mother rubbed the child’s head, wondering if she had made a mistake bringing the man into their family. She thought he would be good for them. He seemed good, but he was strange, and brought concepts like pain into their little family for the first time.

“Baby, you’re not dead. It was a nightmare.” The child looked at her blankly. The mother laughed. “A nightmare is when you are asleep and bad things, scary and horrible things, happen to you. There’s nothing you can do to prevent anything, because it all exists in your head without you even knowing about it. All you can do is wake up and see what really is happening.” The mother thought for a moment longer. “And no matter what, you will never die, because you will always wake up right before.” The child was silent. Gunshots could be heard outside of the house, away from the tiny fortress of pillows and sheets that served as their protection.

“Am I dreaming right now?” The sirens came back, wafting over the broken skyline in the pursuit of purpose again. Everything here was dirty, broken, and destroyed, or on its way to becoming diseased, and the mother didn’t know how to escape. She felt the salt forming in her eyes, hoping it would run into her mouth. Tastes reminded her of her own presence in the world.

“Yes.” In that moment the Great Being awoke and tried to recall the dream it had been caught within for the last 14 billion years. But the memory faded and the Being began to cry. Tears rolled down its cheeks, filling a thousand new containers. Somewhere, high above the clouds, up, even over the stars, the Being rocked itself back to sleep, promising it would never again lose sight of that which might never come again, the vision of a celestial container overflowing with space.

“Mommy, where do dreams come from?” The mother looked at the child and then into herself, realizing her life should have prepared her for this moment. Even so, she felt lost.

“Well, they are the sum total of the neural emissions effected in your brain and projected into your consciousness, an event originating billions of years ago.” A pause. By the look on the child’s face, she had failed. She always failed. Nothing true was ever easy. She would try again, taking a breath to prepare herself for the next obvious question.

“How did it start?” Maybe it was this moment her life had prepared her for.

“Well, once upon a time, everything was the same, and it was called a singularity. Then, all of a sudden, it wasn’t the same, and difference came together to make new things through constructive reactions. One of these things was a star, a huge life-factory formed from teeny particles bound together by an energetic force. Eventually, the star collapsed and died, releasing that energy into space and became its own opposite, the antithesis of light. This left a black hole to churn up the particles around it, creating galaxies and new stars, including our very own Sun. Lots of nearby particles were curious about the Sun and came together, their attraction eventually forming this planet. Those interacting particles were energized and inspired by the Sun’s warmth, creating newer and even more complex things that could grow, move, and reproduce; for instance, a flower. And you.” The child looked star-struck, imagining the whole cycle from beginning to end. After several minutes, the concept seemed to have sunk in, possibly forever.

“The star died so I could live?” The child seemed a bit confused, wearing a look of consternation and perhaps a bit of guilt.

“Yes, I suppose that’s true.” The mother smiled. An enormous burden had been lifted from her and she rejoiced in her ability to transfer what she considered to be the most relevant information to someone she cared so deeply about. Her contentment subsided however when the child surprised her with more words, knocking her off balance again.

“Am I worth it?” It wasn’t consternation or guilt she thought she had seen. It was despair. Pain that something so exceedingly beautiful and important had been destroyed for individual being to emerge. The mother and child gazed at one another, the child in earnest desire for approval and the mother in compassionate understanding. Who hadn’t wondered about the answer to this question?

“Well,” she thought for a moment. “I suppose that depends on who you are and what you do. As life goes on, you will come to realize that in life there are creators and creations. Right now, you are a creation, created by the Sun. You are both wonderful and your relationship is what we call holy and good. Eventually you will begin to create things too. The important thing to remember is that life is often dependent upon death. When people die we bury them in the ground and flowers grow because of them. Being becomes where it was not before. The creator and creation are equally holy and good, but one needs to exist first so the other can come to be.” Did that quell the fear? She hoped so, but the child seemed even more disturbed, even panicked.

“But what if I pick the flower? Aren’t I destroying the creation without replacing its absence with new being?” It was impressive witnessing the child grapple with the morality of harvesting personal pleasure at the expense of another—the tragedy of selfishness. The mother thought again, trying to alleviate the child’s concern.

“Yes, that’s true. You are monopolizing what has been created so that no one else can enjoy the presence of that creation. But that just means you are responsible for appreciating the creation more than anyone else could have, and must create something of equal or greater beauty for those who can no longer enjoy what you have chosen to keep for yourself. Unless you can promise to do that, you mustn’t pick what you cannot in good faith give back. Otherwise, you will extinguish life’s joy for others.” The child seemed to have calmed down, enjoying the softness of the pillow. Their whispered conversation had provided so much for each of them in the span of seven minutes, a virtual blip in the Great Being’s consciousness though unendingly important for all parties. The mother began a lullaby so the child could sleep, dancing in the ideal location. Their eyes closed, their minds shutting down, and their souls entered the formlessness of Spirit. One minute before, the child asked a last question:

“Mommy, why does anything exist to begin with, and there isn’t only nothingness?” A long pause ensued so the child thought the mother had not heard, but a response followed to settle the perturbations the child had grown accustomed to, and both fell asleep dreaming of the unknown, remembering the essence of the Great Being once more.

“Because that would be boring, baby.”


OPERATION:

Before dawn, the man kissed the mother goodbye and took the child’s hand. “Be good,” he whispered to her worriedly. He always worried about her. “I will,” the mother promised sleepily and the two separated. The man led the child away from the home they shared, through the streets where the war raged on and up to the grassy bluff overlooking the City where he knew the old priest would be. Along the way, the child received smiles and fruit from bystanders who were awake, the ones the war was fought for. They loved innocence and sacrificed what they could to keep it around for as long as it would stay.

When the pair had finished their ascent into the clearing, the child spotted the old priest and broke free of the man, rushing to embrace the one who spoke with such wisdom and clarity. The old priest smiled and picked the child up, kissing both cheeks affectionately. “How are you this fine pre-morning, little one?” The child responded by trying to explain everything learned the night before, but faltered and elected to poke the old priest’s nose instead. The priest told the child he had a surprise, pointing in a direction the child had not yet looked, where a thousand little lights blinked. “Lightning bugs!” the child exclaimed, speeding off towards the light to play, pausing for a long moment to bend down and pick a yellow flower, then continuing along to where the fireflies flashed in the darkness. The man and old priest were alone then and sat down near the edge of the rock where so many conversations had taken place before. There, the City they overlooked twinkled beneath them, the multiple fires set over the past few days laying out a map of its landmarks. The school, courthouse, police station, and hospital were clearly evident against the backdrop of night. Strange that people always destroyed the institutions most relevant to their community’s vitality first.

Two weeks into the wake of the destruction of the City, a struggle had developed in the power vacuum that arose. Access had been effectively ended and a nearby island was militarized to properly control and manage the movements of the City’s last residents. Those with firearms had become shepherds in their own rites, protecting those who could contribute resources to the survival of their newfound families. The government had fenced the unfortunate in, setting an embargo to starve them into submission. This had led to citizen armies targeting police officers and any agency even remotely linked to the authorized task forces, while prominent executives in the prisons across the water determined war policies and tactics from the safety of their cells. Downtown had been reduced to rubble and of the almost one million original residents, less than a hundred and fifty thousand remained, fighting endlessly for survival in the hopes of someday being admitted into the country’s general population again. The churches had all gone underground, including The Center, with only rumors of their activities providing hearsay that Good still existed in the once great City, despised as the last pocket of resistance for more than fifty years. Now all leadership had been destroyed through the introduction of the Virus, rumored to be a government-sponsored attempt to solve the problem quickly, along with the routine air strikes and precise, surgical kidnappings of designated narco-terrorists. It was reported these criminals had manufactured a new drug, “Ambrosia,” primarily targeting the youth to convert them to the Insurrection, with the Virus conceived of as a way to properly identify this enemy and destroy it within three days. The effect had been the systematic destruction of the City’s citizenry in the two weeks since the first reported victims fell ill and died. Since then, sickness, death, and gunfire were the only constants, though there was always talk The Center would soon reemerge.

While the violence continued below, silence enveloped the two men on the cliff above. The younger one lit a cigarette and put his hand in his pocket to be sure the revolver was still there. It was a nervous habit that seemed as ordinary as breathing now. The old priest closed his eyes and began the sermon his friend had come to hear.

“Down there, the creative diversity of God’s manifestation is exterminated each day, unceasingly until the power balance ensuring the needs of each member is restored. Though presently misguided and abused, this imbalance can be stabilized with knowledge of the constituting ethic of our being, symbolized in the Quaternatio. A chaotic unity that cannot be held by language, no more so by mathematics, underlies the seemingly unrelated phenomena as the source for all existence. This principle iterates eternally to reflect the logical function of the life process, enabling its fractal elements to be conceived in our consciousness as microcosms of self-similar behavior and project order onto the source as a natural depiction of what is forever traumatizing and incompatible with comprehension. Even so, these idealized models relate the essence of reality to us, though they are flawed and estranged from the highest Truth there is. These four points—the Chaotic Unity, the Microcosm, the Iteration, and the Perceiving Consciousness—endow us with the ability to reorganize our circumstances by injecting difference into established feedback loops, thereby disrupting the cancerous institutional processes that plague the Great Being we come to know.

“This is the divine work we must each attune ourselves to. When we come to terms with the reality of existence, operating with the Quaternatio in mind, we are freed from the constraining prison of disconnection, our bodies emerging as vessels of the Spirit that permeates the totality of experience. This understanding alone brings salvation, destroying barriers and extinguishing false limits of control to overcome the torment ingrained in our separation. We are left to restructure reality, aligning ourselves to the circuit of spiritual compassion flowing through us to effect pure social cohesion—a system organized into stable entities resistant to any destructive disturbance.”

The old priest’s eyes opened. He was well aware his words presented a utopian vision to nurture the evolutionary process that would tie humanity together. Yet if even one could internalize this understanding, perhaps he or she would reproduce the logic for others through a mimetic process to enable a new world. It would take faith of course, but maybe…someday. He waited for his companion to speak. A minute passed.

“So once we surrender to this principle, we are delivered from worldly persecution? And since each moment, each second in time, represents the entire process of chaotic movement, it is saturated with infinite potential that can be released on a global scale whenever we collectively choose to abide by it?” The man brought his cigarette to his lips, inhaling the poison he knew was killing him. He didn’t mind though—if it was cancer that cut his life short he would consider it a blessing. “I guess all that’s needed is a signal to let people know we should start.” The priest caught the stoic tone in his voice and both men looked behind them to make sure the child was still dancing in the light.

“Have you heard the story of time-traveling Jesus?” the old priest asked thoughtfully, continuing before an answer could be given. “That the creator of the universe will be a product of human consciousness, mobilized outward in space and time as a process culminating in its own creation. The thought is that the Alpha and Omega will stabilize culture, subsuming all of being with His will, though he must already have done so for this to be the case. Fate, in this instance, requires consent, but gets it since this god is our own construction. His will is ours before we even know it. The substance of this constructed messiah is total consciousness; a paradox if what we are building is not God. But knowing this and letting others know accelerates the process, contributing to the existence of God through well-informed, clearly intentioned presence.” A twig snapped.

“Who has presents!?” The child flew in from what seemed like nowhere, landing with a thud on the old priest and knocking him onto his side. Both laughed and the priest pulled the child onto his lap, rubbing his now sore shoulder.

“We all do, but what about those fireflies, have you caught any yet?”
The child said no, they were too hard to catch and kept going in different directions making it impossible to know where they would be at any one moment. The old priest smiled and explained that it was impossible to catch them because the child saw them only in the past.

“Everything is relative to light. What we see is actually being emitted over time, so you see where they were, not where they are. We are all trapped looking at the past, while everything beyond our visible universe is theory. What we sense is the past and what we think is the future. The body is the medium, the present moment. Once you realize the creative principle of the universe spontaneously emerges to emit light, you can intuit where the beetle will be by comprehending the pervasive drive that binds you to it. Listen to your heartbeat and the cosmic heartbeat that absorbs it. Feel your fractal oneness and the negative space that defines it. When you do, you will know completely what is and what isn’t, with all of it encompassed in your mind. Your consciousness can then synch with the complex system of the fireflies’ self-organizing behavior, interacting simultaneously to affect the state of its being. Know the source and its spontaneously ordered pattern and you will know where they will be.”

The child stared at the old priest crossly. “How am I supposed to remember all of that?” The younger man looked startled as well.

“You like ice cream, don’t you?” The priest asked and the child nodded fervently.

“Just remember what ice cream stands for: The Iteration’s Complexity Emerges Creatively to Resonate Efficiently in All Microcosms. Hold the image of a self-similar reality in your mind and imagine how it will all unfold. Once you do, it will, and you’ll have caught one. Just remember the magic words, ‘Ice Cream.’ Except this one is holy!”

The child went off again in the direction of the lights, muttering the words “ice cream,” over and over again. The priest laughed to himself. “The laws of nature are valid in every coordinate,” he repeated, turning back to the man to summarize his thoughts.

“Worlds and paradigms collapse with new theories. Order is deterministic but often too complex to be predicted, so the cosmos appears to operate chaotically, the interaction of souls emerging as an unknowable self-organizing system, like the economy of Spirit. We evolved from common ancestors, but what is the pinnacle of that evolution? How are we to verify the Truth of what is revealed to us?” The man shook his head and the priest continued. “Knowledge-claims open to experiential tests and experiments alone allow for the mature ecosystem that is demanded. Once a conscious theory takes its place as our center of gravity, its very being will act as the vanguard for change, the purest symbol for a new reality. If we acknowledge this being constitutes a subjectively “better” world, it is proven correct and the claim is genuine. This understanding can then be recognized as the foundation with which to unify all phenomena.”

The man was becoming uncomfortable. He sensed from the gleam in the old priest’s eyes that these were the words he should take to heart. The wind suddenly picked up and whipped across the face of the cliff they were sitting on, almost knocking the man off into the void below. At that moment, the sun burst out from the skyline beyond the City, showering the scene with a thousand colors coagulating to radiate pure gold into the man’s heart. The cosmic essence poured into his soul, filling him with divine purpose and universal intent. His being felt as if it were mirroring the storm behind him that bled into the sunrise, scorching his face and blinding him with the realization of true nature. He felt the words of the child even before their vibrations impressed upon his eardrums. “I caught one!” The man turned to look but the importance of the priest’s words suspended his movement for what felt like eternity.

“It is crucial that all be satisfied in this rite. You must allow for the being of others as they choose to be. Allow for the Being of the cosmos; it is no one’s to control alone.”

Lightning struck behind them and rain poured down from the heavens. The heat from the Sun cut through the cold all the way to their internal sparks and the ground broke open to swallow up the water falling from the stars. A thunderous crack jolted the man out of his sitting position and long fiery streaks cut across the sky. A rainbow appeared, the man tracing its beginning to the heart of the City, reaching into the clouds and back down to touch a short distance behind them where the child’s voice had come from. At last the man turned to peer behind him at what he could not understand, the empty space where being was no longer present.

DESTRUCTION:


The mother had already left when the man returned. Something connected to her had gone, leaving an emptiness she had not felt since finding the ecstasy technicians at The Center years before. She remembered living on the street prior to that time, dealing with several pregnancies on her own until they helped her dissolve the material world and find union with the fundamental divinity in her life. It was there she learned how to properly embody the life principle, actively maintaining her existence against the mischief of the world by using the energetic matter around her to stay intact. Since then she would occasionally practice their rituals, making subtle changes in the higher realms of reality for protection, even adopting the child when she found it as a baby abandoned in an alley. That was three years after her initiation at The Center and she had not yet gone back.

Now, seven years later, she found herself walking down the familiar alleys towards the one who knew the spirits. She had told the man only once about this part of her life, never speaking of the subject again after witnessing the rage it provoked. Some were simply not equipped to understand the rituals and tenets of The Center, undoubtedly the reason for its operating underground now. The mother followed the discreet signs directing those aware of them to the covert meetings where the secrets to living with intolerable burdens were kept. There, the power to alleviate the sins of the world through the transfusion of energy-into-soul enabled the spiritual capacity to experience divinity within oneself. Only there could the mind, heart, and will be freed from the corrupt institutions seeking to divert the destiny of humanity from its understanding of the Eternal Now. The one who knew the spirits had learned to bypass the symbolic nature of being to perceive spiritual reality directly through awareness, healing others through the psychic and cosmic powers it had taken a lifetime to attain. It was her hope she could be healed now. At long last, she arrived.

“We were wondering when you would come back,” a voice sounded. The mother looked around until the one who knew the spirits emerged from the shadows. Moving slowly, the figure smiled and touched her shoulder. “We thought we had lost you.” The mother started to speak but the figure turned and ducked into a previously unseen door, so she kept quiet and followed, listening as they passed through the gateway between two worlds.

“I am sorry about the child, though it is good that you are here. You are instrumental to the Insurrection and we have been struggling for years to find a replacement in your absence. The world is illusory, you know that now, and only the transcendent principle that gives rise to all being is real. But it is now threatened and you are needed.” They came to an empty room with only a small, wooden box in the middle. The two sat down facing each other and the one who knew the spirits opened it, pulling out a syringe and vile to prepare the mother for her journey.

“When The Center went underground, all of our formulas were converted to substance, each impossible to replicate. As we disseminated the wisdom the world had accumulated for generations, it became evident you were most suited to endure the information provided. We fed you for months so that when you left, most of our stock had been depleted. Fewer and fewer came back, likely either captured or killed. After the Agency infiltrated our reserves, we could no longer rely on communicating the knowledge needed to end the persecution, choosing instead to impart all of what remained pure to you. ” The needle was prepared, filled with the substance, ready for the mother. For the first time, the one who knew the spirits looked apprehensive.

“This is the rest of it. This is the last Ambrosia left anywhere, the final docking. When you arrive, you must be clear and succinct. Allow the Nonduality to—”
The mother interrupted. “Teacher. I know.” The one who knew the spirits smiled and stood to leave. “Remember, we love you,” and was gone.

The mother looked at her arm, scarred from the hundred or so experiences she had undergone in this same room. She thought of the man and the child, and the Great Being she was doing this for. She remembered the moment she had been introduced to each of them, how the existential longing for connection had disappeared and happiness filled her heart. How could they be mere illusion? How could something so beautiful be unreal? Picking up the needle, the mother recited the first prayer her own mother had taught her and plunged it into her vein, pushing in the substance and releasing it into the flow of her being so that it fit perfectly with her cerebral receptors, attaching itself to her DNA.

Immediately her senses blacked out, filling her with the pain of dismemberment as soul was ripped from body to meet the Spirit in a journey binding heaven to earth. A sea of light appeared in a shifting net of geometric patterns, morphing into a self-moving nature—a Dragon that protected and connected the levels of reality to the causal, timeless life principle. Her consciousness was taken down to the molecular level as the Dragon split apart and came together over and over again, intertwining in a union of opposition. She negotiated her passage and the Dragon engulfed her in fire, purifying her essence by burning away the gross matter imprisoning it. She was allowed access to the energy then, the source of all knowledge and power, owned by no one but the Creator. The music of the spheres moved into her and her soul danced with the Spirit in the network of life.

She emitted immeasurable waves of biological imagery as the music drowned her in ecstatic harmony, illuminating her consciousness so the Great Being understood the commonality pervading her. Here was the source of all images, the entity composed of highly differentiated and specialized cells, emitting photons that stimulated productive content through molecular information. As she became aware of it, it became aware of her, both acknowledging their connection. Out of the abyss emerged the creative principle responsible for the production of light, spinning out from nothing to imprint itself upon everything. Opposition merged once more and she found herself one with the Great Being, integrated into the Nonduality that self-fertilized its growth to repeat forever. In this moment, everything spinning was reflected upon, transcending thought-language completely so all intention everywhere was known.

“I want her back.” The mother’s selfishness was understandable, though without relevance.

“SHE IS NOT YOURS TO HAVE. THE CREATION BELONGS TO THE CREATOR, TO BE SHARED AT ITS DISCRETION. GO HOME AND FIND PEACE.”

“But what am I supposed to do?”

“HOLD HER WITHIN YOURSELF AND DANCE FOR THE BOTH OF YOU.”

With that, a blast of Truth passed through her and the image disappeared, leaving the woman on the floor of the room, alone and weeping for what she would never see again. When she finished, she walked out of the room into the light of the new day. A familiar old man came up to her, offering a plum to take back to the child. She shook her head and told him to give it to someone who needed it. The old man looked shocked for a moment, gazed around and walked to where one of the Afflicted was dying in the street, kneeling down to feed it to him. Then, as a black hole swallows light, the absence of the child captured and disposed of the corruption and despair of material separateness—a vortex with which to drain the sins of the world...

And so, you know the story of GOD, the generation, operation, and destruction of the nature of Being, and must strive to more fully understand the Quaternatio, to act out this intent as it unfolds over time. We must each redirect the violence we do to one another towards the forces that prevent our common movement, Dancing together forever and warring against the ignorance of eternal disconnection. When the complexity of the iterating principle creatively emerges through personal movement, the Art of informed being will destroy these boundaries, allowing union with divinity and the exaltation of the subject whose holy action invokes the divine within. In this way, we are able to recover insight into the perfection we each make up, the primal light of Self, Nonduality, and the formlessness it implies. Observing the potential Truth of this world made known to you today engenders a history: the evolution of the Great Being to a single point of mutual obligation. Let us now Dance, joining together in perpetual revolution!

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