By Brian George
However much it might contain each detail of the future past, the Soul is nonetheless only 1 inch in diameter.
Like the seed of Space, we are tiny; our opponents must help us grow.
Let no passive/ aggressive “victim” look a gift horse in the mouth, lest he be handed his head on a metaphysical platter. For he has broken the law that governs that glad welcoming of the Guest.
Fear not the Killer Klown, as laughter is the best medicine for the dead.
If we refuse to learn what our teachers have to teach, then that says very little about the agenda behind their actions; it is up to us to readjust our focus. It is always possible that, in a distant age, it was we who were the teachers of our teachers. Linearity is a self-created trap. Perhaps, like the world-wide web of megalithic sites, a web of teachers was set in place to serve as catalytic cues, as gateways to and beyond the 12 signs of the Zodiac, as the agents of the Great Year that is not different from one’s body—the body of the epileptic Aeon.
Intent on making the same mistake every time, we have taken apart the mechanisms of each clock, piece by perfect piece, only to find that we must put them back together. Always, we are on the outside looking in—except when we are on the inside looking out. Picked up—yet again!—and transported to Pangaea, we are in danger of becoming joyous. It is our blood that potentiates the Stone of the Philosophers—which we ride. There is much “work” left to do. We are the descendants of an 8-armed sphere that has somehow misplaced its circumference.
On a microcosmic as well as a macrocosmic level, some agency has inserted cues into key parts of the story; loaves of bread are left on top of our benches at the circus. Friends appear at their appointed hour, as do enemies and shifts in the Earth’s tectonic plates. We watch in a state of suspended disbelief—as nonsense articulates the geometry of sense. In a dream, there is an image that reminds us that we are dreaming. A fossil points to its counterpart in the Ur-Text.
Memory wounds us, as does knowledge. In its turn, each plaything of the 12 revolts. Few signs of our vast technology will be left, or can be; for such would be against the prohibitions of Necessity—at which only the dead cosmonaut may scoff.
We are old—unspeakably old. It was the overflow of our exuberance that once set the worlds in motion. It is our tears that have irrigated the “desert of the real.” Out of habit we tend to every city that we hallucinate. We celebrate the Arts. We love War. We are more corrupt than Ahriman, more violent than the Aztec priesthood, and more self-deluded than the architects of the Holocaust. Paradoxically, we are young; we have not a care.
A pose of victimized innocence does not open us to the Infinite.
(Illustration: Adolph Gottlieb, Augury, 1945)
New posts every 2-3 days on my blog Masks of Origin
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