Tuesday, October 25, 2011

Cosmogenesis: In a Small Boat, Drifting on the Ocean/ End of Part 6

By Brian George

The answer to any and all of life’s dilemmas seems to be: To eliminate the tax burden placed on the top one percent of billionaires.

Over the past few years, I have been stunned and fascinated by this phenomenon of what would appear to be self-inflicted blindness. To me, the anti-gravitational flight of UFOs or the building of the Great Pyramid of Giza are far less mysterious than a phenomenon of this type. If we were talking about a DMT induced vision, then we might expect any and all descriptions of an object to diverge, but we are talking about the realm of shared three-dimensional space. I often feel, quite literally, that I am living inside of a dream. Not only do people not seem to see the gigantic object that is right in front of them, hidden—by Plutonic as well as other archetypal forces—plain sight, but the Powers That Be have not gone to any lengths to disguise it! As any child can see, in the middle of the room there is a creature that looks just like an elephant.

About 20 years ago, I heard a Russian folk tale has stuck with me, although I don’t remember how the tale begins. At some point, however, a magical being offers to grant one with to a peasant. The peasant can have anything he wants. The only catch is that his neighbor will be given twice as much of it. The peasant thinks and thinks, and then smiles as he says, “I would like you to blind me in one eye!” At the time, I regarded this as an exotic tale. Now, it seems like a description of our day to day psychology. Strange forces are at work.

A dark cloud has been hanging above the country since the detonation of the first atomic bomb. In the 66 years since Trinity, when a mushroom cracked the sky, the dark cloud that it left does not seem to have lightened much, and, if anything, hangs even closer to the ground. Let us posit that this breach birth of “free energy” beamed a signal to the other-dimensional guardians of our race, who, in turn, issued an ultimatum to us: That we keep our eyes wide open—in order, at some point, to remember what we are. For the most part, this ultimatum has been systematically ignored. Why, then does the world look different, so that its beauty fills me with a sense of tragic joy?

Perhaps it is because, in my crude attempts to give birth to the Stone of the Philosophers, upon which I would ride, I am only just now able to intuit how the tension between opposites is in no way accidental. As Heraclitus said, “They do not apprehend how being in conflict it still agrees with itself; there is an opposing coherence, as in the tensions of the bow and lyre.” It is just this tension that we must transmute into fuel.

For example: For a group to violently argue for positions that are 180 degrees opposed to its real interests—this could reasonably be described as ignorant. Disaster follows. As night follows day, stupor follows from possession by an archetype. The helpless are punished, for they are bad, and their lack of wealth must be interpreted as a sign, just as billions more must be contributed—or else!—to the war chest of the psychopath. Outrage would be justified, but wonder is equally valid as a response. Now, when I find myself relapsing into judgment, I prefer to look at those parts of myself that I perceive as being “dead.” It is a way to shake things up, a form of metaphysical Aikido, a means to break the chain by which cause leads automatically to effect. Put simply: It is a place to begin.

My hope is—and perhaps this is a form of cowardice or a rationalization of my need for “personal space”—that any change in consciousness may obey the law of “action at a distance,” and that this change may be of use to those with the equipment to receive it. In chapter two of the Tao Te Ching we read, “Therefore the Master can act without doing anything and teach without saying a word.” And also, in chapter 36, “Just as fish remain hidden in deep water, it is best to keep weapons out of sight.”

This is not to say that I would be displeased to witness a new trend in armed confrontations on the barricades, in which squadrons of young heroes—all handsome and/or beautiful, of course—would dare to face down the massed forces of Genetically Engineered Corn, before setting fire to the headquarters of the WTO. As a precaution, it might also be advisable to drive a stake through the heart of the IMF—on the off chance that there is someone who could find it. The decentralized autocracy does not provide us with clear focal points; there are few—if any—targets that it would be useful to destroy. At a G20 protest, if the anarchist in the black bandana is an undercover cop, and the rock thrown through the window can be used as the pretext for a crackdown, then how would it be possible to determine who has won? Soon, coming to a mall near you: Designers will explore new concepts in guerilla marketing to promote their lines of Black Bloc street-fighting couture! I would probably tend to agree with the most radical of diagnoses, or even to propose that they do not go far enough, but any large scale surgery on the Body Politic I must trust to those with more ideological pep. 

Let us imagine that we are intoxicated gods, now derelict, who passersby pause to laugh at on the street. We have lost all access to our supernatural weapons, as well as at least four of our eight limbs. Somehow, we have found ourselves at a 12-step recovery program, half awake. A court seems to have mandated our attendance—for a period of not less than 5200 but not more than 26,000 years—at a theatre workshop called “The Zodiac.” The goal: to decipher the instructions that we had scribbled in the Ur-Text, and, by means of impenetrable stealth, to perfect the archaic art of bi-location.

I do realize: That my martial discipline of ritualized “acting without acting” must seem suspiciously like a total lack of action. It’s not that I don’t understand the urgent need for taking clear and forceful action in the cause of social justice, or for reimagining the key elements that breathe life into a commonwealth, but rather that it seems important to think small. To the power of the multinational corporation, the black magic of the Plutocracy, the each year more hypnotic morphogenetic field of the descendants of Tyrannosaurus Rex: I would dare to oppose the power of the Seed.

In a comment above, I had written, “It is possible that there will be no non-participants in the revolution against History.” To which you responded, “You think? It seems to me that most Americans are happy to sit back and enjoy the show with a tub of popcorn. I look around and see zombie robots and then people with a light that shines around them. It becomes obvious who is ascending and who is not.”

Well, I certainly did not intend to come off sounding like an optimist! Few have ever thought to accuse me of such a thing. Instead, I meant to suggest that we all will be swept up by the unfolding of the time-cycle, for better or for worse, as we have been by the collapse of the world economy—“there will be no non-participants.” This sentence should be read in the context of the one that follows: “At the moment, I feel that I am being carried forward in a small boat on an ocean, with no real way to steer.” If we are, in fact, involved in some vast process of cosmogenesis, it is always possible that we do not need to know more than we do. As fetuses, our job is to be what and where we are. 

(Illustration, Max Beckmann, Hell of Birds)
--New posts every 2-3 days on my blog Masks of Origin

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