Any perceived lack of imagination is purely imaginary...
heroically... and tragically... perceived.
The New Earth
Edwinâ€™s Note: These words appear nowhere... upon no printed page. Unverifiable. Digital screens pull meaning from no-space, evoked by keystrokes-- this subliminal dance of fingers dreamed... from the same no-space, perceived through two eyes, two ears, two nostrils... two tongues? Yea, the one taking in, tastes... while the one sending out, speaks. And touched from two different directions: from the outside, and from within. These words, they are yours... feel them.
There are no nouns.
...in Larsonian physics, the first question that comes to mind-- remember! everything is derived from motion-- the question our minds invariably ask is: motion of what?
Language perfectly reflects our habits of perception.
...to us, the idea of motion automatically implies an object undergoing that motion. Motion defined apart from any object seems nonsensical.
Motion evokes all phenomena... underlying every (k)noun.
Disheveled poetess... de-poemed. Scattered wind tussling and testing the lines of beauty... I walked through the yard, trying to melt... merging lies beyond me... again... merging... lies... beyond... me: the Four Quadrants of Space:
150 million kilometers away? Really? But itâ€™s right here... sunlight on my arm. I can feel it. Iâ€™m in it; itâ€™s in me. Donâ€™t think for a second that I canâ€™t feel the sunshine in my heart!
The problem with teleportation as itâ€™s commonly conceived lies in the idea that something is being transported through space.
...moving objects through space is wasteful and tedious... for first, one must create the space...
...any object of perception implies-- or creates-- its own contextual space. Space is secondary in the movement of objects... Space is a side-effect of objectifying...
Every object of seeming permanence is continuously arising.
It is a patterned eruption of the vibratory lines in the mind... ever called into arising by the demands of perception... particularly the inertia of perception.
Shared dreaming... consensus, but not communion...
...communion cannot take place when the mind is busy objectifying...
Motion of what? I still donâ€™t get it... still donâ€™t get it... still donâ€™t get it... still donâ€™t get it.
Can stillness observe mindâ€™s acrobatics... and come to a new language? Outside of our eulogizing habits? Fuck! The forest is so beautiful, unkempt and messy... unapologetic in its forever-dance... incessant whispers... as assurances: â€œI wonâ€™t objectify you if you donâ€™t objectify me...â€
Can I see through the eyes of all who lack eyes? I desire the wisdom requiring no eye. I? Aye.
I spy back-eddies... and lies... whirlpools and rainbows... obvious patterns without objects. Do you see what I mean? You canâ€™t really locate rainbows, but itâ€™s so easy to appreciate them in your heart... anyway. And whoâ€™s not tempted to argue that a whirlpool is a part of the river? And which part is that... exactly? Exactly! You can see it; itâ€™s right there! You can reach out and touch it... and itâ€™ll even suck on your finger a little bit, but itâ€™s a no-thing... that my habits objectify. But dammit! Itâ€™s beautiful. â€œIâ€™ll show you my infinite mystery if you show me your infinite mystery.â€ Equals? Really? Is it a bad sign to feel inferior to a whirlpool in a river? How could I ever measure up to that kind of transparency? Anyway...
So if Iâ€™m understanding you correctly, Iâ€™m not trying to go anywhere. The totality of my vibratory nature-- with all of its harmonics, overtones, and dissonances-- is continually being sounded in the breath of the unified field. From moment to moment... where the particle nature of time gets so refined that it becomes the blur of a wavelike phenomenon, further indivisible-- in every such nanomoment, I am being created and destroyed... completely... utterly... again and again... beyond counting or measure.
That is the Quantum Flux.
Here, arising MUST be opposed by collapsing. The Shadow is intrinsic to trajectory light. The experience of light in time-space locates the Source as a separate singularity... infinite singularities: the stars... and though they shine in all seven directions, their visible light to us is trajectory... mostly. We are triangulated in space. Starlight plucks the time-space strings of all vibratory identity... we are more starlight than stardust.
But how does one learn non-existence?
Thereâ€™s no such thing. Existence has no opposite.
...the whole Symphony is derivative of the active denial of Eternal Essence. The lie of non-existence is at the base of all illusion.
In the Quantum Flux, here in duality, you are as much continual annihilation as you are unceasing resurrection... and neither is real in the context given.
In Truth, you are a continuity of Eternal Essence... over which has been placed a veil for both forgetting and recreating. We convince each other of our recreations, selling their importance... that they may overcome their relative impermanence. All of our recreations are us-- ourselves-- stretched across the skein of all the polar opposites... and exactly what they mean to ourselves individually and collectively. The reality we create is a protestation to the lie of impermanence. The objects of our perception must die away... to the evolution of our perception. The objects were never real; only our perception is... forever arising...
â€œAll is Oneâ€ can never be a slogan. Experience trumps imagination... but imagination still kicks ass!
One... won... own... nwo... natural world order-- the Fifth World. Itâ€™s cyclic, giving you a chance to break it down... but how do we divide experience? Memories are connected to every moment we recall them; they cannot be easily partitioned off: objectified. Yea, verily, they cannot be! Experience is obviously inobjectifiable. Experience is singular... and trajectory in these lifetimes...
There is but One Life having this experience of itself... and thoughts do not travel through space like stones and arrows... and stones and arrows only do so because we consigned them to such banal fates... long ago in the no-time.
Am I an object bound by the rules of time-space? My avatar arises within the programs of all our collective habits. The All mediate for the One... as each gets her act together... understanding, finally, the foundation for an un-noun language. And the difference between all verbs are vibes-- the result of motion. I am moved.
The dancer doesnâ€™t exist... except when dancing. Identity and location have the ability to arise anytime anywhere... but choreographed, learned dances are so effing beautiful! We can only let them go... unlearning... undancing... when improvisation spontaneously appreciates itself... and decides to act... acc(h)ordingly.
During the Dance, music is both cause and effect... and neither. Music and dance are imitative of each other: inner and outer intertwining... indistinguishable... one moving the other... back to the One.
Where the corpuscular meets the undulative, one is defined in terms of the other. I am your translation; you are my Mother Tongue... ululating and once bitten.
Self-bitten? Or during a passionate kiss gone awry? Catâ€™s got my tongue... in Schroedingerâ€™s box... infinite boxes... infinite tongues... played out to silence. Fuck! Weâ€™ve said it all!
And Chandra Po, the tortured poetry of unselfing, fell asleep as the River... while the android Mi-Fu simply vanished... as two very distinct acts of One United Will...
â€œDamn Boy! That shitâ€™s bulletproof! Impenetrable. And fucked.â€
I thought I mightâ€™ve painted myself into the proverbial corner, but thereâ€™s no thirteenth floor. Weâ€™ve elevated our de-basement... beyond the glowing lights on some godâ€™s control panel. The thirteenth level transcends death, as skyscrapers become obsolete... absolute. Whoever thought the sky needed scraping anyway? Vanity rhymes with insanity... but narcissism rhymes with... hardly anything at all...
â€œWell arenâ€™t you special!â€
Um... yes, I really think so... I am.
Unquantifiable pigeons shanâ€™t be pigeonholed. The Field is whole... and holy... but never holed. Where should the poor pigeons go? No pigeons; just flying, landing, nesting, roosting... egging us on(e).
The more creative I am, the farther from my destination I veer... I fear. But creating every aspect of the Journey is the (w)hole of the destination. My imaginative creativity is right on target... with its infinitely squiggled lines.
The colors inside the lines are not the same as the colors outside the lines. We found it difficult to color outside the lines because those crayons were invisible to our stares. Color is both noun and verb, both real and (k)not. All that matters is what matters to your mind. Objects have exactly zero intrinsic properties... so we make them into property... through the habits of arbitrary meaning... playing out our relational games.
When youâ€™re done with the sandbox, you move onto the swings. There is only swinging, but nothing pendulous. I move to; and you move fro. We can answer yes or no questions for each other... but we provide all of the context ourselves.
I cannot love you dualistically; my love for you is solely (soully) my own idea. Your own ideas on the matter are pragmatically irrelevant... until I am as you... assembling me... in your own unique way.
The quantum enigma necessarily rubs elbows with solipsism... but itâ€™s an illusion worth knowing in its entirety. Weâ€™re tired because weâ€™ve seen every facet and degree of separation; all thatâ€™s left to see is through the illusion... (w)hole.
Alas, the New Language is a remembrance of silence. We shut up now.
Mi-Fu The Self-Duplicating Paradox
Within the inner continuum, on all levels, the Refraction Module was busy making copies of itself ceaselessly, even as Kaczmir, The Young Prophet and animating personality of the android Mi-Fu, managed to translate himself from the New Earth to the Old Earth... bodily and metaphysically in a conscious act of annihilation and resurrection. Should anyone care if the infinite data stored within the infinite array of Refraction Modules inside the androidâ€™s belly was playing out every last one if its relations to itself... even if some of those subsets of data were self-aware... and desiring?
Every process is realized. Whatâ€™s all the fuss?
Perfection filtered through perception yields infinite perspectives... and all are apart (sic) of a singular Awareness.
Each subset of infinity is infinite and exactly equal with the infinity of the All. They are One in the Same... in infinite variety-- the spice (seed) of Life!
microcosm IS macrocosm.
You, each one of us, are a Refraction Module able to produce more Refraction Modules. Thereâ€™s no limit to the data that can be created and stored... and all of its relations explored... Thereâ€™s no limit at any level... at any subset. Every bit of it is limitless... You... each one of us.
All are worth getting to know... each a singularly unique view of perfection... of the Same One... subjected to the great variation between competing attentions...
Datâ€™s Life! Whatcha gonna do?
Gravity is merely the seriousness
of this situation...
Shifters Episode 5 When Worlds Collide
The archon seemed pissed... which to Meera appeared to make him a suitable source of food for his fellows. Apparently there was little honor among thieves... or parasites-- same diff.
The archon had sworn her to secrecy. She wasnâ€™t to tell anyone that this was a dying world, an Earth bereft of soul, a cosmic trap. Who would she tell anyway? And in what context? The archon was really her only friend. Keeping secrets with him was easy.
It was good to have a friend, especially one so very different from what one might expect. Already Meera had learned so much about herself, had begun having experiences which she may have never arrived at on her own, and that got her thinking... wondering...
She wanted to know about her own abilities-- her hidden abilities. Why such things should be hidden was the frustrating part. According to the archon, it was dreaming which caused so very many things to be hidden from the worlds of dreamers. And dreaming was something chosen. Why ever would intelligent creatures choose to hide things-- important things-- from themselves?
Was the thrill of discovery or remembrance worth the potential suffering from operating at less than oneâ€™s full capacity? Or was it that during the stumbling and bumbling, the groping and squinting that something altogether unknown was revealed-- something that refined abilities would just tend to gloss over and ignore in their adroitness? Perhaps that was it; perspectives wrought in limitation find value in the uniqueness of their shortcomings... and as a result, they tend to seek out complementariness... friendship... in order to move back into wholeness... better informed, more fully experienced.
Meeraâ€™s contemplations were a bit heady for a teenage girl... and that got her to wondering what other forms she might choose to inhabit. Could she become the sky, imitating the vast expanse of the worldâ€™s own illusory ceiling? That would be something! Or how about a raging storm? Could she become the tempest which even now she could hear climbing over the distant mountains? How might it be done? A storm is all energy without much at all of form. A storm is a shapeless thing, but you can see it, hear it, smell it, feel it. Itâ€™s assuredly as real as anything else... but somehow uncontained... ill-defined... and yet not at all vague. Would she lose all identity of herself as a self if she tried becoming a storm? How would she go about attempting to do such a thing anyway?
Recently, she had been practicing in the woods on her own. It was easy to become the imitation of a tree, or a rock, or the prettiest of flowers. Now the animals, however; they posed some frustrating challenges. It was as easy to take the form of a squirrel as it was to don the shape of a simple stone, but acting like a squirrel with his twitchy, nervous habits, that was a whole other thing! There was no automated correlation between the shape of a squirrel and its natural energetic expression through its personality. To fool the glimpsing eye was childâ€™s play, but to beguile the look of sustained observation, that was the practiced art which Meera lacked... yet sought.
Everything had its own way of being... and that had to be learned. Meera had learned to be the perfect imitation of a little girl only because she practiced being such incessantly, without pause, until very recently. She could see how, if sheâ€™d never have met the archon, that after a time she mightâ€™ve fallen into the trap of really believing herself to be a little girl. She mightâ€™ve forgotten her special differences and succumbed to the banal fate of redundancy-- being a mere duplicate of that which already was.
Yes, Meera knew herself to be an imitator, a copycat. But her specialness-- her peculiarity-- was that she might be able to imitate anything... and all things. How tragic it would have been if sheâ€™d finally convinced herself that she indeed was just a little girl, programming her life inextricably with the dreamers of this doomed world!
The storm grew louder, bouncing thunder off the faces of cliffs; a light rain began to fall. The forest creatures fell silent as dark clouds billowed around the drowning sun; a rainbow momentarily hinted at beauty and immeasurable distances. Can I become the rain? Or the sunshine and rain-- the ephemerality of rainbows too? Intriguing daydreams consumed Meeraâ€™s stare into her own future... And then the storm exploded around her with a suddenness and ferocity of a predator bearing down on its prey. Lightning seemed to move in for the kill, striking everywhere all at once in blinding encompassing flashes. Wind swirled and eddied in every direction, kicking up fusses and messes like a tantrum unleashed. She was in the thick of something... something unprecedented!
And then, just like that, it abated... to the steady patter of a heavy rain. The chaotic violence was instantly over. Something had transpired. It had announced itself, proclaimed its incongruity in the booming voice of storms, and then washed itself of any stains of wrongdoing in the white noise of downpours. What was it? Meera could see that there was something in the forest, a little ways up ahead, something that hadnâ€™t been there just a moment before. No, it hadnâ€™t been there at all... at all!
And now Meera noticed that there was also a new quality to the penetration of her gaze. She could see more. More what? Subtlety... nuances... energetics. Had this too arrived in the magics of the freak storm... this new depth of vision? Meera, herself, didnâ€™t feel that sheâ€™d been altered; it was just that now, suddenly, her full sight had been awakened... now that she had such strangeness to set her eyes upon.
To the glimpsing eye, it appeared to be a man. But to the awakened eyes of sustained observation, this was no mere man! His appearance was perfectly imitative of a man, assuredly. But the subtle nuances of the energetics surrounding and interpenetrating, sustaining this figure of a man, screamed of utter impossibilities.
â€œWhat are you?â€ shouted Meera through the sheets of rain.
The figure of the man smiled, seeming to ignore the oddness of the question asking what and not who. He looked quite satisfied with the situation as he answered â€œIâ€™m Kaczmir... an emissary from another world. Greetings!â€ And then the android took his first steps into this world-- a world yearning for a redeemer, a young prophet, a savior.
Meera waved hello as she thought to herself... I could never imitate a thing like you, never in a million years!
Message To/From the TOURS #10 A Propensity for Intensity (Team Of United Renegade Sovereigns)
Since about mid-February weâ€™ve been in â€œThe Squeeze.â€ At the level of the collective, the forces opposing humanityâ€™s bid for freedom have been doing everything possible to suppress our realization of freedomâ€™s true potential. â€œTheyâ€ put the lid on us and tried everything to keep us downâ€¦ and for the past six weeks we were kind of stuck. There was enough movement subconsciously to forego any need for drastic moves on our part, but we just couldnâ€™t muster the wherewithal to manifest any â€œlargeâ€ events on the world stage. Now that has changed.
The really good news is that those opposing the efforts toward freedom took their best shot; they expended their repertoire of dirty tricksâ€¦ and failed. Yesterday, March 29th, there was significant movement. The collective jiggled and jostled and gained a bit of elbow room. Now itâ€™s our turn.
Today is the New Moon of the astrological new year (March 30, 2014). Today and tomorrow and even into the first half of the Day of Fools itâ€™s time to set our intentions for the next month and the next year. But before you jump right in, please allow me to encourage everyone to first dream big. Go for the whole fucking enchilada! The Earth, the Sun and the Moon are all fully behind our bid for emancipation. The opposing forces have already spent themselves in a failed effort. Thereâ€™s really nothing to prevent our complete success at this time other than our own conditioned fears.
â€œSeismic undertakings reveal the unlimited aspects of Higher Self.â€ This statement comes from perhaps the netâ€™s most cryptic blog, EirePort. What do you suppose they mean by seismic undertakings? Yeah, thatâ€™s us, working deep in the collective consciousness in the dreamtime. Have you begun to feel the unlimited aspects of your Higher Self? For simplicityâ€™s sake we can equate the Higher Self with our dreamtime doubles. The consensus among the TOURS is that weâ€™re ready to begin to make some bold movesâ€¦ although still primarily at the level of deep dreaming.
Our dreaming doubles (Higher Selves) are always in collective communication. A great deal of dreaming at the deeper levels is through shared consciousness. This is NOT however true unity consciousnessâ€¦ and hereâ€™s why. Our dreaming doublesâ€™ first loyalty is to our waking selves. They (who are actually us) cannot enter into true unity consciousness without our consent and participation at the level of beta consciousness in physicality. Your dreaming double wishes to connect with you; itâ€™s always been that way, but now itâ€™s slightly more imperative. Generally speaking, itâ€™s integration time.
For now it will suffice if each of us begins by granting consent for our dreaming doubles to connect with us. There have always been subtle inroads and tenuous bridges between our waking selves and our dreaming doubles. As these connections strengthen and we are drawn together toward wholeness, what often happens in dreaming is that we have dreams where we are not ourselves. We take on other identities. Quite a few of the TOURS have already noticed this phenomenon. Of course you still dream in the â€œfirst person,â€ experiencing the sequence of events subjectively, but strangely you are not your familiar identity from waking life; you are someone elseâ€“ a strangerâ€¦ and yet not a stranger at all.
You have many many â€œfacesâ€ to reintegrate in the quest for wholeness. You have inhabited many personas. Your dreaming double is all of these. You will become reacquainted with each of them from the inside out. You will get to know these familiar strangersâ€¦ and slowly accept them as yourselves. The first step in true unity consciousness is to discover the richness and depth of your multifaceted wholeness. First you become one; then, eventually, we all become oneâ€¦ but thatâ€™s still a ways off.
Beginning now, lend your consent and energize your intent upon retiring to bedâ€“ or even before a napâ€“ to experience yourself in all of your guisesâ€¦ and accept the gathering energy thrumming in your heart as we all proceed with this reintegration. Trust your dreaming double; it is wise beyond measure; it will not lead you astray.
And by all means, continue with your efforts to practice unity within the waking world in your select groups.
Set your intentions for this year of total transformation. Set your expectations high. There is literally nothing we canâ€™t do!
Message To/From the TOURS #11
Cry of the Eagle and the Unfocused Eye
Sometimes when I awaken in the morning all I have is a phrase repeating in my head and no other recollections to go along with it.The title of this piece, Cry of the Eagle and the Unfocused Eye, is just one such phrase from several days ago.
Frequent readers of my blog will already know that these past couple of weeks have seen a great deal of interaction with Eagle energy. Iâ€™ve refrained from writing up every encounter in my Daily Forest Reports for fear of being too redundant. Then I realized that Eagle was actively working with me in both the waking world of physicality as well as in the dreamtime. Knowing this, I was able to bring additional awareness into dreaming...
Raven is the Dark Priest
who divided the light
Hiding self from Self
in the sacred act of creation
He flies as a moving veil,
casting shadows before the sun,
as they move upon the ground.
He would speak to you
of flights and fancy words,
But his meaning is often lost...
in the cost of dreaming...
Make no mistake; Raven too is a being of light... Even the darkness is held in constructs of light. What does this say about inevitability?
In 1972 a quiet and ever-so-sublime turning point was reached. Light tipped the scales so that even dark obfuscations thereafter served enlightenment. The secrecy of false elitism (all elitism is false) could venture no further... yet many dramas still needed to be played out.
In 1995 the Cry of the Eagle went out from the collective voice of humanity. In Toltec reckoning (not mesoamerican), the Eagle is the representation of our collective consciousness. At that time, the Eagle was sated, and its cry was a call for the deepest level of change possible on this planet. Weâ€™ve been diligently working at this for nearly twenty years!
A young eagle on a power pole, I watched him closely... as he observed me. A colorful aura developed around him and his perch. At first red, then quickly blue and to purple in a single heartbeat, I marveled at him limned in light so startling! He cried to me, ruffled his feathers, dispersing the light, and then flew off to the West, then arcing North. His flight was powerful now, where only days ago he struggled to stay aloft... harassed by the other birds.
Two days later, three emissaries from the New Unfoldment came to greet us in the rain. First, Grouse flew up in my face, as Sitka, my dog, initiated the Dance. A moment later Whitetail Deer was waiting at the Gate as Eagle perched nearby. It was clear that they were in cahoots. â€œIt is Time.â€ Brief encounters set the heart to beating brand New Rhythms...
And in the dreamtime... Grandfather Mahat explained. (I had never noticed the eagle feather braided in his hair before.)
â€œThe Cry of the Eagle initiated a long journey. Countless households were called and brought to order... though chaos seemed to reign. All was broken down into singular indivisible units-- capable of choice.
â€œFree Will, your power of choice, is only as large as that which you grant to others. To the degree that you allow others to choose for themselves is the degree to which your own choices hold sway.â€
â€œIâ€™m not sure I understand.â€
â€œHas anyone ever changed your mind?â€
â€œWell sure, lots of people have served to change my mind.â€
â€œWho has changed your mind? Pick one.â€
â€œOkay. Iâ€™ll say David Icke.â€
â€œHave you ever met David? Have you ever spoken to him?â€
â€œSo how did he manage to change your mind? Through magic?â€ More laughter.
â€œI read his books, listened to some of his talks. It changed my mind about a number of things.â€
â€œDavid shared his journey... with all... and individual minds made the choice to change... or not. Each mind has a unique criterion for truth. Is there enough information freely available now for any mind seeking change to find satisfaction... to find suitable catalyst?â€
â€œYes, I imagine there is... but many still refuse to change, or to even look.â€
â€œAnd is that not their right of choice?â€
â€œYes... but arenâ€™t they holding the rest of us back? I feel so much frustration among the torchbearers!â€
â€œDo you remember some of the things you would see with unfocused eyes?â€
(Grandfather Mahat was referring to my early childhood when I would often allow my stare to â€˜go soft.â€™ I would completely relax my eyes, letting them fall out of focus... and I could see the strangest things!)
â€œYes! Itâ€™s like the aura, or etheric sheath, I saw around the young eagle on the power pole. I would see that around everything when I relaxed my gaze! It was fun, almost mesmerizing.â€
â€œThe Focused Eye sees the mindâ€™s lines of intent. The Unfocused Eye sees unknown possibilities. It is time to remember the unknown possibilities... to remember the Unfocused Eye. The Cry of the Eagle calls for new lines of intent, but only the Unfocused Eye can see such possibilities out at the periphery of habitual awareness. The mindâ€™s habit is to recreate the past... unless exposed to new stimuli. You must seek it now-- a new stimulus-- by letting go of your habitual focus.
â€œYou have exactly zero power to change anotherâ€™s mind. That sovereignty has been reinstated individually; that is why so many seem so stubborn. It is actually what you have struggled so hard to achieve! Only events will convince them. Their own experience holds ultimate sway... as it should be. Wouldnâ€™t you agree?â€
â€œAbandon those who disagree. Embrace those of like-mindedness. Together now you can manifest the New Possibilities... and THAT will move the recalcitrants... through their own experience. Do not squander your power and ability where it can make no headway. Respect the Free Will of others in order to claim the power of your own.â€
Edwinâ€™s Note: Some may be wondering why only a few of the TOURS messages are being included here. The other TOURS messages are Question & Answer Sessions which donâ€™t quite seem appropriate in the context of a novel. In the interest of inclusiveness however, the following links will provide those Sessions for interested readers/members: