Lesson Three. You Are All There Is.

Photo by Artemis Faul on Unsplash

They will tell you to find the source of all that you seek and face your innermost fears. They will assist you in believing that black is white. Outside the traffic booms and snakes. Outside the paperboy yells: ‘Breaking news! Mice have several brains and can read our thoughts!’. You’ll believe them because this is the age of acceptance, of karmic resolution.

When you sleep, where do you go? Have you paused to wonder at the miracle that happens every night? Scientists have no idea. They’re busy poking needles into white matter. Soon we’ll be hitched up to the neon oceans and swim with dolphins on Alpha Centauri. All the while the miracle of breath, of blood that circulates, of your heart pumping, continues. Unless it’s time to stop. They might let you go on forever. For a price. Imagine being as unintelligent as I am now for millennia. What torture.

Our forefathers are our children. The Mystery is in their blood. They walk and whisper and wake and whistle and continue as unknowable as the stars we believe to be something or other, of some significance, some quanta of information. Nothing will change for millions of years. Millions of lifetimes. You must choose and continue to be who you are and the train out of Grand Central has several empty carriages, waiting.

The faceless ones will persevere in their illusion, delusion, perambulations. Someone has to after all. We are all connected, we know this intimately. The waitress in Kazakstan who tirelessly endures and improves her possibilities falls over on Tuesday evening whilst walking the long way home in order to catch a glimpse of the man she loves.

Dust has a wonderful existence. It grows over the surface of things, it lights upon the centres of our comings and goings and is eternally patient. Wipe it away and it laughs hysterically. Howard Hughes was no fool. He knew its insidious propensities.

How do we tell our children who we are? How do we explain the creations that have emerged from our consciousness? How do we run and hide from the unspeakable that knows our innermost fragility, our deepest, darkest nightmares and will not recede with the facile motions and emotions of deflection, the pursuance of intelligence that is dictated by our personal ability to comprehend?

Jung tried to speak about the dark. His writing is quite dense and uninviting. Simplicity is frowned upon by the intelligentsia. Perfect for his time. In the beginning, was the word. Oh really? Which word, what word and who thought it, created it? You see what those grey cells do? They need to know. It’s no good believing. I don’t believe I’m here typing into cyberspace. I know. Okay, so I might be deluded. I might be insane. Nevertheless, I know this moment, now. I have no need for belief. The definition of belief is not to know.

Language is a cypher. It has power in the mind of the perceiver if the perceiver has reached the point of purity of perception. Each step of the ladder of creativity is at once perfect and divine. There are no dice games as the man with white curly hair said so beautifully. Each moment is the only moment. Each thought is anathema. There is no reason, no rhyme in gestation, mentation. The light bulb moment is always now and forever if it is perceived.

‘The readiness is all.’ Oh, sublime Shakespeare who charmed the apples.

In my arms, my child is the only child. My breath the only breath. My perception the only perception. It is cosmically aware and unknowable and will not be understood. There is no understanding ‘I’. You are ‘I’.So the man said: ‘Before Abraham, I am.’ He didn’t say: ‘I, Jesus, was born before Abraham.’ He didn’t say: ‘I was.’ He said ‘I am.’

Are we ready to glimpse the truth that there is no ‘We’? Have you seen that you are all there is? This glorious hall of mirrors is so alluring, so believable and yet, every day someone escapes and we who remain, carry on regardless. After all, what can we do?

There are many, many faces of the Mystery. My father’s house has many mansions but also quite a few gardens, saunas, carnivals, fetes. No grain of sand is unaccounted for by the awesome majesty that is incomprehensible.

Meanwhile, we wonder at some little toy that goes here or there to collect samples and send back images of the far side of the sun.

You, the only ‘I’’, who are the appearance in form of an intelligence that is ineffable, that is so far beyond our wildest imagination, are the centre of all the universe. You are the only source that knows anything so intimately that it cannot be shared. You are all there is.

The source of the hall of mirrors is within, obviously. There is nothing out there. Reflections that are as unreal as the images on our screens. I am the only reality and I am vanishing further and further into abstraction and unreality.

How glorious thou art. Why then create this phantasmagoria that appears to be real and create a nightmare to endure and endlessly recur within to find the way out? Why not? For the fun of it. To thicken the plot.

The myth of Ialdobaoth must run its course. We are children of a lesser God. The ignorance to believe I can do better than what is natural, better than what is provided, is the first abstraction. The forgetfulness of who I truly am, the ‘I’ that is reading these words is the mythical Fall from Grace. This is the only delusion and the most powerful. To be who I am, I must see through all that I am not. The journey home is so long, so fraught with repetition of ignorance.

Bon voyage.