The Blanket

Never say more than you can get out in 800 to 1200 words, and certainly never say any less than can be said in 600 words. I am referring to words written in the English language, the only language in which I have any capacity to speak, read or write. I can interpret the ramblings of all manner of creatures, whether they speak English or Cantonese or chirp like crickets, but my interpretations will never match word for word the intended meaning of the issuer of such sounds. This is of little concern.
What matters ultimately is that no matter who speaks or what twisted tongue they speak in, it is always really me whispering something to myself through the animated biological blanket. Like a child laying in bed with its fist thrust up into the cover to make two shapes, two separate peaks, which in the child’s imagination may be two rabbits or two children or a woman and her pet dog, no matter what the child imagines, it is a true and beautiful play, but underneath, it is a conversation the child has with itself. This is not to say that if the child exists then the woman and dog do not exist, or that if the woman and dog exist the child does not. The whole woolly ensemble and the maestro behind it are one multidimensional creature, real and unreal too.
So you can see why I do pay attention to what the other peak in the bio bed spread is telling me. I listen to it no matter how unintelligible it’s ranting, rambling, squeaking, or grunting, with the complete knowledge that the child is working something out through us, talking to itself, banishing loneliness and boredom, filling the dark unending night with something. Trust the child to be present in every adversary and every friend, in every door knob and every carrot.
When I awoke today my mantra was this: "It is all me. This is my day, my day to create, and what I don’t create today, will never be created. " The possibility that this day held will never return. It will never be the same day, I will never be the same creature. What I create tomorrow will be different from that which I have, or would have, created today. Different by a 24 hour window of time.
Time is our enemy and our friend. Time is a matrix in which we may create. When it ceases to be, that opportunity to create has passed. What comes next only the child can know. Even through tears today I repeated, "It is all me."
Walking up the drab fog enshrouded street flanked by a block of construction and a block of apartments with all the personality of a no name motel, I could feel myself moving through the scene, both outside of my cracked lips and pounding temples and inside of them. Just one foot in front of the other, the cold air sucked into my lungs and expelled with a touch of desperation due to my uphill voyage, and the invisible eye watching, feeling, and perceiving the movement of one of its most compelling points of observation. Even the doorknob reflected the light back at me with an appropriate degree of meaningfulness when I told it, "It is all me. It is my day."
But even with so many cooperative elements and a fair measure of lucidity I struggled. It hurts no less to be betrayed by Judas knowing that somewhere beneath it all, it has always been you, your dream, your kindness and your cruelty. Certainly it manages to squeeze some tears from my woolly blanket head, and I walk down the stairs choking on a measure of self loathing.
Three or four times today I delivered a line or even kissed the lips of a lover and felt that I was out of character. I could see myself not as the character I usually portray, but as another character which I know and interact with as part of my apparent life. The horror of it. Not only to understand philosophically that you are that creepy clammy other, but to experience yourself as that other.
The differences between the characters constructed of the blanket are all a figment of the imagination of the management. Both the internal and external management are insisting that this personage is unique, has this or that quality and not this or that other quality. But behold! There is only one. The lint covered fabric of apparent life and its manipulator, the magician, the child, the immortal beloved. Knowing this cannot lessen the strain of experiencing it, of containing it. How much easier it is to travel unaware of the secret manipulator. How fierce and terrible and wonderful to hold within one tiny body the reality of its creation.
Less than 600 words would be to few to hold it. More than 1200 would be too much to say at once.

Gone With The Change Wind

Don’t they always come unglued just when things are getting good, these damn meat popsicles, these cyborgs that we identify as self? While the seas are calm, we’re all buccaneers. Then a storm comes, the British Navy is breathing down our backs, and we disintegrate into a blubbering weepy heap of flesh, and hair, and bone, and tooth- coming apart at the seams. Just when the adventure is about to begin, that is when we transform from brave dashing pirates of the seven seas into insane emotionally crippled dribblers. That’s when we want a house, we want a boy friend, we want to become our parents only classier, or we just want something we can never have, but anything is better than sucking it up and waiting for the gale to grip us.
The human machine is a useful pile of vile rubbish, but of course when you aren’t using it, it is just a pile of vile rubbish. While we wallow and rest in the comfort of this decaying husk we perceive ourselves as something stable. Even those thoughts and feelings which we think are us, are just embellishments to the crap heap, no more permanent than a sherbet ice cream cone on a sweltering afternoon in July. It will all go away, melted into a gooey rainbow colored mess.
It is a mistake to become identified with anything that you see, hear, think, feel, dream, or seem. None of it is the great prize. It turns to sawdust in your mouth, collapses like a sandcastle under the first far reaching wave. There is nothing wrong with being disposable. It is not avoidable or regrettable to be a conglomeration of biological debris with a psychic whip cream topping. It is, as before mentioned, a useful thing to possesses, but the flip side of the coin is that it is, (as often is the case) a terrible thing to be possessed by.
To be a slave to the human trash heap, and I don’t just mean the culture, civilization and society of humans, but to be a slave to the individual human garbage mound that you think of as yourself; that is hell. Each wriggling offering of humanity imagines itself to be quite unique and important, blind and ignorant to its bland similarity to every other member of its species. We all received the same basic DNA grab bag at the beginning of this party, and yet we each think that there is something special about our favors, or occasionally we envy those combinations of junk given to others.
But what’s the use of a kazoo if you don’t blow on that son of a bitch like there’s no tomorrow? You have to use your crap bag. Play with it. Work it. Monkeys for example throw their own feces, a practice which displays a remarkable tendency towards playfulness. Levity will carry you places. Humor is essential for being able to work with the bio excrement you call yourself. If you take your condition, as a miserable bit of biological refuse destined to be flushed, too seriously, it’s not conducive to a mood in which creativity thrives.
Use what you have. You could, of course, identify with those temporal thoughts and feelings that you have come to be so identified with. You could take them quite seriously and spend a life time fleeing from the British Navy, settled down somewhere where you think you will not be found, perhaps nestled under the bed sheets entwined with a lover that is not so different from your own biological mother or father.
Then when they find you, and believe me they will, for there is no shore that the storm does not eventually touch, that temporal you, suckling on your mothers tit or fathers cock and whimpering in anticipation of the impending darkness, will be blown to ash and scattered to the four winds. Your thoughts, those things you called emotions, will evaporate under the gaze of the sun absolute. You could do that.
On the other hand you could polish your steel and seek to penetrate the greater mystery. You could embark on the quest to unmask the Real, the Eternal Beloved. There is something other than the sticky goo masquerading as emotion, a real emotion, a current which may pass through your jumbled organic assemblage.
It is, like the Queen of Hearts or the King of Spain, not an easy to accommodate guest. It rocks the wastebasket it passes through violently, dispersing bits of rubbish which once made you seem to be you. It may propel you out to the high seas, to your death prematurely and voluntarily.
It takes a real will to put your hand in the flame. A real desire to melt the human being to a point of malleability so that you can bend it in the service of some higher emotion. It takes real will and some objectivity, the ability to look at the walking, talking, laughing, crying, body of death and realize that it’s going to go to rot anyway, why not do something different with it?
Take a gamble. Have a real laugh. Find out what might be possible. Because I guarantee you that there is a death after death. Why not attempt to experience the life electric before the looming event horizon?

Liar Liar

What is that confusion creeping in, distorting the signal that I rode in on earlier? Can I actually talk about earlier with a straight face, as if it really happened?
The past is what we create to justify the present, or it is what propels us, but it is not real. Time is not real. How can there be even a moment? It passes instantly. You can divide it into infinitesimal smithereens, into fractions of the moments just past or fractions of the moment approaching, but never will you touch an actual now. Even the moment is unreal, making the past a most definitely slippery fish.
Of the past it is wise to use what you can and disregard what might hinder you. History is a story which can be told, and what can be told is never what actually is or was, if there could be such thing as a past or present. It may be told or remembered in a variety of ways. It is not that I suggest denying anything. I suggest accepting everything, but taking it all with a grain of salt and doing what you can with what you seem to be seeming.
Play and work with shadow and light, as objectively as you can. I was told recently in a dream that the Coyote was a liar and that as such he is an excellent teacher because all he does is feed his disciples an endless stream of lies and by so doing helps them avoid the trap of falling head over heels for one lie. This made perfect sense to me, and it should, because it was my dream, (and I am Wiley).
You must treat the past as the set up for the play or dream that you are seemingly in at the so called present. You will find that this is an improvised theater piece, there is no script. Improv is best enjoyed when it takes unexpected directions. There is no right or wrong line or action in an improvised piece of dream theater. The only thing that doesn’t go over well is to freeze up and stop, and just let the circumstances and other players push you about like a piece of moldy bread.
It will be difficult to be creative if you are strongly identified with the thoughts, feelings, desires, and woes of the character you seem to be in this moment. If you are to attached to the background story and your characters motivations, you will miss out on the strange opportunity to awaken within the character prancing about inside of the anxiety dream theater.
To enable you to awaken, it is useful to stop viewing the world set from inside your character and instead put your attention on the setting around the character.
Examine your surroundings now. See them as a dream, that is what they are after all. (You would not be reading this unless you were dreaming.) What might the objects in your surroundings suggest? Read the set the way you would interpret a dream. Let it speak to you symbolically. Begin to feel yourself as your surroundings. From this perspective you can then begin to choose how to move your character through your dream.
The confusion, the distortion, is derived from a state of forgetfulness, a state of consciousness that you have cycled into, which is not conducive to lucid dreaming. In such a state it is difficult to perceive your character and its surroundings as a dream. In that state you cannot make a choice. Things seem to be happening to you, and they seem real. You seem to be unquestionably and inescapably you.
If you have ever dreamed within this dream, you may recall that in that scenario you have at times been other people, other creatures, and at times no one at all, only an observer of events as they unfold. At the "time" you may have seemed convinced that you were a dog, or a pirate, or a princess, or a black and white cartoon. If you can remember that you were once a black and white cartoon, but at present find that you are something else, then rest assured that whatever you are now will be something remembered by another you which you may seem to be later.
No single dream, no one I, is more real than another. Remember that you will think that you have lived a lifetime. Of course you haven’t. That recollection comes standard with this particular dream.
I will tell you one last little lie:
You do not dream sequentially (or at least I do not, and I am you), rather the dreams ARE, and you may choose to, or not to, sequence them in any way that appeals to your sequencer. Your sequencer is probably sequencing without you noticing, which is how you came to accept the con of time and gained the ability to read this text.
Before I leave you, if it pleases you, know that I did keep a straight face earlier. If it does not please you, rest assured, there was no earlier.

Wilhelmina Automata

Everybody is just a body moving through space guided by some system for organizing sensory input, patterns of light, into a story of some kind or another, carrying precious cargo to the farthest reaches of existence, the hard cold low places. It’s nothing to get excited about. Bodies collide, bodies give out. Sometimes they soar through the heights and turn somersaults with ease. Sometimes they crawl and eat dirt, groveling upon their knees. No, it’s nothing to get excited about. It’s just a ride, a crazy voyage inside of time.
Outside of time nothing at all happens. Inside of the messy wolf spiders labyrinth of gauzy tunnels everything is happening. Funny, funny thing, time. Can’t live with it, can’t live without it.
What is it like to run on auto pilot for an entire life of time? It’s like, happy when your lover’s cradled in your arms, and sad again when you’ve been sent away so another can come to take your place, and angry when someone won’t give you what you want, and jolly when your favorite show is on the telly. It’s like moving from one thing to the next compelled by one thought, one feeling then another, in quick blind successions. It’s like having a heartbeat and neurological stimulus and performing your part in the great ballet of bio automata delight.
But all that is only inside time. And when the doll dies the curtain falls. The precious passenger becomes a prisoner of the show after being burned into the body through time.
Perhaps it is this time/space traveler that has remained thus far in hibernation that should be manning the vessel. Perhaps there has been some mistake and this cargo is in fact the captain of the ship, who was left resting in cryo-freeze, passive long after the system should have revived it. And perhaps in this state of inactivity, the body has been running on auto pilot, heading straight for the event horizon and to a place where auto pilot won’t be good enough.
Sound the alarm!
Raise the captain up!
Help him, like a shivering Han Solo, to regain control. After so long a time spent in hibernation its strengths will have atrophied. It will need time filled with plenty of activity to regain, (or gain for the first time) its ability to take the controls and guide the ship into the life electric, the place beyond the limits.
The physical body will be dropped like rocket boosters as the subtler remaining portion of the vessel is launched into the multidimensional verse piloted by a skilled captain. Wake the captain in time, so that it and the ship can be prepared when Wilhelmina Automata takes her final bow. Then, as she falls, the remaining vessel can be launched into another arena.
No don’t cry for Wilhelmina, she was the protector of the true will in the lifetime, and if she let the captain be roused and made possible the preparation for the final launch, then she served her name well.
A Hal will surely pale in comparison to a Wilhelmina. Hal, the mythological ship that betrayed its crew worrying about its own existence.
No, there are some parts which are disposable, but their part in the development of the soul is crucial. And a good coach would point out that those parts will have made their impression on the whole.
So see that it’s nothing to get excited about. Bodies collide and bodies give out. If you look at the lifecycles of many interesting creatures you will find that they undergo some strange and unforeseeable transformations, and there may be things which your present operating system cannot fathom. So treat her dearly but use Willy wisely, because only the fit will make it through such a difficult transition.

Food for Ammit

The lifetime is the stability, the point at which all lines of force coming from all directions converge simultaneously. In the world things fall down, to the bottom. In the universe, where every direction is both down and up, depending on how one orients ones self in an infinite expanse, the bottom is expressed as the nearest stability, the nearest point at which all lines of force converge. The Being travels through the principle of falling, by which it is moved with great alacrity, like a feather weight, dropped from the leaning tower of Piza, with no exertion of effort or loss of energy on it’s own part, towards the nearest stability.

The Being however, unlike the feather weight, is a traveler, and as such must not be ensnared by stability. As it draws near to the cosmic convergence called the lifetime it will need to counter the law of falling with a special effort, enabling it to pass by, without being drawn completely in. If it hasn’t the fortitude and reason to maneuver around the cosmic convergence called lifetime, it can be compelled by the lifetime’s gravitational field and drawn completely into the stability. In this way the Being may find itself marooned in a lifetime, trapped by its gravitational pull. An extra effort will have to be made to liberate the traveler from exile. Enough fuel will have to be gathered and stored in preparation for a successful launch. It is by no means an easy task to escape from a desert island after you have become shipwrecked. Rebuilding the ship, the voyaging being, and gathering fuel are among the first steps.
Generally a complete fall is so traumatic that the voyager will suffer from ‘being amnesia’ and be unable to remember itself. There are spells and invocations to aide the traveler in recovering its memory of self. The possibility of never recovering from Being amnesia is a serious one. If the voyager fails to recover its memory of self it will be unable to repair the damage done during the fall. It will not have made the effort to gather enough fuel for a successful launch.
If it has not recovered by the point of death of the lifetime it will repeat the life time again, which may further reinforce the amnesia. To be caught in an endless loop of a lifetime is a most unfavorable fate. Eventually, if no effort is made to recover and launch the voyager, it will become too heavy with identification.
The spoils of un-recovered falls are the delight of the demon Ammit, the bone eater. She will devour the ghostly remnants of the voyager endlessly.
How cheerfully she seems to grin, how neatly spread her claw and welcomes forgetful beings in with gently smiling jaw.
A skilled being will learn to slip carefully by the stability. While great speed is possible in the intermediate spaces, as the being draws nearer to a stability it will have to slow down and exercise caution. A sudden move, the tiniest miscalculation can cause the costly fall into full identification with the life time.
With enough skill and being reason the traveler can make the appropriate adjustments when passing near a lifetime to prevent its fall. In this way, it will be able to head speedily onward to the next cosmic convergence, where again caution will have to be exercised lest the voyaging being be pulled in by the gravitational field of yet another of the many islands of stability to be found in the endless sea.