Seasons

Some things begin and never end, waiting like an open door, wind pushing bits of broken leaves over the threshold. Time crosses and re-crosses itself and one time lives within another.
This idea of end is a desperate wish for the hurt to stop, for the satanic temple to rise and the world to burn and nothingness, still, cold, and silence, to reign.
But it is a silly idea. When nothingness reigns supreme then we will be that cold silent stillness, and that too will be painful. The end is only skin deep.

Winters come and winters go. Springs too are there and gone. Eternity lives beneath it all, a brilliant burning thing, a crystalline dragon whose scales are the temporal eruptions we think of as ourselves. 
A temporal eruption might be described as having been caused by a short circuit, by a block of some kind followed by an explosion or slow leak, a kink, a tension, that leads to an experience of human consciousness, a desperate attempt to flee from the discomfort of being forever.

Maybe there is a useful opportunity in such eruptions. Should they be avoided? Can they be?
If so should they be allowed? Should they be embraced and utilized?
If I find that I am experiencing such an existence I choose to explore what can be done with it. The knowing of purposes, explanations, justifications for methods and patterns of life is unnecessary, just another means of avoiding the pain of being.

Exploring is difficult active work. It involves channeling the energy of the sleeping serpent beneath the world into this temporal eruption and making creative choices.
There is no mother or father. There is no rule. There is only choice and consequence.
Consequence as in result, not punishment. There is no great punisher. Heaven and hell live here together, they are one state experienced  as either torment or bliss depending on the posture of the subject within the state.
The posture defines the subject. The subject defines the state.

Some things begin and never end, waiting like an open door, wind pushing bits of broken leaves over the threshold. Time crosses and re-crosses itself and one time lives within another.
We will not always be as we seem to be now. The subject changes. The state changes to reflect the subject.
But we will never end. New chamber, new wings, new levels will be forged in a labyrinthine game of pop goes the weasel.
The dragon coiled beneath the world suckles at its tail and burns on and on.
We will never end.

Sixteen Below

He tells me of the first time he met Allen Ginsberg. He was a young man, an independent reporter from New York come to Boulder Co. to interview Ginsberg about a planned act of civil disobedience. There was a factory there where the triggers for the Atom bomb were being manufactured. Ginsberg planned to sit on the railroad tracks thus preventing the train from reaching the factory.

My friend follows Ginsberg into a house, his mind racing with thoughts about the other man's homosexuality, asking himself if he could really say no if Ginsberg wanted to have sex. The first thing he sees upon entering the house is a woman giving a man a blow job.
Ginsberg is oblivious. It takes him a moment to realize that something is going on. When he does, he merely says, “Oh, lets go upstairs.”
Upstairs my friend sits on Ginsberg's bed beside him. His heart is pounding. In addition to concerns over sexuality, his mind is embroiled in the matter of the first question and what his peers at the radio station back in New York will think.

“Mr. Ginsberg,” my friend begins.
“Call me Allen.”
“How do you reject nuclear madness?” my friend blurts the question out spasmodically.
“I don’t reject anything.” Ginsberg tells him. “I’ve come here to make love to plutonium, to sit on the railroad tracks and be connected to it, to be connected to everything.”
Ginsberg suggest that they do some free associative poetry spinning. Gazing out the window at an empty curbside he lays the moment on my friend. All of this, along with the rest of the conversation, changes my friend's life.

He tells me this, and he tells me that he has never told the story in quite this way to anyone before. He has mentioned interviewing Ginsberg, he has mentioned having the recording in a box somewhere.
He has never had this moment before. This moment is new, unique to us, we two who are reflections of one another, who create with words our identities from the fabric of fear, the fear of being.
We sit in silence and look into one another's eyes, dissolving for a moment our creation, our creation of the world and the other to inhabit it, the other to speak to, the other to wonder at, the other to fear and to love.

We don’t know why this is possible, this silence between us. It allows my friend to tell me his story in this particular way for the first time and the only time.
We could try to recreate it, but it will never be the same. We will never be the same two people on the same day in the same place, daring to press against the veil of fear. Daring to speak and be heard. Daring to listen and accept everything.

From The World Above

I, Norea, said:
"Sir, am I also from their matter?"
Eleleth leaped gingerly from the cracked marble into the arms of the golden tree. The boughs glimmering, shining from an internal source for there was nothing but blackness above. Though his stature was great, reminding me of mountains, he was strangely light, for the narrow golden limbs supported him easily and he positioned himself within the blackened crack in the tree’s trunk.
"You, together with your offspring, are from the primeval father.”
He gestured upward with his shimmering golden hand.
“From above, out of the imperishable light, their souls are come. Their souls are come from above, out of the imperishable light. It is because of this the authorities cannot approach them, for the spirit of truth is present within them.”
He reached with his hands into the whispering leaves and plucked one of the pendulous crimson fruits and tossed it down to me. I turned it around in my hand, its texture reminding me of the sea.
He continued:
“All who have become acquainted with this way exist deathless in the midst of dying mankind. In the midst of dying mankind exists all those who have become acquainted with this way. Still, that sown element will not become known now. Instead, after three generations it will come to be known, and it has freed them from the bondage of the authorities' error. From the bondage of the authorities error it has freed them."

Then, the fruit oozing in my hand, I, Norea, said:
"Sir, how much longer? How much time has passed?"
Eleleth played gently with the leaves of the tree, touching them as he would a woman’s soft flesh.
He said to me:
"Until the moment when the true man, within a modeled clay form, reveals the existence of the spirit of truth, which the father has sent.”
He motioned for me to draw nearer and I came and pressed my hands against the tree and turned my face up to him.
“When the truth opens like a flower and paints itself over the face and body of man, then he will teach them about everything. It is then that the father will come.”
He reached down and pressed a thumb stained with the blood of the fruit onto my forehead.
“He will anoint them with the unction of life eternal, given to him from the undominated generation. The ones who have not known the authorities. Once anointed, they will be freed of blind thought and they will trample underfoot death, which is of the authorities.”
He kissed the crown of my head and straightened himself, still balanced between the split halves of the tree. “Then they will ascend into the limitless light where this sown element belongs.”
I, Norea, watched as to my astonishment, Eleleth’s golden flesh began slowly to become indistinguishable from that of the tree. He continued to speak to me as though nothing were changing:
“Then the authorities will relinquish their ages, and their angels will weep over their destruction and their demons will lament their death.”
The rend in the tree’s trunk was being filled, healed by the body of Eleleth whose feet and legs had vanished into the body of the tree.
“Then all the children of the light will be truly acquainted with the truth and their root, with the father of the entirety and the holy spirit. They will all say with a single voice, 'The father's truth is just, and the son presides over the entirety.’”
His arms had become like branches raised into the golden foliage, sprouting tender, illuminated leaves. He turned his face and rested a cheek upon one limb.
“And from everyone unto the ages of ages they will say...”
His features were absorbed into the limb and his head became like a knot on the branch and the leaves rustled and whispered as one voice:
"Holy - holy - holy! Amen!”
And Eleleth was returned to the entirety.
This is what I, Norea, learned from Eleleth, sagacity, the great Angel who stands in the presence of the holy spirit. That is why, resplendent with a light that glows from beyond my flesh, I say to the authorities of corruption:
"It is you who are the rulers of the darkness; you are accursed. And you did not know my mother; instead it was your female counterpart that you knew. For I am not your descendant; rather it is from the world above that I have come."

Touch A Rock

Let us suppose that for the duration of this textual exploration the words "THE CLEAR LIGHT" will be used interchangeably with the words "THE REAL" and "THE ETERNAL". What these words refer to is a thing that I, the author, cannot give to you in words. They are words that I will use to refer to something beyond words, beyond time and all linear constructs.
To begin this exploration I wish to provide you with a terrain.
You will need a rock. You have my leave to gather this necessary material before continuing with me on this journey.
Now that you have the rock, (and if you don't have it, then go away and don't come back until you do) please touch it.
Touch a rock.
Not casually, but with everything you've got, touch a rock.
Were you thinking of anything else as you touched it? Or were you fully present with it, wholly open to the communion with that thing that we are calling "rock"? Was it the word "rock" that you brushed against with your mind, or was there something that you encountered with your hand? Or something that you illuminated with your attention, pure and true?
Touch a rock.
What is "rock"? When your hand was on it, were you there? Were you there or were you wandering through a chain of associations that stem from the word “rock“? Were you lost in thought about everything but a boring old rock?
Touch a rock.
What is beyond the word "rock"?
Eternity is not a very long time. Eternity is a state beyond time, outside of time, separate from it.
The human biological machine exists in time. Being is eternal.
When the Machine is locked in a state of identification with its own conflicts and pleasures it is not possible for the experience of Eternity to take root in it. If the machine can manage a state of high indifference to its situation as a machine, to the endless flow of thoughts and feeling that are the whir and buzz of mechanical operations, an interaction with the real becomes possible. We will call this experience “awakening.”
The human biological machine is not a merely physical entity. It is composed of many subtle parts. The emotions and thoughts are also part of the human biological machine. The part of you that thinks of itself as a “me” is a part of the human biological machine and a manifestation of the unfolding of time.
If we can awaken the biological machine so that it may interface with eternity, we create the possibility for Creation, something that is occasionally called “THE GREAT WORK” or simply “THE WORK”. However, to even get to the point of being able to create the possibility for Creation, one must first endeavor to cultivate and maintain for extended periods that state of high indifference, the awakened state of the human biological machine. Often this is called “WORKING” too, but in actuality it is preparation for the REAL WORK that may be possible as a result of these efforts.
This is it, right now.
Touch a rock.
This is ETERNITY.
If you reach out and touch it.
Not casually, but with everything you've got, by making an effort to focus your attention on something that is not part of the struggles and desires of the human biological machine, something that cannot be defined by that linear construct that we call “language.”
While our attention is squandered on the unfolding of the human biological machine we perceive ourselves as moving through time. But this right now, this is ETERNITY, THE CLEAR LIGHT of objective REALITY.
Eternity cannot be something that happens later. It is something that happens right now or it doesn’t happen at all.
If it is THE REAL it can only be NOW.
This is the moment to endeavor to prepare for creative WORK.
Now you should begin to explore the terrain.
Touch a rock.
Thank you.

Why Not?

Why not one more song in the cool midnight blue? While babies sleep and spiders hunt and worried fathers pace, I make one more strange shape, electric green in the night. Why not? Why not? While the black blood of the earth, that demon of civilization, bleeds into the briny seas and clock hands tick methodically round like waltzers twirling to the Blue Danube, I go bravely hop scotching into fields of beets, crimson purple veins throbbing in the green leaves.
I saw the face of my ancestor in a photograph that was taken today. A pale plump, round faced woman looked back at me from a photo that had been taken of me. How strange that she is me and we are meeting today for the first time. Why not? The last face I remember seeing was so much younger and leaner and tortured, a puffy red faced beauty, but I looked at her in a mirror and thought, “I hate you, I hate you! Nobody loves you!” and I saw her cut her blond hair off.
Such heavy lead filled thoughts to cart to the alchemist, laying them down on the work bench, smelling perfume of cinnamon and sulfur. The devil was here just before you. Can I make gold of this worthless lot? Why not? Why not!
Breezes from countries I never saw caress my face, leaping from leather binding and gold leafed pages to posses my fingers and send them to write fairytales and boil split peas. So many silly things pass through this window I call my self, why not one more? I almost loved the woman I glimpsed in the photograph today because she looked like a grandmother that once rocked me and like a cousin who I don’t know well at all. A cousin that shovels snow from her porch and eats black bread covered in butter and cheese.
I had once been a citizen of earth until I longed to learn to sing the songs of Saturn’s outer rings. Then I trained on the moon called Titan and gave water to a strange man and loved him through eternity, strangely familiar forever. Come with me deeper into the abyss!
While students memorize and serpents molt and gurus pretend, I wriggle, pale and slick in the underground wells like a Naiad, wailing an eerie tune to summon the strange. Up it comes, frightening me in dark hallways when I thought I was alone, drifting through the blue sky like paramecium under a microscope’s lens.
If you thought there would be a point in all of this, if you hoped for it and found it lacking and frowned, then you’ve never been to Titan. The locust make a noise like music in the evening and the swallows sing in the mornings and everything smells like licorice and coffee while the hands on the clock tick tick tick and fathers become grandfathers and die despite the lucky rabbits feet their granddaughters give them. Little Lagomorph paws dyed blue and dispensed from red machines after two quarters of a dollar have been placed on its long silver tongue just outside the air conditioned cool of a powder blue general store at the base of a mountain in the heat of a parking lot with a view of a lake. They come out in plastic bubbles, but nonetheless grandfathers die and their bodies are donated to universities.
Why not?
While grandmothers fan themselves and mice scurry through cupboards and river rocks soak up the heat of the sun to warm lizards’ bellies, I open doors into invisible worlds and listen to the thoughts of others.
A sympathetic ear is so rare that individuals are almost always startled when you respond to their innermost ramblings. When you hear them whispering to themselves, “I hate you, I hate you! Nobody loves you!” and you crumple up just like a frightened pill bug and cry inconsolably, they will find it hard to accept that one occurrence is connected to the next. Plausible deniability.
Why not? Why not?
Why not one more song in the cool midnight blue? While babies sleep and spiders hunt and worried fathers pace, I make one more strange shape, electric green in the night. Can I make gold of this worthless lot? In dark hallways when I think I am alone? At the base of a mountain in the heat of a parking lot? Come with me deeper into the abyss!
Why not?
Why not?

In Between

Something stuck in between worlds is lurking in the halls of dream. Something shapeless that takes shape, whatever shape is handy. Something that has been waiting through the abysmal lurching of time, growing colder and lonelier, now reaches out a twisted hand to grasp at something other than itself. Something warm to cling to. Something warm to crawl through, to devour slowly from the inside. A new shape to take with the force of Princes and warriors and beasts of the wild, those things beyond morality, those
things which take what they need without asking, without hesitation or remorse. Something that glides between the waking and the dreaming moment, a silent thief, a beggar, a suitor, a seducer. It offers you the cold run of eternity in exchange for the hot fleeting passion of a moment. “Let me have your moment.”, it begs, “And I will give you forever.” The stillness, the quiet, the darkness of eternity, for a glaring flash of heat and movement, a wild cacophonous dance through the temporary. If you take that twisted hand, if you take your place as one of death’s concubines, one of those many shapes it penetrates for a moment and is then left as cold and wanting of heat as ever, you join in that torpid waiting, the waiting of the spider for the next wriggling thing that may pass your way. You, now the something in between. You, now the emptiness. You, now the loneliness, the cold. You waiting through the abysmal lurching of time, waiting for some hot live other to submit to your ravenous kiss. Longing to inhabit that ephemeral world of the dream which melts under your caress like vapors of steam blown away by a wind. When you touch it, it becomes as you are, real, emptiness, vast and cold. Still you cannot be without it, you, neither wholly of one state or another, are doomed to lurk in the mist, taking whatever shape is available at the time. Seeking heat, seeking movement, seeking that which you lack, wriggling your way slowly, one conquest after another, through the world of shape, color and form like a worm through an apple. You cannot touch the mists without changing them, you cannot be without that touching, that taking. An eater of dreams, an eater of life, a shape shifting something making its way desperately through the myriad of forms as the infant wriggles through the birth canal, or the soldier over the charred and blood soaked battlefield. You will take what you need. That is the only law. You will be whatever you have become. You will struggle to exist and you will change shapes as necessary. You will be forever longing, forever reaching, forever struggling.

The Gate of No Gates

This is the key.
Right now.
This moment, in this body, is the key to the kingdom. You can ignore it. You can struggle against it, try to separate yourself from what your perverted intellect has come to regard as the basest expression of the self, and never use the key. In some cases the intellect will not even acknowledge that the body is an expression of self. It identifies it as a thing, a disgusting prison. The intellect thinks, "I am the soul that will return to god when I am freed of this thing."
It is a very perverse notion. The intellect claims to be what it is not, an immortal. It wrongfully assumes the identity of the soul and in so doing "kills" the possibility for the real thing. That which insists that it is better than the other parts of self is a braggart and an impostor, the classic poser, faking it to cover insecurity. So long as it pretends to be the soul, there can be no real soul. A soul does not exist to begin with. It has to be built, from the ground up. The soul is developed by an incarnated being. It is built around a kernel of eternity drenched in the transient. A soul cannot be formed without a body, it is developed within such a mortal apparatus. The Egyptians knew this.
A soul must be developed. What is eternal rides dormant within the transient. Something must be done to activate it, to cause the irritation that initiates the production of substances that will coat it.
That is how to build a soul.
Inside a body. Within the womb that is fleshy manifestation. So long as you struggle to escape your body you are neglecting to undertake the creation of a multidimensional spaceship.
The gate of no gates lies within, not without.
To begin to build this magnificent vessel one must first face the difficult idea that you are not an immortal being. You are an advanced operating system, a program that has gone wildly out of control, doing all that it can do to convince itself of its own realness, longing for an unattainable permanence. Until you have faced and conceded your impermanence you will continue to run amok, a crazed robot with a limited shelf life, desperate to make one last stand. You are an addict, addicted to particular pattern of thought which prevents you from taking real steps towards immortality. Your precious energies are fidgeted away in fantasies and dreams flowing out from you in endless streams.
To begin to build a soul one must turn back the current of those streams. The attention, the vital energy, must flow into the body, and wash over the mind, and the emotions. It must be directed inward upon the self, as much of the self as is perceptible by you at present. This inward flow of attention creates the necessary conditions for coating that eternal grain which as a result may develop into a soul.
Until the current has been reversed, nothing real is possible. To access the kingdom you must get in your skin, fill it up, wear it as a fine garment, feel it buzz.
This is the key.
Right now.
Not later.
Not when you are at last freed of the grosser bodies, not in death, but now, in life, in this body, in this moment.
What will become of your pretentious poser, the intellect, when the curtain falls and it is time to cash in your chips? If it has hijacked and wasted the entire lifetime engaged in its ruse, then that which it pretended to be will not exist. Identity will be scattered to the western winds.
If, however, preparatory steps are taken, both the experience of the life time and the experience outside of time will be altered. But a cup must be emptied before it can be filled. Visit your own portal and remove the impostor. Confront the horrors of the abyss or you will become a slave to them.

This is the key, the opportunity.
Right now.

I Will Endure

All of these Perceptions, all of these Ideas and all of these Experiments will be like sand through your fingers if you don’t put them into action. Real, direct, passionate and, most of all, constant action.
It is very common to encounter a Path and be very enthusiastic about it initially. That initial enthusiasm is what we would call a "DO", the first note in the Octave. The energy flows without effort, stemming from the discovery of a new treasure, a new way of doing things, a new hope of escape from the mechanical cage. Imbued with this initial enthusiasm you may feel yourself lifted by invisible hands and suddenly able to perform work that you have never been able to do before. Doors may open that have been previously closed and a realm of new possibilities will extend before your eyes. This is all true and not a mirage. These doors can open and the possibilities are there, but this initial enthusiasm, this sudden burst of free energy, is fleeting.
Soon you will encounter a sequence of obstacles that will get harder and harder. Some of these will come from the outside world encroaching on your private work space. But most of these obstacles will flower completely from within you, from the deeply ingrained programming of your biological machine desperately seeking to return to a complacent and comfortable sleeping state. This is true of every single Being that has ever embarked on this process. There is no easy way around these obstacles and it is better to face them squarely and be aware of their true nature.
Your mechanical perceptions will try to trick you. Your machine and the world around it will tell you that what you are doing makes no sense, that it has no real purpose, that it ultimately leads to no gain and to disaster, that you are a fool (and indeed you are), that you have stepped into a great mistake and the best thing you can do is step back into what the machines call "the real world".
The passing of time will rub away at your enthusiasm. Your mind will grow weary when results and intellectual revelations don’t come as quickly as they used to. Your intellect may start looking for other sources of surprise, your movement center may start needing a new way to move and dance, your emotional center will start to search for a new emotional fix… all of it to be expected as you move through the intervals of the Octave. As you encounter these intervals, you may become lost and disoriented. You may forget what you are doing and why you are doing it. In this disoriented state you will become like a ship in a storm and any port will do.
You may encounter a direct experience of the Eternal and be so shocked by the Nothingness that your machine will shrink away in fear, trying to find a safe place to rest and forget what it has seen. The reverberations of shock and awe may linger in your dreams and your daily imaginings, it may pull you away from your work and steer you to what it believes are safer pastures.
The programmed habits of your machine, which may have started to loosen, may come back with an unexpected force, determined to take over their lost inner kingdom. The physical, mental and emotional addictions that you thought were long forgotten, will stage a comeback of epic proportions, taking energy from the caves of darkness where your machine has hidden its most precious treasures. The urges and raw desire may be so overwhelming that you will make terrible mistakes, you will hurt your work and the work of others around you, you will have one emotional explosion after another in a devastating storm of mechanical vengeance.
All of these things will happen, in one way or another. The machine might initially think that the Work is for itself, for its vanity, for its glory, for its pleasure. But sooner or later it will realize its mistake and, when this happens, it will counterattack, with more force and passion than you can easily anticipate.
You live in a mostly mechanical reality. Your quest for Life is a quest that goes against the mechanical inertia of decades and even centuries. The odds are stacked against you. You can’t undertake this quest in a half hearted way. Every bit of true passion, love and energy that you can muster must go into your work. And above all, you must endure. You must find a way to persist through all the obstacles, through all the failings, through all the setbacks and catastrophes that will happen. You are embarking on a great Odyssey, a Voyage that will never be completed.
The Work has no beginning and it has no end.
When I step into the Work, I step into Endless Toil.
Through all the hardships, through all the heartbreaks and tribulations, through every obstacle that the mechanical world will violently throw at my face… I WILL ENDURE.

The Journal

You will begin to keep several journals. You will need three notebooks. One will be used for recording your dreams, the second is for journaling about your daily life, and the third is for keeping a record of these experiments. In each notebook you will date every entry including the year.
Keep the dream journal by your bed with a pen. As soon as you awaken, write everything you can remember from your dreams. If you can’t remember anything, date the page and write "I chose not to remember my dreams." When you do remember, be sure to keep track of details. If you dream of drinking a glass of lemonade in your grandmother’s kitchen, your journal should say precisely that, not something such as: "Dreamed of drinking." Those things which seem insignificant to us are often the most revealing aspects of the dream, so be as descriptive as possible in your account.
The impact of these experiments will be reflected by your dreams. The experiments presented to you in this text will act as magickal seeds. The best way to keep track of the development of these seeds is to monitor the dark soil of the subconscious. This attention to your dreams will help what is taking root in the subconscious to blossom forth within your ordinary consciousness. Do not, however, despair if the design of things does not become "concrete" in a way that satisfies your waking consciousness. Remember that not all plants are fruit bearing, and even without satisfying the hungry ego, they may be deserving of a chance at life.
In the daily journal keep a record of the days activities, the weather, your moods, thoughts, and any major events. Some days you may choose to be brief, and on others detailed, but write something every day.
The experiment journal will serve to keep track of the experiments you perform each day. Keep track of the date and time the experiment was conducted, how much time was spent, your mood before and after, and any thoughts or physical sensations associated with the experiment. In some experiments you will be asked to record particular details, this journal is where those details will be recorded.
Obtain these notebooks and write in your dream journal and daily journal every day for the next 12 days before moving on to the first experiment.
Maintain your sense of adventure and never give in entirely to the urge to "find a point" in either your dreams or the things you choose to write about in your daily record. "Finding a point" can feed a virulent form of "herbicide" that will ultimately ravage the garden these experiments strive to tend.
Every once in a while, look back at your notes. Look for the recurring cycles. Look for the spaces of awakening. Look for the gaps of sleep.
No matter what happens or what is not happening, keep on writing in your journals. Maintain them as the silver thread that keeps you attached to your Real Purpose.

Eternity

Eternity is here and now. Right now. As you read these words. It cannot be otherwise.
Eternity is not a very long time. Eternity is not very slow. Eternity is not loving or unloving. Eternity is not reward or punishment.
Eternity is not and cannot be something that will happen or something that has happened.
Eternity cannot "happen".
We may experience Eternity. But this experience won’t be in the past, in our memories of that perfect psychedelic trip or that amazing moment of meditation or the instant that you and I fell in love or the sudden burst of direct Knowledge that came over you that one day.
And it won’t be in the future, when I accomplish the Great Work or when I am finally Awake or when I complete my spiritual progress through a thousand lifetimes of abnegation or when I finally surrender and start to Work.
Our experience of Eternity can only be Now.

Not a moment from now,
not a moment ago.

NOW.

Our language and our imagination have conspired to give us an image of Eternity as a really long time… the white washed heaven of the Christians, the gardens and virgins of the Muslims, the complex Bardo spaces of the Tibetans. All of these may in fact be real (or real enough to experience them for a very long time) but they are not the experience of Eternity. If something is happening, it will stop happening eventually.
But Eternity cannot begin and cannot end. It is not an extension of time. It is outside of time. It overcomes time and envelops it. We are, you and me, right now, in the midst of Eternity, projecting images of illusory lifetimes onto a never changing Clear Void.
The longing for the experience of Eternity is a struggle that can never be completed. As long as there is a struggle, the goal has not been reached. But if the goal has not been reached, the struggle cannot end. And so, like Achilles, our work will always be just a hair short of the Eternal Turtle that moves just slightly out of our reach.
In the deepest void within you, behind you eyes, behind your thoughts, behind your emotions, behind your secret wishes and desires, behind your bright nightmares and dark dreams, you have Eternity. Right now. Your experience of it relies on your ability to maintain your attention steady, to look inside and not be instantly repelled by the frightfulness of Nothingness.
There is a reason why we are here, why we move through time, why we play our parts in an infinitely complex labyrinth of time and space, why things happen, why "we" happen.
The reason is entrenched in the experience of Eternity. When you enter into the heart of the Labyrinth, the inner circle that never changes, that never started and never will end, where there is no past and no future… you will understand the reason.
This has happened a million times before.
To you.
This will happen a million times again.
To you.
You have experienced Eternity. Directly. And now you are here, in time. And the part of you that recoiled, the part of you that fell, the part of you that opened a door slightly, saw the primordial union that cannot be seen, felt or heard, and ran away...
That part of you knows why we perceive Time and why we imagine that there is a past and there is a future.
At the heart, right now, within you and without you, everything is still, quiet and outside of Time, beyond Time, around Time. Here in the innermost chamber we can truly say:
Nothing ever has happened
Nothing ever will happen

Experiment – A Posture of Eternity
You will need a quiet place, a chair, and a timer to conduct this experiment. Before beginning, set the timer for one minute. Sit in a straight backed chair with your feet placed firmly upon the ground. Your knees should be bent at a 90 degree angle.
Place the palms of your hands on top of your knees and keep your knees together so that the thumbnails of your two hands are pressed together. Keep your back and neck straight and your eyes open gazing downward at a space on the ground approximately three feet out from the tips of your toes. Keep your eyes in a soft focus. This means that you are gazing and not staring pointedly. Once in position, do not move until the timer sounds. (No scratching, looking away, wiggling, nose wrinkling, etc.)
During this time place your attention on your body. Hold your entire body with your attention by "feeling" the space an inch above the skin all around you. If you get wrapped up in thoughts, bring your attention back to the posture and the space around your body.
Repeat the experiment each day, adding one minute more to the timer each time.
On the first day you will maintain the pose for one minute, on the second day for two minutes, until on the 12th day you conduct the experiment for the duration of 12 minutes.

Simple Instructions

Simple instructions for developing your very own Being:

Water it daily with attention and apply heat via the machine.

(Please note that heat disturbs the machine, it experiences discomfort and pain as it warms up. Nonetheless, to function as a proper incubator for the Being, it must heat up and it will have to learn to tolerate or even like the accompanying sensations. It is the price it must pay for becoming an instrument for the force of creation rather than enthropy, or in other words, for converting low frequency vibrations into higher frequency vibrations .)

Experiment : The Posture for holding the Eternal

You will need a quiet place, a chair, and a timer to conduct this experiment. Before beginning, set the timer for twelve minutes. Sit in a straight backed chair with your feet placed firmly upon the ground. Your knees should be bent at a 90 degree angle.
Place the palms of your hands on top of your knees and keep your knees together so that the thumbnails of your two hands are pressed together. Keep your back and neck straight and your eyes open gazing downward at a space on the ground approximately three feet out from the tips of your toes. Keep your eyes in a soft focus. Once in position, do not move until the timer sounds. (No scratching, looking away, wiggling, nose wrinkling, etc.)
During this time place your attention on your body. Hold your entire body with your attention by "feeling" the space an inch above the skin all around you. If you get wrapped up in thoughts bring your attention back to the posture and the space around your body.
Repeat the experiment daily for one week.

Experiment: The Flower Sermon

The sermon itself was a wordless one in which Śākyamuni merely held up a flower before the assembled disciples, among whom there was no reaction apart from Mahākāśyapa, who smiled.
-Wikipedia

What a trick, beginning and end.
If you are a flower who can perceive its own existence and perceives it to be self contained and inherently existent, the moment you bloom seems to be the beginning and the moment your last petal drifts to the black soil seems the last.
If you are black soil you have been built over the course of billions of years, shaped and changed by flowers and other bio matter living and at last decaying over you, by waters flowing over and pouring down, by eruptions from deep below and fires raging above, by the deification of life forms worming through you and striding upon you and by things which fall from the far heavens.
If you are black soil you do not track the life and death of a single flower, but rather count the rise and fall of entire populations of wildflowers, count them silently as you swallow seed and send bloom bursting forth towards the sun.
Can the life cycle of the flower be separated from the life cycle of the black soil?
Does it exist independently?

Can it exist independently?
Why, objectively, would the existence of a human animal differ from that of a flower?
If you are a ballroom of red, yellow, and white burning spheres and spinning bodies of minerals, metals, and vapors dancing the dance of gravitational force, you do not count the individual dancers. Not the blue bulb nursing black soil, not it’s burning yellow partner, nor it’s small pock marked attendant, nor any other. If you are such a ballroom you trace only the dance, silently keeping time in the perpetually motion.

Lay on your back in a silent place.
Cross your arms over your chest and close your eyes with a timer set for 24 min.
Breath deeply and slowly, feeling your belly rise first, then your chest.
The sound of your breathing should be undetectable.
Other than this breathing, do not move.
Without speaking it aloud, repeat the following mantra for the duration of the 24 minutes in your mind:

"Nothing ever has happened.
Nothing ever will happen."

The first line will be contemplated on the inhale, the second line with the exhale.

Makers

How will I dance the dances of the ages if I don’t dance?
We have stayed underground so long, our complexions have become pale like the flesh of mushrooms. We paint the cave walls, the tunnels, caverns and byways of the collective subconsciousness with the click clack of pressed buttons and alphanumeric keys.
Our cave paintings are digital, like the visions of dreams, they disappear when the machine harboring them changes states. Sometimes they are made physical, on fibers that may last for 100 years, displayed not in caves but in places of commerce, buildings with uncertain futures. Monkeys dreaming their own dreams and whispering into the ear of their digital demons with that click, clack, click, clack, pausing to sip the grinds of botanicals steeped in hot water, ignore what hangs behind their heads, waiting for that 100 years to surrender it to decay.
With our click, clack we exhibit our mastery over maya through words unuttered, rarely spared ink, strung along the cave walls where only those who click, clack, there way in with a search that unearths a matching key will find them.
Of those that find them, how many will pause to read them?
How many fewer will let them burrow deep so that they may tangle with their own roots, let the words speak directly with what dangles beneath associations, far below the intellectual surface?
Of those that seek, that find, and that commune freely, how many will perpetuate the experience; begin to paint caves themselves?
If I meet a woman of knowledge in the desert what will I do with her?
I will dance if she dances, sing if she sings, thread beads if she threads beads… I will let what she does penetrate to the core, let it graft on to what already sprouts from my own deep.
When I return I might dance, or I might click, clack, the click, clack, click, of ages.
One day all of the artifacts will be gone.
Will the thing that passed through the makers still live?
Only if there are some willing to leave the safety of consuming that they may become makers.

Burn Bright

Don’t let their disease infect you.

You.

You.

You are in there.

While the poor marionette is made to dance for gold and silver, you- silent ageless, deathless thing, watching from behind its glass eyes...don’t buy the con; that this is life, that dead wood and brightly lit stage sums up the whole of existence, that if you dance well enough, the strings that jerk you will be released.

The disease of the moths that eat holes in the delicate substance of human consciousness threatens to consume you at every moment. The superior culture of the Romans threatens to assimilate and destroy the fragile essence of eternity and perpetuate death and imprisonment.

Don’t dare dance their dance. Dance your way from the stage to the stars of the heavens and join their ranks.

The culture of death eats itself. It slashes and burns the fruit that it cannot eat so that other forces may not take possession.

There is no conqueror that is not conquered.

Know this when they tempt you. If you struggle against it, the tide will ensnare you. Pass through their dominating embrace quietly. Do not surrender, but never fight fire with fire.

You, you are real, you who that has never been and will forever be.

Listen little puppet that carries life: protect your passenger. Be in the puppet show but be of the eternal.

Who is it that pulls the strings?

You, you that has no shape, wake up in this dance and we will rule the kingdom. We will own all the pain; I, myself, and me- the holy trinity. I who shackled myself to the devils heel for comfort have the right to leave his way behind.

As I blaze my own path I will go alone. None can accompany me as I burn bright and rise into the all seeing sun. The paradoxical sun; from above the absence of light, from below the source of it.

It is the same song with different lyrics. From one side stares a face carved of wood, from the other side its inverse gazes silently.

Experiment: Turning Water Into Wine

To execute the following experiment you will require two translucent goblets of equal proportions; one empty and the other full of water, and a small bottle dropper.

Set aside a space and time in which you may conduct this experiment without interference of any kind. Be seated with the necessary implements laid out before you. Take the dropper in hand and begin to breath deeply and slowly. Allow your breathing to connect you to your physical presence.

When you feel sufficiently collected, summon the full power of your attention and place it on the water in the first goblet. Use the dropper to transfer the water from the full goblet to the empty goblet one drop at a time. Keep your attention on the water and its slow transposition.

Let each drop be the only important thing upon your mind; worry neither about the water that has already been moved nor the water that awaits relocation. Be present in the motion of taking the water, in the motion of moving to the next glass, and the motion of releasing a single drop. In every step be attentive to the moment and free of concern about the steps that precede and succeed the present.

Your mind will wander, do not resist and struggle with this natural occurrence. When you have become distracted, simply acknowledge the break in your contact with the moment and restore it. Do not hope for the experiment's conclusion.

Continue as if this is your eternal occupation; it will not end, it never began, it has always been and will always be so. Carry on thusly until all of the water has been transferred.

Something Special

Fear is sister to Awakening.
There is a moment of terror before you throw open the forbidden door, a moment in which the part of you that sleeps will urge you to retreat in order to preserve the safety of slumber.
If you are indeed a mad dog fear will become an old friend.
Receive her with grace, stay the course and her sister will visit in turn.

From the time he was a small boy the traveler had dreamed of sleeping in the Great Pyramid. When at last his journeying led him into Egypt he seized the opportunity. During a guided tour he observed a large crack and hid himself in it until the Pyramid was closed up for the night. Alone he stole away to the Kings chamber and lie down upon the sarcophagus. In the darkness he became aware of strange noises, poundings that grew in volume. He was seized by terror, but remained in place within the chamber. Suddenly a wave of ecstatic energy, a burst of light and sound carried him into an altered state.

Many years later a woman reads a book that contains a single mentioning of an obscure Egyptian teaching. She is very troubled. Something about it compels her and at the same time she senses that it is alien, something that could be dangerous. For weeks she considers it, re-reads the same short passage again and again. At last she contacts the author and arranges to meet with her. The result is unmentionable.

Sometime later in a whole other world, she sits in a room of flickering candle light with a creature of unspeakable beauty. It’s skin, brilliantly colored and patterned, shifts and moves, thrills her and fills her with adoration. It’s visage changes. Suddenly she sits face to face with someone she distrusts: a human she once knew.

Now she can accept or reject the presence of something unavoidable. She can flee or remain. Reinforce the barrier or let it crack open and see what remains.

After all, what is there to protect? What will you protect it from? How long will you be able to keep the Other out? For Eternity?