Interdimensional Biological Spaceship Beast

I draw a card from an Albano-Waite Tarot deck and am immediately unhappy with this picture. The poor devil has no cock. It's clear that it is missing. While his wings are a vivid plum color, he himself is stuck with the color of a turd. He wears the white beard of a department store Santa Claus and his eyes are contorted by an emotion that must be sorrow or anger.
I cannot blame him. He is being made a mockery of in this picture.
The man, who does at least sport a Ken doll man bump, seems to be gesturing towards the absence of the devil’s penis. The devil sits on a perch with a five pointed star being driven point down into his crown as if it were insisting that he acknowledge the power of the one flowing from above to below. He is not holding the people in bondage as one would initially guess, but rather it is they who are keeping him. The chain around their necks symbolizes their wish to be separate from their bodies and keep everything below the neck imprisoned.
Despite this, the truth of the situation is discernible, the sly devil can accept his debasement and somehow use it to tell his own story. That star being driven into his head mimics the horns visible on his head. We do not come from one, it says, we come from two.
The man and the woman also don horns, and tails. The woman's tail is made of fruit and the mans tail is made of fire. He will bring the fire and she will bear the fruit, enough said.
Behind them the devil waits patiently for them to loose the binds that are strangling the life dwelling within them. With the Vulcan hand gesture he bids them to live long (perhaps eternally) and prosper.
He is not a prisoner after all, he is patient and kind and refuses to abandon them, suffering along with them. He waits for them to set themselves free. His knees form the shape of a heart between the man and the woman, urging them to embrace their nature and love one another without fear or guilt or shame.

The following day I draw another card. It is Strength. I see this card as the perfect follow up to the devil. This is the alchemical marriage, beauty and the beast, the unification of the eternal and the temporal.
The woman with the eternity symbol over her head and rose garland belt represents the eternal being, the holy guardian angel. The red lion is the animal, the biological machine, the temporary creation. This is strength; the two united, the rose and the lion.
The lion is powerful, strong, and regal submitting to her touch. His tongue lolls, his eyes roll back in his head as the fierce beast relinquishes all control to his eternal beloved.
This is strength: the willingness to submit to stillness, to overcome fear and desire, repulsion and compulsion, to cease to roar and gnash teeth and instead open the heart and allow the passion of the immaterial other to course through the material.
The lion is the Christ, the anointed one. The old kings were anointed with the menstrual blood of the goddess, a substance of awakening. The woman is the goddess, the eternal beloved, the devil. By adoring her, the anointed one redeems her and himself. They become something unimaginable, something more than they could have been separately.

I see the woman in this card as representing the same being embodied by the devil in yesterday’s card. Where in that card the eternal and the temporal struggle and are disconnected, here they are united. That patient waiting devil is the same as this patient gentle bride. In this card pure love flows through the two and this is what rules, not abstracts.
In this light I also understand that the man and the woman in the devil card are in fact chained to the fears and desires of the biological machine and its attempt to usurp power. The one jealous God that rules from above is the personification of these fears and desires.
The devil in the background waits for them to awaken to the knowledge that one is death and stagnation and two are life and creation. The biological machine must cease to struggle for control and open to the strange affection of the eternal in order to leave the dead end it made for itself behind.

A few days later I shuffle the deck and draw a card again. I am not surprised to see that it is the devil. It seems that my old friend and teacher and father has something more to communicate. Look again he says, but not with your eyes, which were made for the surface world where the light plays its tricks. Search with the feeling senses employed by those blind things which explore the subterranean world and make it their home.
Then guess what I am. Dark and warm and fruitful. Feminine.
The cock is not missing, it is there. The two human beings are the devils genitalia, his procreative tools, extensions of self with which he can probe the mysteries accessible through a voyage in the human bio-mechanical spaceship. This is also beauty and the beast. But we are the beast, and the devil is the beauty. So loving is beauty, so inquisitive, fearless, enduringly calm and optimistic, and, of course, giving.

The ideal components for building the inter-dimensional biological space craft named “Beast” is revealed to me in the following days.
First, the High Priestess. Her calm strikes me like a wave from the sea, shocking, invigorating in its placidity. Her intellectual center is awakened and at the service of her work for the benefit of the eternal. She encompasses the knowledge of life that bleeds forth from a cellular level and the knowledge of worlds constructed of concepts hinged on words. The depths of the subconscious work in symphony with the illuminated surface.
Her headdress is made of the horns and of the full moon, symbolic of her comfort with both masculine and feminine forces and with the seed and its fulfillment. It is also representative of the necessary relationship between two and one, that two become one in sexual unification and then, after the conception, one becomes two at the moment of birth.
The cross burns under the Priestess’s breast. Ripened flowers and fruits open like vulvas behind her and the horned moon is caught in the robes at her feet. She is calm and cool and well collected. She holds the written word in her hands. She can create with words, she can organize new structures and utilize existing ones to mysterious ends, in the service of the eternal silence, the guardian at the center of labyrinth, the watcher within.
Where some could be lost in the symbolic order, she is aware of its nature and utilizes it as the steps of the pyramid to the moon. She is poised between the two columns of the God of the Earth and the God of the Sky, a crossing of streams supported with grace and detachment.
She is as disciplined and focused on herself as Audrey Hepburn’s character in a Nun’s story, who realizes that while she may hide her faults from the church and her sisters, she cannot hide them from herself and God. So she struggles to do the real thing, whether anyone else is or not, whether anyone else can perceive her efforts or not.

After the Priestess comes the Magician. He stands with one hand raised towards the heavens and the other pointing to the earth. In his raised hand he holds a double terminated rod so that each end is both sending and receiving, circulating the energy from the heavens to the earth and from earth to heavens.
Over his head the figure eight, symbol of eternity, hangs suspended, representing the eternal being voyaging continually through material existence, like a rider in a train passing through a tunnel. The placement of his arms combined with this symbol forms a subtle cross.
He is young and full of adventurous fire. He is fearless and surrounded by roses and lilies, the goddess and death and the mystery of the flower which blooms and withers while the vine lives on and on to support new blooms again and again.
On the table stands the cup, the sword, the baton, the pentacle. He has the building blocks to create a new symbolic order, a new world. He is a storyteller, imaginative, ready to create a rich inner world through which the various aspects of self can be expressed and slowly/subtly become known to him.
He is a professor with his puppets at the ready. He will put something of himself into them, igniting them into a dance that he will both be inside of and apart from.
He is a point of connection between worlds, he is worlds within worlds within worlds. He is the creator and the explorer journeying to discover the breadth and depth of himself and establish lines of communication that reach from one shadowy pocket to the next, unifying the self.

The man and the woman in chains at the devil’s feet have the potential to become these two, the High Priestess and the Magician. As long as they cling to their individualism and their habitual behaviors they are the slaves of the symbolic order. They are not aware of their circumstance or their latent potential. They live and breed and die never having escaped the bondage of their own mechanical nature.
It is only through an effort to know themselves and the Other that they may cast away their chains and become something more than their biological nature dictates. They must surrender, despite the fear of death. Then they may begin the work of building the vessel called “Beast” or Adam Kadmon, to become the instrument of the Eternal.

One more time I shuffle the cards and my old friend comes to say goodbye. This time we can relax and have a good conversation without me applying cerebral analyses to his every line.
It is painful to be the Devil. His trick is not to mind it, to relax into the pain.
Pain is caused by resistance, by clutching to forms that cannot be in the OTHER spaces, the places I want to travel through. Relaxing into hot pulverized jelly is the only way to go. I cannot take my baggage; linguistic structures and thought forms. The software of the machine does not function in the OTHER spaces, the software dies with the hardware, then only the otherware works and the only way to develop otherware is to start now with little treks into the OTHER spaces.
But it’s a dead man’s party, so leave your body and persona at the door.

The Shape of the Process

It is not the content that flows through us that we want to change.
It is not the content that we want to pick and choose and refine to fit our particular specifications.
It is the shape of our inner structure, the flow of the pathways inside our inner labyrinth, the wiring of our neural network That is what needs to be transformed.
The content is always different. The content will always be different.
The content never changes. The content will never change.
But the process that transforms it can change. It is this change in the process that we seek.

Our life itself is a process, our bodies, our thoughts, our sensations, our hopes, our dreams, the shape of our movement through time from birth to death. All process, all waiting to be carefully altered, all waiting to be rearranged.

Life flows through structures. It becomes defined by the obstacles and blockages which it encounters, by the shapes of the structures through which it passes. Life assumes the shape of the vessel into which it is poured. That is what makes it specific, that is what modifies it into being unique, that is what gives it an identity.
There are structures that trap life so that it grows stagnant. Think of pools of black water, think of old houses without light, think of forgotten cemeteries in the backwoods of lost towns.
There are structures that allow life to flow continually through them. Think of a river, of the wind, of sunlight streaming down onto the earth from a bright blue sky.

We may think of ourselves as structures defined by our habits, programmed biological computers through which the raw energy of life travels. By transforming our habits we may restructure ourselves to allow life to flow freely through us. As it flows, it gains momentum, it changes what it touches, it reinvigorates the path.

Posture is a basic way to direct the flow of energy. Our bodies are like antennas that can be bent this way or that to pick up various frequencies of radiation. Paying attention to our physical habits will lend us a clue as to how we are presently processing life. Intentionally building a repertoire of postures that facilitate life will help to change the structure from the outside in.

Our bodies are keys to other planes of existence, they are tools for manipulating realities. Everything is altered by posture, by reshaping structure.
Allowing our reality to be shaped by unconsciously formed habits and postures is to be unnecessarily imprisoned.
Intentionally forming habits and postures to direct the flow of life consciously is to be a surfer, a magician, a free builder.
Once the structure changes the energy will flow endlessly through it for as long as the structure remains.

Keep a notebook with you for a total of six days in order to record re-occurring mechanical manifestations. In other words, keep a log of some of your most habitual gestures and the accompanying moods and circumstances.

You should begin to notice these re-occurring gestures as you are performing them. During the course of a day, whenever you catch yourself in one of your mechanical manifestations, say to yourself, "Cut! "
At that you point you should freeze. Then say to yourself, "From the top." And prepare to repeat the scene. Say, "Action." And perform the gesture again.

This can also be done with a partner. The two of you should be familiar with each other's catalog of mechanical manifestations. When one partner notices the other engaged in a habitual posture or gesture they will issue the commands for them.

In either case it is useful to run through the sequence up to three times when showcasing a particular manifestation. When you are finished you say, "Break."
Break.

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.

Creation and Property

Nobody can own music.
Nobody can own a sound.
You can make music, you can make a sound, but you can’t keep it in bondage.
It’s like a child. You may birth it, name it Rainbow and raise it on organic vegetable matter and Dalai Llama quotes excerpted from coffee table novelty books, but when it turns 18, if it wants to ride in red sports cars with gangstas and shake its ass in a skin tight mini skirts made of genuine baby white tiger skin, then that’s just what it will do.
The things which accumulated in you and resulted in "the song" were not unique to you, they came from elsewhere.
For example, your siblings also feel the angst that remains from your father’s drunken abuse, and your love of wild flowers is shared with scores of green peace enthusiast, hippies and botanist. That chord arrangement is only slightly different from others, and probably is identical to an arrangement featured in a polka song written by an accordion player that lives with his mother in Michigan and works as a used car salesman by day. The only thing distinguishing your arrangement from his is that the rhythm is different and yours is strummed on an acoustic guitar rather than keyed on an accordion and you have an audience and got a record deal while he suffers from loneliness due to his pig nosed face.
The very idea that creative material should be owned is an uncreative idea. It is an idea that says: “Now I have made this and no one else can make anything else like it or from it or I’ll sue their ass for copyright infringement”
Creativity is using anything and everything and making something new from it, something slightly different or unrecognizably different. Kudos to anyone that can take part of a song about love and peace and turn it into a song about hate and violence. That is called being creative. No one comes up with anything brand new and all their own.
We are all composites of the many different influences which converge within us and our ideas and creations stem from this composite creation that we call self. We do not know the nature of our self, and not knowing our self, how could we ever presume to possess it, let alone those composite spores that it spews into the ether in the form of poetry, song, or sculpture.
This self is on loan. We borrow it for a while, taking it for a spin before it evaporates. These impressions shaping our creative impulses, are viewed through the borrowed lens of self. They did not originate within us. The color of the sky was present long before we were and the birds were singing about it long before we started writing about them singing about it. The thing which made the song was not yours, the things that the song is made up of is not yours, those things that inspired its making are not yours, how could the song itself be yours?
Nothing is new under the sun. There are no original ideas. Your ideas come from others. From the sound of your mother’s voice when you were twelve, from your father’s old car, from the lake you nearly drowned in, from the song that played on the radio when you first kissed, from the way she screamed when she left, from the theme of that cartoon you watched when you were four, and the song your grandmother hummed when you were 13 months old.
There are things at work within you which you are not even aware of. That song you wrote may very well be an approximation of something you heard when you were a child or in the elevator three months ago. That you were unaware of its influence on you does not make the resulting song original. It came from somewhere.
To be creative is to see what there is to work with and work with it in any way possible. To steal, to borrow, to reuse and cause mutations, that is creative. To forge something new of what was is God-like, opening up infinite possibilities. To spend one’s life obsessed about protecting a small blot of intellectual material is limiting and can only lead to decay, to the end of possibilities.
Creativity is brave. To be a true creator is to scatter creations like droplets of water from the trembling wings of a heron. You do not take time to count the droplets, or to try to catch them before they can dance off of the wings of another.
If someone takes what you have made and does something new with it, that is a compliment. If you were focused on creation and not ownership, you would be unafraid to loose the drops of water that scatter from your wings, you would know that soon you will dip into the waters of life in search of the wriggling fish and new things will scatter from you as you part with the water again and ascend with your catch. This can happen again and again if you are active and not busy catching and adoring the product of dives into the deep that occurred once long ago.
When you create, you are in the present. What you created, that is already in the past. Dead and gone. If you are interested in ownership, sue the earth itself. For that is where you came from and that is where you’re going.

Scratch

Cry blood for the innocent, mother, make ash in the palms of little black hands from thin air, and send the righteous quaking and rolling. What? We were made for rolling and belly doughing, jiggling slowly, while the spirit is growing. We’re just the little old caps of ‘shrooms poking their heads up out of the shit. If you want to know us, look down under the soil and see that there be no us, there is only one tangled mess with many little hydra heads spiraling out into the universe, into the UNI VERSE, the ONE SONG that we’ve been remixing as long as we can remember. The mechanics of life undo it, they undo it every time and we remake the same song again and again. Pass the hat. Take up a collection, a congregation in the name of the holy infection. Because out of the void arose the mound and the lotus, and as the lotus unfolded, there sat the glowing figure of Ammun Ra, and out of loneliness he made his son Geb and daughter Nut, and Nut and Geb out of fascination with one another, made Osiris and Seth, Isis and Nepthys.
All come out of nothing and back to nothing all will return.
All of our red and gold and blue and yellow and green and orange and purple will be black again. Blessed are the poor because they won’t mind being nothing again. Only the rich man will kick and scream as you strip all of his weight away from him. The poor are not poor because they have no bread. The poor are the fools dancing near to the edge of the mound smelling the flowers and wanting nothing more than this one moment. Their bread is the breast of Nut, sweet bread that brings madness. Pass the hat. I dreamed that Alice was an evil sorceress which lured small animals and cute toys into her midst by appearing to be a sweet child, but her heart was rotten and black and she devoured them all, all that wandered so innocently into her midst. We got to be light, like the fizzy bubbles of butterscotch soda, but we got to keep a wise eye open. We can’t be getting into the car with strangers offering us candy or salvation, crisp dollar bills or a good tea party. We got to keep walking and rolling an jelly belly doughing our way back to the abyss. When Annubis comes with the scale and weighs our heart against the feather of Isis, Alice will be waiting backstage licking her crocodile chomps and scratching her hungry, hungry hippo rump, opening wide and waiting for the heavy heart.
So be a poor fool. Be a fool that got nothing and want nothing. Be a fool that picks flowers and wanders over all the hills of all the days, humming the same little song again and again. Be an ass that falls head over heels then stands up again shameless. Pass the hat.
Cry blood and make ash and think nothing of it. Make dough of blood and ash and bake it in the fire of Ammun Ra until you’ve made an army of ash bread men to laugh and sing and dance ahead of you. Rub your ram horns, Khnum, and muse,
"My but they love to sing and dance!"
And then ramble on behind them playing your pipes and think nothing of it. Think nothing of it when Alice leads them away and dresses them in clean frocks and sets them in pews and bids them hold still. Think nothing of it when they stop coming to dance with you Khnum, and when they call you devil, and when they become so heavy the earth is marked with deep lines wherever they pass. Poor lonesome old Khnum. A few of us fool ash bread men will still dance with you. Pass the hat. We are gonna dance. We are gonna walk and roll and churn our dough.
That’s right. We are the poor, but we’ve got the dough we were made of to roll. And were gonna roll it! Roll it up the mountain and back down again until judgement come. Jiggle and wiggle and squiggle and shake until the snake oil salesman puts us all back in his carpet bag and tips his hat with a wink. What? We were made for rolling and belly doughing, jiggling slowly, while the spirit is growing. We’re just the little white crests of waves. Down deep the force of the ocean moves us onward, onward to sing our song and break on the rocks again and again. And them with there heavy roads and heavy buildings and important business and lead hearts are going to make happy Alice fat, fat, fat!

Union

Tell me, little electric pulses that take the shape of white letters on a liquid crystal screen, tell me what I do not know about myself, about you, about us. I have gone around turning up stones since I was a little girl, turning up stones not just to see what lies and lives beneath them, but to reach down with lightening quick fingers to catch what has been unearthed and press it to my lip, lick it with my tongue, and drop it into that cavern that is my mouth so that I can eat it up, letting it wriggle down my throat with all its crawly legs. This is how I have forged a relationship with that which is beyond the surface of my skin; I welcome it in. Answers bear no weight with me. Questions are only useful if they draw me into a real encounter with something that I am not. Something that I am not until it has found its way inside of me, then I am. I am without sorrow or regret my own worst nightmares, those things that I found brooding in the darkest depths of my psyche. I opened me up and looked in on what was there, then beckoned with a welcoming finger,
"Come here you strange obscene things. Come here and let me eat you. You will like it, I promise, it feels so good to be digested rather than shoved off the plate. Let me try you, you will see, it feels so good when you are me."
One night death came in and sat on my roommates couch in a black denim jacket. I sat cross legged on the floor, criss cross apple sauce Indian style with a nervous smile. Looking upon its pale grinning visage I said:
"It’s all over now that you are here. I understand that." And I spread my legs wide and said,
"Come in. Your welcome."
Because, you see, with me the unknown is always welcome, the fierce, the frightening, the unknowable, it’s all quite edible once you’ve acquired a taste for it. Like black licorice, its flavor is distinct and stains your tongue so that others will suspect what you’ve been up to. Yes, yes, it’s an acquired taste, like eating worms or drinking urine and others will be able to smell something on you that isn’t quite right, but most will be willing to ignore the signs which point to your unwholesome appetite. Most will be happy to ignore you completely, in fact, because they wouldn’t care to share or spare a bit of attention, seeing as they have so precious little to begin with and they plan to blow it all on shopping or watching sports.
So you can smell like dog shit and have worms crawling out of your head, and then they will not want to be friends with you, but bless them, they won’t interfere with you. No, they will gladly perfect the art of neglect and let you wander from garbage can to dank dark garbage can where you can extend your hand into the darkness and let your fingers close around something without quite knowing what it is, and then you can pull it up into the light and find that it’s a paper box from a nearby fast food chain, and opening the lid you will discover a half eaten crispy chicken sandwich which you will not hesitate to bite into yourself, right there, on the spot, achieving union with deep fried foul, minus feathers, plus secret sauce and limp yellow lettuce.
You can count on such measures of freedom it you live in a city big enough, if you live in a hot bed of civilization and if you are willing to sleep alone on a cold hard sidewalk beneath a sheet of newspapers. You can find what you don’t know and embrace it if you aren’t afraid of being infected by it, if you have no reserves about becoming something other than what you were just before such a fateful encounter. Those who have such hesitations do not turn up rocks or open mysterious boxes or admit to themselves that they have had dreams about fucking dogs.
Those who want to remain as they imagine they are, with a nickel’s worth of attention left to burn on their favorite diversion, so that they may easily forget those queer dreams and ignore those unusual packages, and dismiss the strange apparitions sitting on their roommate’s sofa, will be just fine. They are free not to explore. I am allowed, even encouraged not to notice the creepy crawly things that live in my head, the heads of others or under stones.
However, I choose to embrace self knowledge without conditions, which means that I will change shapes. Oh yes I will. And you may look at these little symbols blazing on a liquid crystal screen, and eat the forbidden knowledge I have pressed to your lips without ever suspecting that you are in fact eating me. (Unless of course I mention it…) If what I have just said about myself, about you, and about us, manages to wriggle down your throat like a slimy green alligator’s tongue, you may find that it will change you too. That is the magick of union, my love. That is what I offer you now.

Eat Dog

One half has gone off to where they grow worms under green carpets, in a land far away. There they put signs in the hills warning people not to play soccer lest they fall through a hole and find themselves in a subterranean city where the worms rule, crawling over the steps of ancient pyramids and through little village huts over the perfectly preserved hand of some old Mayan mother where she lies encased in volcanic soot upon the floor. Another part is filling the bathtub with Indigo and in it sits a woman, a baby, and a man, all turning blueberry purple.

Brad Pitt explains to me that Pit Bulls have gotten a bad wrap. Many of them are kind and loving animals, faithful companions to mankind. I couldn’t agree more, but if something should go wrong, the result would be lethal. Is that a risk you are willing to take with a baby in the house? If a Pit Bull bites a baby, it won’t ever let go, its teeth will sink down into the soft flesh until blood springs forth and then involuntarily its jaw will lock and it will have to shake its victim until the life has left it, and only then will the maw of death slacken.

Is that small dark woman me, or is she that other? In the bath she storms at the man as called for in the script. “Are you crazy?” she screams at him, but he is very calm and answers her very calmly. She wants to fight with him, but he will not fight, and she is forgetting the baby, who is slipping into the dark water. I am the one who cleans one half of the tub and the bathroom mirror later. What can I do with the dark blue spider web hanging over her bed? She really should do more dusting. Now I will have to clean it up, otherwise when she comes home in the dark tonight she will extend her hand to switch on the bedside lamp and the poisonous little spider will bite her. I can’t allow that. I am responsible now that I have noticed what was neglected.

All those Indians crowded together naked to make indigo to stain dresses to be sold in Paris. They were not human so we put them all together naked, hungry, exhausted, and cracked the whip over their heads, (and on their bare backs from time to time to keep it lively), and left the dead ones in with the live ones to be sure that production never slowed and the fine aesthetics of fashion would be upheld. Today the only Indians left are spotted black and white and walk on four hoofed feet, or at least they would if we didn’t have them crowded in tiny pens with machinery hooked up to their swollen udders while in another steel building not far off we keep their calves hidden from the light of day so that their tender insides will taste all the better and fetch a higher price on the market.

There are a great many primordial woes swirling around under the carpet, being processed by the faithful little worms. I dared to lift the carpet up an inch or so too look in on their toil. ‘My God,’ I thought, ‘somebody is raising worms! But why? What a strange harvest.’ Why raise worms? To eat them? Maybe to be eaten by them. We have yet to come to fully understand the great transformational value in being eaten. It seems likely that we of the three dimensional dreamkind will come into full maturity when we begin to grasp the greater truth in this. There is no point in always consuming, tis far greater to be utterly consumed by something. Being a worm is more useful to the earth than to the worm.

Now, if you should happen to poke your head up through the carpet and be eaten by a bird… well then that would be the best possible thing. To be a worm eating dirt, that’s alright, but to be a worm eaten by a bird, now that is really something. You couldn’t ask for any better if you were a worm. Sure, you think I’m joking, or being sarcastic and political. No, not so, not so.

Perhaps you have heard the old adage, “You are what you eat.”? In this model when a bird eats a worm it becomes part worm, and likewise the worm has become part of a bird. This is the ultimate. This is how we change shape, by being consumed.

Like now, I hold my defenses at bay, and leave myself open to the pounce. And voila! That thing from the dark side leaps on me and devours me and this that you read is the sign of struggle left in the sand. A clever tracker could read it and come to understand what came to pass. Put otherwise, I make a sacrifice of my dominant, waking, survivor consciousness, and that dark bird of prey, the so called subconscious, swoops in and feeds.

Now if you were a very clever, but very simple life form, you would seek out other, alien life forms a bit more complex than yourself and entice them to devour you. This union would create a whole new creature, which would look very much like the old complex alien it used to be, but the inside my friend, the inside would be very different indeed. The difference would be undetectable from the outside, but conformity is only skin deep in some cases.

Evolution is what we call this tricky game played between eater and eaten. The very frightening thing is that while bathing under the sprinklers in the garden and chirping with your friends, you will never know which ones are really birds and which ones are worms that have become birds. If only the world were more full of babies which had devoured dogs.

Transformation

All living organisms have Work to do. Said in another way, to be alive is to Work. The farther an organism is from Work, the farther it is from Life. A Dead organism may be brought to Life by having it Work. A Live organism may fall away from the Work and return to the Land of the Dead. A very simple organism (like a bacteria for example) may only have one way to do its Work. A more complex organism will have several possibilities, each more subtle than the last. In our case, as complex biological three centered creatures, we have possibilities for Work that are seldom used (at least in the time we are writing this). In this time, it is rare for human beings to find a way to awaken and to be awake is a prerequisite to be able to Work at a higher, more subtle level. But conversely, you don’t wake up and don’t Work. You may find yourself awake accidentally, through external chemicals, through special high stress situations, or any other kind of random accident. You may stay in this state for a short period of time. But if you don’t proceed to Work (because you don’t want to or because you don’t know how) you will surely fall back into sleep. There are no other options.
The nature of the Work is not comprehensible from the sleeping state. It is not hidden but it remains invisible. It can occur in a very small hesitant manner or it can be large and forceful. It can involve one person or many. It can be recorded in history forever or it can be forgotten along with the daily news. It may be stashed away in secret meeting places or it may happen right before your eyes when you were thinking about other things. If you find yourself momentarily awake, through whatever means, you may get a glimpse of it… a glimpse which will quickly become incomprehensible the moment you fall back into sleep. You may even remember what you saw and you may then say: "That is the Work. That form. That image. That God. That movement. That action. That is the Work. Therein the Work is contained." But this is not True Understanding. This is just a machine falling back into sleep and trying to solidify its own ego into a comprehensible form. The Work may very well have been there. It probably was. In that form, that image, that God, that movement… but it is not contained or limited by any of them. The Work cannot be contained or limited by any particular Form or Action.
Our approach is to wake up through Working. We don’t wait to wake up to start to Work. We start to Work even in the sleeping state, even if we don’t fully understand what we are doing, what the ramifications are, the reasons or the effects. We start to develop the habit of constant Work, constant Transformation. And we can only Work with what is right in front of us: who we are, where we are and when we are. This distinct and peculiar little chamber where you find yourself, this is where you can Work. Nowhere else. Stop dreaming of what was, what could be right now, what may come in the future and start looking at what is. That which is right in front of your eyes. This is what you have to Work with. Nothing more and nothing less. Look at all of it. It is for you to use. This moment is You. You can sleep through it or you can find a way to Transform it and Work. It is your choice. Your only Real Choice.

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 like this until all of the water has been transferred.

Alchemical Marriage

The creature from the deep needs a surface dweller to beget life.
Each lives an existence that is lacking, inhabiting one realm and powerless in another. If they may combine, the product would be a being that hails from both worlds; the eternal and the apparent.
What could such a prince do? One that is the embodiment of the union of spirit and flesh, the holy and the profane, would access a territory that we of mortal origins can scarcely fathom.
What lies beyond the horizon of the known?
Only the dragon born, one that is the serpent with wings, can come to know the kingdom. All others will be blind to it. They cannot see beyond the invisible boundaries that hold them in place, past the limitation of death. To that which can die, that which cannot will appear alien, monstrous, and unnatural. And yet, only the product of the marriage of opposites can offer progress and the furtherance of Real Life.