A Transcend Dance

For Elizabeth

Two hands, two feet, two eyes, two ears, our bodies speak of two things more often than one. One womb, one penis, one heart, one head, all have their moments, alive and passionate between two things. Two things at the base, supporting the one. With our biology balanced in duality, and a terrific urge in between, realizing and recognizing our creations may, through the entirety of a lifetime, completely elude us.

There is a fantastic section, among many, in Doctor Zhivago. Nikolai Nikolaievich is speaking to a disinterested colleague. My attention is positively riveted on his voice. Only individuals seek the truth in a world that is all for groups and societies of every sort…How many things in the world deserve our loyalty? Very few indeed. I think one should be loyal to immortality, which is another word for life, a stronger word for it.

I am thrilled. Pasternak moves even further into the fray of lifes meaning, Now what is history? It is the centuries of systematic explorations of the riddle of death, with a view to overcoming death. Was Ernest Becker also thrilled with this idea when he wrote The Denial of Death?

Basic space, as I am told, overcomes death with a conscious awareness of what transcends the physical world.

For sure, in the cult, we could experience transcendence of all sorts. I remember leaving a meeting and rolling up to a familiar stop sign, automatically looking left, then right, seeing a police car on my left, a police car on my right, a police car straight ahead, while I kept rolling right on through that stop because in my awareness the level at which cop cars existed was another world away from where I was, fresh from the hypnosis of another cult meeting. I was traveling through ephemeral realms, many metres above the level of road and rules. Our fearsome once-upon-a-time leader also functions at this parallax level, just a couple planes above what is actual, seemingly unaffected by anything so mundane as the police. Boy was he surprised. So was I when I found myself suddenly surrounded by black and white cars, lights flashing, and a mystified soldier of the people looking into my face in wonder that I could be so bold, so stupid, as to defy their massive presence.

There was one, I heard tell, who had to leave the cult because her awareness had disengaged from the real world. She one day found herself in a snow storm while sitting in her car on a warm and clear summer day. What kind of transcendence is that? What took us out of our bodies and separated us from the world of matter? While rendering tall tales of survival, we could live in another world, he said, if only we follow the demands of the group.

Only the individual seeks truth. Now how is it possible to find truth in the nonstop input from Tucker and Russell, Malone and McCullough, Snowden and the rest? And thats but a few of the male of the species speaking up daily. Enter Wolf and Fitz and Heying and Latypova with more news of the lost ballast world around us. Sheesh. I dont recognize the sound of my own voice anymore, having hardly heard it for days what with the roar of Youtube, Telegram, Twitter, and our beloved Substack.

Now here it comes, early morning, through the window:

There is a frequency of innocence, an open frame of mind without biases. It has a sweetness of heart and a gentle trust in this life.

The more words I try to give to it, the less substantial it becomes. Now metaphor is a must:

A snowflake on the breeze, moved by unseen currents whilst remaining intact and in beauty. A complexity of form within a place at the core. Not a destination but a point of departure into limitless form. There comes a lyrical accompaniment of feeling, sensation and experience.

An unshielded curiosity makes way through outer form, amorphous but crystalline, cut out of other worlds, coursing along anew into matter. Here is a piece of purity advancing from a place before, and then through this place, and ready or not, will go on to the next.

Here is a fragment untouched by anything that touches it. Free within wherever it is moved. I move it. You move it. The world may move it. Regardless. It sustains its integrity.

Give it growth to consume me. Give it grace to contain me. Here is an untainted perspective, seeing with clear eyes from clear understanding all that is in the phenomena of mind, even the narratives of dead souls and recycled matter.

A slow burning spark in the middle of it all, turning this way and that, untouched by the sensational, and eternally at home. Here is a home in awareness that has made nothing of anything. It has not spun any theory, nor made some invention, as if it could ward off death. Therein lies its freedom and willingness to know everything, so simply, by way of experience.

The light catches on slowly drifting down the rays of sunlight sparkling snowflakes in trends of form on a northerly breeze. They sparkle in a blinding light of mid-morning sun. Each their own in complex design, perfect in symmetry, or not. All and everyone catching the light and being known. Weighted or not, determining direction— some even fall up!

Quick sparks in the morning light and disappearing soon. Bearing reality lets loose our well worn identities. Returning to innocence disrobes us of any investments or beliefs. We sparkle naked in the light momentarily, lay claim to our journeys, forgetting and then remembering, and forgetting again.

We are made of innocence shaped around purity. Traveling through form and idea, one part continues untarnished by any dictum we choose to follow, or not. Traveling on a journey of remembering, that is us there in the morning light sparkling in sunshine moved by the wind and given to form.

That one part does see and is moved, in spite of willful blindness. It is moving and seeing unawares of any harm or honours. To bear this reality that has no pros or cons, in a maddening world forever for and against, to embrace reality that is always becoming new and then newly unformed, to simply be traveling through it all, without reference to any of it—

I double dare ya.

Say so long to the missions and farewell to the calling. There is no authentic identity to be had in a world that returns again and again to look at what it has made of itself. Did we wonder as children how the Holocaust could have ever occurred, and is anyone wondering still in our current time?

Innocence looks on, fair and unbridled.

How to bear reality without a souls imperative and the minds determined search for meaning? May we stop being pulled into vortices of theoretical investments? Instead, why not breathe and live in equanimity with what comes, until the maniac waves from so many societies slowly chill out? Now there is an invitation.

Yes, and yea! whatever comes, say Welcome, sit. Whatever stays to rest is allowed reshaping from penitent soul to spirit freed. How to bear the reality of being nothing of this world and capable of becoming any part of it?

A story made up around anything informed, or otherwise, draws the senses outward creating an external focus, while the fabric of truth recedes into shadow and carbon, deeply hidden way under molecule and cell, unavailable to the senses, senses that cannot bear the awful quiet and solitude so necessary to genuine seeing and hearing.

I dream of being together with fellow researchers. We are learning something new, making us realize that in order to move forward, this new information means we will have to change the way we have always done things.

Walking together we turn a corner and there is the psychopath motorhead guru working on his infernal engine. He speaks to us, saying, Maybe you have to change, but I dont.

A resounding refusal. Same as it ever was.