Alternative Universe: A Haven from Heaven

Alternative Universe

A Haven from Heaven

 

 

I need to pick thy brains,” Rupert announces to the shaman; “On the nature of the matrix.” He waves a ruffled sleeve at the flames. “Take this electromagnetic substance called fire, for instance. We’re agreed that it’s a form of plasma, aye?” The shaman nods as they stare at dancing flares of infralight. “The fourth estate of matter,” he agrees. “Like electricity - the most excited vibratory state of chaotic order that intermingling vorticles can customarily maintain for any length of time in a three dimensional matrix. Vortexes,” he amends, and Amber catches his eye as she nestles beneath the wing of his overarching arm. “There are more than four states in which matter can form,” she informs him. Rupert inclines his brow in her direction. “Of course,” he agrees with an amiable leer. “There are Bose-Einstein condensates – that means there are five elemental states…”

 

“And more,” Amber avers. “There are also condensates of fermions, and…” The earl interrupts her again as his eyes crinkle with faint surprise. “Let’s get back to that later,” he insists. “The heretic you’re sitting next to has developed some more basic but nonetheless interesting ideas…”

 

“They’re really just extensions of classic theories,” Ram’yana objects. “Supposedly outdated ideas that have…” The earl interjects once more; “He calls the nodes that atomic nuclei occupy ‘vorticles’, Rupert explains, “and insists that so-called ‘protons’ and ‘neutrons’ are made up of the same beasties as what we call electrons, simply arranged into certain specific geometric patterns. He maintains that particles are actually nothing at all - just spinning vortices of aether – and that matter is continually being spun from nothing.”

 

“The aether could hardly be called ‘nothing’,” Amber objects. “The aether is everything.” She crosses her legs when Rupert’s eyes follow the long lines of her slender curves. “Ah,” the earl says as he nudges the shaman in the ribs. “You seem to have found a willing convert…” He continues before Amber’s downcast lips can form another objection; “He says that each particle – pardon me, vorticle – is a tiny mirror of the entire macrocosm, of the entire universe…”

 

“It’s in the nature of a hologram,” the shaman insists, “that every part contains and refracts the whole. As the universe is a hologram within a multiverse of holograms, each tiniest part must contain an image of the whole; as the poet said, infinity resides in each grain of sand and every drop of water...” He holds the hashish up in the firelight before sniffing the chunk judiciously. “Local,” Rupert informs him. “But they do a pretty good job around here these days – they don’t use acetylene baths or anything like that any more; Dutch water method…” His eyes follow the sparks up to heaven and he stares at the slowly wheeling stars.

 

“Where were we?” he asks the Pleiades with serious intensity as the crowd bursts into a spasm of guffaws. “Oh yes - to say that everything is a mirror maze within a mirror maze is a rather narcissistic view, surely?” The earl’s inquisitive declaration is emphasised by an eloquent flourish of a silver-ringed hand. “But I suppose we’re all looking at reflections…” He mimes the act of holding a hand-held mirror to his face and peers through the imaginary looking glass at the pink-rimmed stoned eyes of the oriental woman; “…and amusing ourselves with stories…”

 

“We are all reflections and refractions of each other,” Amber murmurs as she slides against Ram’s side. “Everything is mirrored in everything else – it is surely obvious that…”

 “Indeed,” Rupert interrupts, nodding as he slips the imaginary mirror into his jacket. “But I wish to discuss something else entirely – hear it from the horse’s mouth, so to speak…” He winks at the shaman prince and flips a cigarette into Ram’s hand. “Please use this,” he insists. “I can’t handle rollies with hash any more; it’s a taste I’ve unacquired. Don’t look at me like that,” he frowned. “At least I didn’t say a ‘horse’s ass’.”

 

“More of a cross betwixt horse and donkey, I suppose” Ram’yana mutters as he crumbles the hashish into his palm. “A mule, if you prefer.” Rupert’s eyebrows rise with the corners of his moustache. “A fertile hybrid, from what I hear,” he observes while the shaman stares into Amber’s eyes. “How many sprogs hast thou sired to date – or does the easygoing Lord’s Deathwatch have no idea?” Ram turns to face his insouciant smile with a carefully neutral expression.

 

“Never mind,” Rupert laughs, flinging a packet of king-sized papers into the shaman’s lap with a flip of his wrist. “I shan’t compound thy embarrassment in front of thy lady – back to my query, dearie, before it sails right out of my mind. Ye reckon that the quantum foam – you know, the infinite sea of possibility – is continually twisting between different time streams and universes, and these ‘vorticles’ of yours only manifest here at certain stages in their multidimensional rotation?”

 “Aye,” the shaman nods. “And when they’re arranged in certain configurations – internally symmetrical Pythagorean solids, for instance…”

 “…they manifest as what we laughably refer to as atoms, yes, yes, I’m aware of that; parts of thy ‘vorticle’ theory have been expressed in similar ways by others over the last century, as I’m sure thou art aware - but does that not imply that gateways to other dimensions and alternate realities exist everywhere?” Rupert fingers his moustache. “Canst the connexions be tweaked, dost thou think? Can we focus the innate proclivity of the energy field to take us to other places – other timespaces?”

 

“Aye,” Ram repeats. “The theory is partly designed to explain my ongoing observations of such transmigrations – and of our continual unaware participation in them; we shift universes all the time without noticing. Focus, concentration and tuning can deliver specific results; but an individual’s transition to a parallel material plane more commonly occurs only in moments of extremis, or at specific locations in timespace. Focus – and a new locus - can also be achieved by creating a tuneable lens, of course…”

 

“Like a Tardis,” Rupert nods, “or a flying saucer-shaped lens - or a correctly charged and aligned magic circle or sacred site. People have been known to do extraordinary things in unplanned moments of death-defying ingenuity - but do ye claim that we can make the transit voluntarily?” 

 The shapes and images that Rupert describes flit through Ram’s mind as the earl speaks their names amidst an abounding field of synchronies. The tripping shaman watches the world in his peripheral vision and listens to the responses of universal consciousness, manifesting as interpretable words and interpenetrating sounds in reaction to their conversation. The thought-forms evoked by the earl’s magically mundane syllables circle the stoned gathering and alter the course of the orator’s spiel. “Let the rich bastards have their bases on other planets,” the dreadlocked preacher declaims. “Let them all piss off and leave Jah’s good green Earth to the sons and daughters of men and women…”

 “Gaia’s Earth, you mean,” yells the same woman who’d earlier cried out an objection. “Ah, the Great Mother Gaia - the first of the titans,” the performer declares with another sweeping bow. “And you know how the gods conquered their titanic rivals and left them to rule over the planes of limbo …”

 

“Remember the fifth state of matter,” the shaman states as catcalls deride the speaker’s summation. “You can’t see the sap for the trees!” a heckler cries. Rupert laughs. “As in earth, water, fire, air - and spit?”  he enquires. “Or is life the fifth element?”

“Aye,” Ram’yana agrees. “And the lens,” he declares as his fingers squeeze hash and tobacco together. “The all pervasive consciousness that brings the rest into focus; and in the fifth energy state all particles achieve simultaneous resonant coherence…”

 

“Ah!” Rupert claps his hands. “Of course – we return to the infamous Bose-Einstein condensate – and to lasers and masers! But can a living being achieve such a coherent state voluntarily?”

 

 “Voluntarily?” the shaman echoes. “Aye,” he replies, “Everything is alive, and we transmigrate all the time; almost every single night we transform our location in timespace and emerge into a completely different continuum. Whenever we pass beyond delta-wave deep sleep - when all thought stops and we drift to the centre of the cyclone – we merge and emerge into a different universe.”

 Ram’yana marvels at the way the words trip from his tongue, fully formed and readily present with a will seemingly all their own; he wonders whether the pellucidly lucid stream flows from a deeper source than the mere mental parroting of his old ingrained ideas – from some prepossessing spirit or an enlargened version of himself, who communicates with the land of the living through the conduit of his blown-open being. Rupert’s brows knit together as he squints at the shaman and purses his lips; the astrological symbol of the constellation Virgo is clearly inscribed on the man’s forehead, writ in the transient conformation of his wrinkles.

 

“Whenever we arrive in a new world the differences are usually so minor we relegate them to the backburner of our minds, if we notice them at all…” Ram continues; “…and we promptly forget any inconsistencies as we integrate with our familiar new surrounds. Can we have any real idea of how many universes there are in an infinite multiverse, or how many infinitely minor shadings of difference there can be?” He pulls another paper from the packet and quickly continues, to keep up with the chain of interlinked thoughts that rapidly unreels from the capstan of his memories – or from another source entirely.

 

“Usually the differences we awaken to are so minor we barely notice them at all – the pattern of a lawn, the placement of a single tree in a forest, a misplaced boulder on a sandy beach... or an altered phrase in a well-read book. Most people don’t concentrate on the world around them enough to consciously notice the changes; being here now in the realm of the senses is a very rare experience for most domesticated primates. It takes a great deal of focused concentration - or a spontaneously desperate act of will - to bring about larger changes; ones you can’t fail to notice or easily dismiss.”

 

“Naturally,” the earl agrees. “Traditionally, it takes the sort of hyper-aware desperation produced by near-death trauma,” Rupert muses as he retrieves the packet of papers from the shaman’s knee. “But I was thinking of something else… a way of focusing the matrix to bring about specific changes…”

 

“Images are stored in the substance of the world by intently focused will or strongly held emotion,” the prince reminds his interlocutor. “And any supremely intense act or feeling will fix more than mere visions in the dreaming mind of the multiverse.” He continues to mull hash into the dry shards of cigarette tobacco. “An orgasm will transform the universe just as surely as less pleasant but equally impassioned intensities. The key - or the doorway - ye so obviously seek is probably best fulfilled by Tantra.”

 He strokes his beard into a sharp point and the heat blazing from Amber’s body rivals that of the leaping flames when he meets the earl’s watery blue stare. “In any case, we always carry the weather with us,” he declares to the older man. “This is the best of all possible worlds, after all – otherwise we’d be having this conversation somewhere else right now, wouldn’t we?”

 “I see where you’re coming from,” the ginger-aired noble nods with amiable enthusiasm. He fixes the prince with a steely eye. “But where art ye going when the shit hits the fan, eh? Dost thou want to be here now when the Trump of Doom splits air and earth with its booming tune?” His eyes flicker between the mage’s dilated gaze and Amber’s sultry glare as he revels in his rhyme. “Wilt thou both mate and fly, a metamorphosis of angels making love in the cyclone’s great unblinking eye?”

 The shaman’s fingers entwine with Amber’s atop the flaming pit of her lap and he passes an elongated and perfectly formed joint to the earl. “The fat lady is still only clearing her throat,” he declares, “and the result of the race is hardly a foregone conclusion.”

 “This species is incapable of evolving,” Rupert demurs as he twists the white cylinder between thumb and forefinger. “They stopped doing that when they started wearing clothes and counting their babies’ fingers...” He gestures toward the moonlit rural scenery that has so recently replaced a once-mighty primordial Eden; “…and burning down the trees that gave them life. How canst thou save the world when so much of it is surely lost already – or is it possible to bring about global resurrection, or even bypass the coming cataclysms entirely?”

 Ram’yana peers over the glowing sheen of Amber’s jet black hair as she smiles into the fire. He holds the other man’s stare through the rolling waves of their concordantly hallucinating awarenesses. “The best way to avoid such painful junctures is to concentrate on something else entirely – a far more pleasant and wonderful future - and give the spinning world another vector to turn toward. The Sun’s course isn’t fixed, but malleable; Sol surfs the tides of the luminiferous aether, and the state of the swell can alter the artistically chosen path of the shepherd - and his devoted flock of planets.” The tripping hippy surprises himself with the vigour of his spontaneously erupting rebuttal. “And the aether is mindstuff itself! Surely ye recall - it was demonstrated back in the ’80s that focusing a tiny fraction of collective human consciousness can alter the frequency of sunspots…”

 “Aye,” Rupert agrees, “There was that group that meditated on peace and the heart chakra and the Sun all at once, who got together every month, all over the world. What were they called again? ‘Group 13’ or ‘Club 31’ or something? But no-one’s doing it any more, are they? We’re all on a slippery slope toward cataclysm – and arma getting’ outta here!”

 Ram’yana swallows to moisten the crackling husk of his throat before the stream of words erupts from his mouth anew; “The time of changes may well be near, but cataclysms are powered by fear; alternative paths await those who steer brave vessels toward safe seas more clear – the blessed haven that’s held most dear in the hearts of all who sail there from here.” Ram’s palm presses against his breastbone as Amber’s eyes widen in the firelight as he pauses for breath. “The wheel must be turned ’fore the bend is approached, not after the future’s already been broached.” He gasps; the little ditty had come from nowhere and beyond, and its meaning departed the tripping hippy’s mind almost as quickly as he uttered it. “Never mind…” he mumbles as he licks the next cigarette paper.

 “Neverland?” Rupert says from the smouldering base of a rising cloud of smoke. “So we all partake of this cosmic mirror-maze of self absorbed narcissism - compounded by a Peter Pan complex, eh?” Amber pulls her knees up to her chin and turns to regard the grinning earl with a faintly disdainful expression. “Dreaming of Neverland is preferable to megalomania compounded by overcompensation,” the feline woman purrs; her broad smile doesn’t extend to her extraordinary orange irises. “I was wondering,” Rupert muses as he tears his eyes away from hers; “How cam’st thee by this little theory? I haven’t seen its specific ilk in any of the science fiction I’ve read, and the idea of these multiversal gearbox connexions seems to join the dots between various current theories… although the notion that particles are vortexes instead of spheres certainly isn’t new; it goes way back, at least to the time of ancient Greece…”

 “Way beyond,” the prince agrees, “It lies in the dimensional foundations of Creation itself. A vortex is the geometric reciprocal of a sphere, after all; they’re really both aspects of the same crossing waveforms. I started drawing the pictures and writing the ideas down in 2000,” he muses, “just after my youngest was born; just after most of my shattered teeth were dug out of my face in a particularly excruciating visit to the dentist… but I first began to notice that the universe was malleable - or permeable - when I was twelve.”

 Rupert’s guffaws threaten to drown the words of the entertaining performer as his soliloquy extends to fill the intermission between acts. “So there were twelve of you, eh? I guess that makes you a schizophrenic, too. No, really,” he reassures the frowning woman at Ram’s side, “I want to hear all about it; please go on. It looks like we have plenty of timespace to fill before the next band begins – and I want to see if you can actually maintain such a complexly woven thread while you’re tripping!”

 

“It isn’t complex at all,” Ram’yana avers. “It’s simplexity itself. The first time I really noticed what was going on was when I first visited zany old Doctor Hoffmann…” 

A True Story

Continues…

- R.Ayana

From Psychedelic Water 16 at

http://centraxis.blogspot.com/2009/02/alternative-universe-psychedelic-water.html  - BE AWARE! This link leads to implicate & explicit concepts & images

Images – author’s

Creator, Judge or Architect? There Is a Sanity Clause!

 

Creator, Judge or Architect?

There Is a Sanity Clause!

 
“So tell me,” O’Grady asks with a glint in his eye, “do you believe in God?” The black snake venom is coursing through my bloodstream and organs and his eyes are glowing in the semi-darkness.

He swirls in my blurring vision as the reply rises full-blown from my heart without pause for censorship or amendment; “When most people ask that question, I get the impression they don’t mean ‘is there a creator?’ – they really mean ‘is there a Judge?’.” He meets my gaze levelly. “That’s a very penetrating insight,” he says, “very Jesuitical.” My heart doesn’t pause to bask in the glow of flattered pride but continues to pour out of my mouth; “The question has more than one answer, depending on what you really mean. I don’t believe that you mean ‘is there a Judge?’ – but let me answer that one first anyway.” We’re both sitting cross-legged and I shift around to face him more directly.


  “There’s only one judge that counts, and at the moment of your death your eyes are riveted open to every act and deed you’ve ever done, stripped bare before the completely aware gaze of a conscience that’s more penetrating and aware than you could believe. You are your own worst and best judge, stripping yourself to the core.

“But at the same timeless time you’re also suffused with the very spirit of parental compassion, so your judgment of yourself is an admixture of Severity and Mercy, if you like.” I touch my left shoulder with my thumb held between my first two fingers and draw a line across to my right. “Those are the names of these two Sephiras of the Tree of Life, by the by, translated from ancient Hebrew – I prefer ‘Clarity and Compassion’ myself…” O’Grady nods slowly, trailing afterimages in the gloom while my mouth continues moving and my voicebox keeps vibrating as the venom flares in my foot and spreads into my brain.

“So you are the judge, the best you could ever hope for – who knows thee more intimately than thine own conscience? And from that immortal perspective beyond time – beyond matter and space you’re beyond time as well, beyond time’s well…” The memory of my deaths return in full-blown Technicolor and quintaphonic Dolby; “…you decide whether you’ve created a perfect pattern or not – one that satisfies your expanded esthetic and ethical senses, the heart that balances the feather of truth.” Psychedelic images begin feathering inward from the periphery of my vision and it becomes increasingly difficult to focus. I concentrate on deepening my breath and slowing my pulse as my voice goes on and on;

“But more than that – from the true perspective of immortal Justice, the obvious macrocosmic truth is revealed – the secret of all enlightenment – that everyone is everyone and everything you do to anyone is something literally done to yourself. In that moment of crystal-clear awareness karma is something obvious and ever-present, and the only important thing – the only thing relevant to your blown open mind – is the impressions you’ve made on other beings, the links you have to others.

“And you decide whether you’ve lived life as best you could, or fallen short of your own abilities. You keep coming back until you’ve done it – I don’t want to use the word ‘right’, because of all the polarised connotations, and ‘correct’ is no better – but you decide to return to the Wheel until you’ve done it right by yourself, and all your selves. Then you have a further choice to explore something else entirely, or not.

“You may even decide to come back here again anyway, to help out.

“But if you want the short version,” I ramble on, “you are the Judge, Jury, Prosecutor, Defender, Executioner and Redeemer. Don’t accept any substitutes.” I need water to dilute and process the foreign proteins spilling through my blood, but the oxygen-rich air of the rainforest does nicely at present.

O’Grady nods and strokes his emerging beard, smiling into my blur. He’s a Saracen and a Viking, a Highlander and a Persian. “All right then,” he nods, “do you believe there’s a Creator?” 


My hallucinating mind reviews the massed ranks of distant primate people who will cast me into imaginary hellfire or oblivion if my answer is negative – but this translucent vision doesn’t slow my open heart. A deep breath fills my lungs.

“On the one hand I side with the Gnostics – before they were all slaughtered and burned at the stake they insisted that those who purport to be the Creator – like Jehovah, for instance, or Jupiter – are actually demons masquerading as the One True God. But it gets complex – the ancients viewed the planets as gods and goddesses, remember, and many deeds and attributes ascribed to them are referents to planetary events, changes and catastrophes. Incidentally, ‘god’ is a pretty horrendous word for what we’re talking about, don’t you think?”

“I’ve always thought it pretty odd,” he agrees.

“Ugly,” I aver. “The Gnostics pointed out that no compassionate creator would ever do the things described in the old babbling books, and that any entity that did, was an ego-driven demon who should be ignored and driven out at all costs. The Gnostics went a little too far for my taste, claiming the universe itself was an evil cage – I understand their erroneous point of view, but in the long run they were a bit too nihilistic for their own good.” The Ark of the Covenant rears before my inner eye, resplendent and glowing with a blue aura of electrical charge. Before my mouth can wander in that direction my interlocutor intervenes, sparing us both a long digression. “Ah, yes, but – do you believe there’s a Creator?” O’Grady laughs.

 

“On the other hand,” I begin, “we’re talking about something not constrained by our primate templates of authority and awareness – and if it comes down to a choice between the archetypes of Sky Father and Earth Mother, these days I have to come down on the side of the Mother…” O’Grady laughs again. “I’m with you there, bro. It’s ‘Nungeena’ around here, right?”

“Great memory,” I congratulate him. “You got it the first time.”

“It’s just that where I first became exposed to this stuff, Her name was ‘Pacha Mama’.”

“Of course,” I smile.

“Nungeena,” he repeats as I nod. “But on the third hand,” I say, miming the emergence of another arm from my shoulder, “if you want to know what I really believe…” He leans forward as my voice drops. “How much do you know about, uh dimensional theory? Have you ever seen a hypercube?” O’Grady nods emphatically. “No,” I change my mind, “let’s start at the other end – it’s easier from down there.”

“Okay.” “You know there are an infinite number of points in any line?” I mime the action and a fluorescing trail of dot patterns laces the ground in the darkness while he nods. “And there are an infinite number of lines in any given plane, right?” I inscribe long lines at various angles on a scroll of parchment that appears in the nocturnal air.

The serpent poison is coming on strong and my foot is throbbing, swollen and red, but my monolog keeps me loosely bound to the world; I’m grateful to have an audience in this remote Paradise – and haven’t been condemned to merely sitting here alone and dealing with the poison while listening to all this stuff going around inside my head. I haven’t told him about the black snake yet – don’t want to worry him unduly. She will bruise thy heel…

“Well there are also an infinite number of planes in any solid, right?” I chop paths through an imaginary sphere from various angles, as it hovers between us like a small planetoid. O’Grady agrees. “And there are an infinite number of three-dimensional solids in hyperspace,” I conclude my series, sweeping my arms outward to indicate all the other spheres hovering in an immeasurable array that spreads away from us in all directions. “Virtual worlds from this point perspective, just as our universe is an illusion when viewed from theirs.”

For a moment I glimpse the view from hyperspace, from the fugue-riding perspective of the Crown Chakra, and all the spheres interpenetrate each other at various angles and progressions of mutual absorption – and then my mouth keeps working around the cud of my words.

“So from that heightened perspective, from the view of a consciousness dwelling in hyperspace – not beyond or apart from this world but implicately involved in everything here, as intrinsic as space or time – you could be aware of every sparrow that falls, every leaf on every tree and every thought in every being simultaneously. You could be aware of the flux of all the alternative timelines from a sufficient remove…

“It’s like this,” I continue as I see him attempt to imagine that view. I draw a circle on the ground between us. “From up here you can see everything inside that flat circle simultaneously, right? It’s all visible at once.”

“I see,” he says, and he does.

“Now, on the second last and penultimate hand in this trick deck, there’s another point or two I must make if you want a near-complete answer. There are those who draw a distinction between not only Judge and Creator, but also include an Architect in their triune pantheon…”

“Like the Egyptians with that dwarf character – what was his name?” He hands me a smoke.

“Ptah. Ta, thanks. That’s the one. “Around here he’s known as ‘Puntjal’ – pretty similar, considering. Here we have Nungeena (or Mother Nature, the Holy Spirit, the Holy Breath, the Nephesh) as well as Puntjal, the Architect of the Universe – and there’s also the indwelling Creator who dwells at the crown of your head, whose arms extend down through ours from the Dreaming, the Al Chera, Hyperspace, from the Crown of Creation, to work within the world and worlds. But I won’t speak his name here and now…”

“Fair enough. The Architect – ‘Puntjal’?”

“Perfect.” “So the geometric certainty of an interpenetrating series of interdimensional realities – not just some mathematical theory, but an infinitude of multiverses and a vast range of nesting dimensions – informs us that there must be, at very least, the likelihood of a Witness – a consciousness that is aware of everything in our little circle. Infinity is a pretty big place – infinity implies that anything we can imagine must actually exist somehow, somewhere, somewhen, on every scale…”

“So we have a Judge, an Architect, Mother Nature and a Witness – but what about a Creator?” he persists as I pass the smoke back to him.

“For a start, it’s all a hologram so you are already partaking of all of those forms of Godhood – your consciousness already extrudes into all the other dimensions, but we’re usually untrained to perceive or make use of any of them but the familiar ones that are useful to terrestrial primates. They’re all accessible, if you start young enough or are very fortunate or have enough focus and will power. The truth is, thou art God.” I’m pleased to see he doesn’t rebel at the prospect as a circlet of six-pointed stars surrounds his brow and an etheric topknot extrudes from the crown of his head.

“Now, if you really want to pin me down about a Creator – on the one octopoid tentacle, with an infinity of infinities to ponder, a Creator can’t be rendered impossible – and anything not impossible is not only probable, but likely – or even mandatory…”

“Anything not forbidden is compulsory.”

“Exactemundo, compadre.” And on the last tentacular extremity of all, interdimensional theory well understands how to create universes – we can do it in the lab, here at the dawn of the Third Millennium.”

“We can?”

“We can – I’ll explain how, if you like… do you know anything about Brane theory? M theory? Membrane theory?”

“Is this answering my question about a possible or probable Creator?”

“Okay then – you know how in current understandings of time travel, if you go back in time and kill your grandfather there’s no paradox at all?”

“You don’t snuff yourself out of existence then?”

“No – because when you leave the bubble of this hologram and enter another one, it is another one – times ain’t times and oils ain’t oils.

By entering another time stream the current belief is that you create a new time stream – although I differ on that point; I say that within infinity all virtual realities are equally real, and that the traveler is not a creator but just another vainglorious usurper of the title. These so-called ‘creator gods’ are simply stepping into a pre-existing continuum, not creating a new one at all. We don’t each simply create a new universe with each act of will, as postulated within the imagined constraints ascribed to quantum theory – we shift into a pre-existing virtual co-creation. There are an infinity of them.

“If you can imagine the sort of obsessive personality that wants to go back in time and change history – and not even their own history you understand – they know it’s a parallel history they’re tampering with but want to do it anyway – you’ll understand why a lot of the so-called ‘gods’ of the past have been such primitive control freaks.”

“Third Reichers and the like.”

“Precisely – and in some cases literally. Anyway, it’s all a variation on Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle, if you like…”

“That’s where you can’t tell the velocity and trajectory of any subatomic particle at the same time?”

“That’s right – and the implications, as derived by modern physicists, are that the observer creates reality. So we’re all the Creator; manifest reality as we know it is a co-creation, combined from the various point perspectives of innumerable lifeforms in innumerable shapes, with utterly divergent environments and ways of viewing the universe. The manifest world is made by all the intersecting perspectives and wills of us all – and certainly not just those of human beings.

“The more diverse the range of lifeforms in a place, the more enduring the landform itself – and all other factors, like climate for instance. Life changes the odds in favour of itself – the evidence is all there if you take a look, all duly notarized and scientifically notated. Mind and will alter the odds, the flip of the dice, the spin of the electron, the intensity of the Sun, the trajectory of asteroids. You know what the native Americans say – the Web of Life holds it all together and each of us is a strand. “And if mind over matter is real – and it is – then all the other so-called psychic phenomena are equally real and accessible to us all.

“We’re creating it all, all the time. Everything’s an interpenetrating hologram and we’re all points of the same distributed consciousness, of the same – there has to be a better word than ‘oddgod’ – but if you’re looking for a Creator, look in the mirror,” I laugh, drawing a planar pane between us.

We grok. It groks.

“Okay,” he asks as pregnant Molki awakes from her drowsy slumber and leans against him. “What do you think gravity is?”

Step out of the chains binding your mind and life! Your parents and grandparents were happy and satisfied to be lied to by those who still get away with stealing the wealth and knowledge of the Earth (and everywhere else) for themselves – are you?

Turn on. Tune in. Opt OUT! You have nothing to lose but your blinkers. Security is only found within and true abundance comes only to those prepared to give everything away when they no longer need it.

Money is not abundance – it’s a tax on abundance! Why are you reading this? Why are you here? What is it that you need? Why do you need it? Who are you, really?

 

 

- by R.Ayana

Images - author's 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

- See Shamanic Drug
Apoclaypse or Paradise? 

And see

The Her(m)etic Hermit - http://hermetic.blog.com

 New Illuminati – http://nexusilluminati.blogspot.com

 New Illuminati on Facebook - http://www.facebook.com/pages/New-Illuminati/320674219559  

The Prince of Centraxis – http://centraxis.blogspot.com

The Black Goddess and the Sixth Sense

The Black Goddess & the Sixth Sense

- click image to enlarge - 

What Our Self-Blinding Societies Fail To See:

 You Can't Know What You’ve Lost When It's Gone  

    
 

Some books alter the way you view the world forever. The Black Goddess and the Sixth Sense by Peter Redgrove demonstrates the inherent selective blindness of modern Humanity, and shows how things that are repressed – symbolised by the ‘dark senses’ and the hidden female forces that shape the world – are rising to balance human vision once again.  

  

    Redgrove paints breathtaking pictures of the modern mindscape in relation to the myths of Oedipus and the Sphinx and shows how, like Oedipus, self-blinding, self-mutilating patriarchies have led humans to believe they are the end-point of evolution, having solved all ‘important’ mysteries. Historically, this view has led to very real ‘end points’ of another nature entirely.

  

       These deeply embedded and psychically active symbologies also indicate how warrior religions overturned earlier, widespread, more homogenous cultures all over the world, which were more in tune with their environment – cultures which had day-to-day access to the self-evident ‘mysteries’ were systematically eradicated and subsumed by more violently aggressive groups. The conquerors had numbed their true ‘sensuous perceptions’ by alienating the sexes from each other and their senses from themselves, in their daily habits and taboos.  

  

    This schism in the species is slowly being healed from within, according to Redgrove, by the sublime senses and supersenses that we have submerged – but fortunately have been incapable of eradicating.  

  

    He explores the multi-channeled communications systems of nature, many of which we are still rediscovering in ourselves and other species. His elegantly flowing prose illuminates a living planet aswarm with multifaceted symphonies that surround and interpenetrate all of us. He takes us swimming through a dazzling spectrum of sensory modes, pointing out;  

  

    “There are more than seventy octaves of electromagnetic radiation, and the human being acknowledges the visibility of less than one octave, our sight being cramped, as it were, between the red and the violet; the colour of our arterial and intravenous blood.” Sight itself takes up about eighty percent of ‘normal’ sensory brain function; like Oedipus, ‘civilised’ humanity has been blinding itself to the bulk of information that’s always been bombarding and informing us.    Our immature worldviews have relegated most of the actual universe to the status of the peripheral and unimportant – and yet we are not ‘naturally’ blind to these vast forces and energies that surround and interpenetrate us; we have deliberately blinded ourselves to any so-called anomalies that don’t fit into the arbitrary jigsaw puzzles of our religious beliefs and pseudo-scientific dogmas.  

  

    Redgrove – co-author with Penelope Shuttle of the widely-acclaimed Wise Wound, that deals with the rediscovery of the rhythms of the female body – describes studies of animal intelligence and the sophisticated versatility of animal communication forms, touching on the nature of instinct as an agency of the multi-channeled life force of Gaia, our living planet.      He claims modern humans have willingly separated themselves from much of their environment, consciously acknowledging only a tiny portion of reality.  

  

    Visual, audible, tactile, infrared, chemical and electromagnetic sensitivity are discussed and explored as modes of perception and communication – an example being the ‘external hormones’ or pheromones which allow communication between humans, other animals, insects and plants – even across species, phylum and order boundaries.  

  

    “The chemical constituents of animal and plant hormones, sex pheromones and messenger systems in plants and animals are all closely similar. This is why, for instance, the pig responds to the truffle – the latter emits a sex odour-chemical almost identical to the pig’s own; and why you find human insulin in a common bacterium.” There is a near-universal communications system continually functioning between all plants and animals, and one which humans are implicately involved within at all times – yet this ‘hidden, dark’ mode of seemingly extra-sensory communication, that determines many of our actions and reactions, remains almost totally unacknowledged and unexplored.
 

    The Taoist and Tantric schools of knowledge - which were actively investigating these and other vitally important levels of reality and consciousness for millennia - were all destroyed by self-blinded militarists and unquestioning religions. The numbed conquerors feared any deep investigations of the self, seeing sex and sensuous reality as a threat to their domination and control of the womb and society.
 

    This continues to the present day with the persecution and destruction of groups such as the followers of Rajneesh/Osho, the spiritual practitioners of Falun Gong, Tantra, shamanism and ‘new age’ explorers of all hues. Instead we prop up the pernicious fantasies of pathological liars, supporting pedophile religionists and destructive money-mad technologists with our precious time and energy. As a result we have misplaced more than mere access to our supersenses and sensitivities; we have alienated Humanity from itself by driving impermeable wedges between female and male, child and adult, emotion and intellect, self and other.  

 

 

    Humans have cut ourselves off from our ability to consciously control our own fertility and we do not allow ourselves or our children to see or hear vital subtle aspects of reality always perceived by our native cousins and ancestors, who evolved detailed descriptions and sciences of the unseen. The implications and realities of deep empathy and even telepathy are ignored as inadmissible data, despite the fact that everyone experiences these things all the time; we’ve all been carefully taught to ignore obvious truths and to mimic the emperor’s love of invisible clothes, and his immature desire for superfluous gewgaws.
 

    Chimpanzees don’t copy useless or superfluous behaviours; they only mimic things that appeal to their common sense and fit into their societies without disrupting or destroying them. Yet ‘more evolved modern’ humans engage in self-destructive behaviour and copy pointless and even painful fashions and activities without question.   We fail to see that we share the world with a myriad of unseen forces and entities while we fill our children’s open minds with lies about the Tooth Fairy, Santa Claus, Gentle Jesus and Wise Mohammed and the Angel Moron(i) - that inevitably lead innocents to distrust their elders and become cynical materialists, denying their inner awarenesses of the unknown.
 

        Modern processes of education and training also automatically blind children to the unexplained, unacknowledged realities they see and feel all the time. Each generation puts out the eyes of the next to arrest evolution and humans maintain their shuffling stumble through darkness, wondering where the light we all knew and faithfully followed as children has gone.   All alterations to the perfected temple of the human body are suspect. Genital mutilation has literally cut humans off from their supersenses while numbing the species’ feelings and emotions. We have mutilated our bodies and our minds to fit into a sterile, desert-making hierarchical pyramid kingdom of blind termites, in which the one-eyed obsessive always manages to remain King.       

       From the healing of warts and cancers by hypnosis and the nature of the immune system, to the human effects of modern mass communications, and insect antennae being morphically tuned to the electromagnetic spectrum, The Black Goddess and the Sixth Sense is a goldmine of interconnected facts and scientific revelations. For instance, keratin – a common protein found in your hair and nails – is piezoelectric. It actually generates electricity – and radio waves – under pressure, or, for instance, when long hair is waving in the wind or moving. We literally cut off a multileveled mode of communication when we cut ourselves off from our hair. 

  

    “Gases containing free-flowing organic materials, like pheromones, are especially voracious of infra-red and microwaves, and the organic molecules will re-radiate this energy that is poured into them, although it will be transformed by the vibratory system of the particular molecule.” The radio waves generated by our hair cause our pheromones to fluoresce in the ultraviolet range, making our ‘auras’ glow just at the edge of our accepted perceptions. 

       Pheromones are a form of chemical communications transmitted from most of your body, passing through us as hormones and traveling between almost all species as aerial pheromones. Pheromone receptors are found wherever we have mucous membranes and these substances are passed into and through us from all other lifeforms. Modern drugs and cosmetics mute and conceal these substances and serve to further cut us off from each other and the living world, while blocking our pores and receptors. As every young child knows, your hair and nails are integral and important components of a whole, unsullied being.

        Science is coming to tentative explanations of such concepts as auras and the existence of aspects of an underlying morphogenetic field or collective consciousness, and researcher have found ways to actually detect such fields within the well-known electromagnetic spectrum. “One view of atomic structure is that matter itself is like an interference pattern between waves… matter is a particular form of electromagnetism…” 

       The ‘onlooker’ or ‘spectator’ consciousness prevalent in the Western paradigm and science from Aristotle to today is reviewed by Redgrove. It is compared with such self-integrating concepts as Chi and Feng-shui from ancient China - and other cultures more aware of the “radiant continuum” of life than our ‘modern scientific’ viewpoint, with its blinkered attempts to monopolise knowledge into a simplistic, dead-end materialistic coffin.  

  

    In our pursuit of knowledge we have been led inexorably toward recognition of ‘invisible’ forces. In our denial of the sensuous invisibles we create invisible terrors, due to the blind spots we refuse and fear to see and the numb places we refuse and fear to feel.   The Black Goddess shows how culturally implanted anti-sensual isolation and guilt has led to the repression of our supersenses, magical belief systems and even non-abstract Romantic and representational art and music. All apparently ‘acausal’ phenomena are tidily and fixedly ignored in the inaccurately neat Aristotelian worldview, whose denizens ignore their imaginations and therefore ignore an organ of perception into unknown realms.   From this deep pit of sublimation, the ‘Black Goddess’ of our suppressed nature rises all-pervasive; like the Sphinx, She is a mediatrix who can reconcile apparent opposites into a fused complementary whole, freeing females and males, humans and animals, intellect and emotion from their unreal abstractions of each other.
 

        We populate the unknown with programmed fears and mythological angels wielding flaming swords that bar us from the Paradise that surrounds us - instead of exploring the dark, ‘subconscious’ realms of our world with unrecognised senses and supersenses already tailored to its infinite depths. Darkness is not an absence, not the enemy of the light; it is its palpable, unexplored complement.

         
The Black Goddess and the Sixth Sense is a book destined to radically change the perceptions and beliefs of any who read it.    
 

Your parents and grandparents were happy and satisfied to be lied to by those who still get away with stealing the wealth and knowledge of the Earth (and everywhere else) for themselves  – are you?

Turn on. Tune in. Opt OUT!   

-               R. Ayana  

-                This article is NOT a paid ad for this publication, but a genuinely appreciative appraisal of a landmark work by an insightful author. A shorter version was published in NEXUS New Times magazine, Vol. 1, No 5 

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