Immortal Recoil: Total Recall - The Life of Meaning in the Carnal Nation

Immortal  Recoil

Total Recall - The Life of Meaning in the Carnal Nation

If you are an immortal being living through a succession of mortal lifetimes, why can’t you remember your past? If we’re all in control of our own destinies, how and why have we decided to forget?

            Where do you go when you’re asleep? How do you ‘go to sleep’? Are you the same person when you wake up? Can you remember who you were yesterday? How much of your own childhood do you remember? How much of last month – last year?  

 Have you ever experienced anything you wanted to forget? Have you ever wished you could start your life all over – with a blank slate?

If I want to remember my previous lives, I must explore memory itself to pass through the waters of forgetfulness and reach the dawn of illumination. I must expand and refine my recollections of this life, sorting truth from accretion and memory from fantasy. I must divine for truth as a dowser divines for hidden water or minerals.

I must learn how to tell truth from falsehood, illusion and self-delusion – and continually practice this art, by being my harshest critic and taskmaster and my most compassionate mentor and friend. I must develop a very sensitive bullshit detector and an expansive sense of empathy for the blind sleepwalkers all around me.

I can’t expect the world to make much impression on me if I’m living a half-waking dream all my life – if the reality revealed by my senses is always passing me by, drowned out by the incessant commentary always running through my mind. I have to be certain I’m awake to know I’m not dreaming a vivid fantasy.

            I have to be here now if I want to actually experience my life. I have to be mindful of what’s really happening inside me and all around me. To do that, I have to stop my thoughts, or alternately separate my self from the eternal chatter of the surface veneer of my identity - the acculturated monkey mind and emotions that have grown with me since I was swimming in my mother’s womb.

I have to find a deeper wellspring within, beyond the unending entertainments that distract me from life itself. I have to silence the chatter or remove myself from its internal influence, by locating my self in the centre of the eternal cyclone of thought and emotion.

I have to know who it is who goes to sleep and wakes up every night and every day.

            I have to know the true meaning of the word ‘meditation’, which has nothing whatever to do with thinking. I have to find out who it is that’s doing all the thinking – or being distracted by it!

            I have to open my mind to all the things that the purblind natives of this dawning New Millennium deny and exclude from their blinkered tunnelled visions – the realities filtered out by hidebound neo-feudal cultures that stubbornly refuse to observe anomalies, discrepancies and outright disproof of their common beliefs and quaint ‘scientific’ notions.

            If I want to have a life I have to walk away from the screen when I finish reading this and explore reality – if my memory span extends that far!

 If I am not the sum of my thoughts, beliefs, habits and culture, then what am I? What is within me that survives to carry on?

            Am I a projection into this four dimensional TimeSpace, a partial expression of an expanded being, who simultaneously dwells throughout many other dimensions as well? Am I part of something and someone that dwells in all the hyperspaces and parallel continua that we know exist (in implicate, interconnected conjunction with the reality we can see, hear, feel, smell and taste with our terrestrial time-bound senses), from the observations of physics and the realities implicit in geometry? And from the subtle magic of synchronicity and coincidence…

When you realise your mind isn’t yours and your consciousness isn’t confined to the cave of your skull, it’s easy to see how an apparently finite, mortal, death-bound being could in fact be a virtual extension of something else entirely. You can access all these realms and dimensions by expanding y/our consciousness. And paradoxically, this is facilitated by concentrating on the smallest things – or nothing at all.

Staying alive and aware is a continual weaning process. Potty training only ends in infancy in primitive societies full of throwaway people with short lives and attention spans, whose purpose is simply to maintain a dreaming gene-pool. Gaining complete control of your breathing, digestive system, heartbeat, brain activity, fertility and all other physical parameters is well within the capabilities of most children. It’s the way out of the matrix.

Almost all those who could have taught us how to escape the prisons of our cultures by exploring our own nature were burned at the stake or stoned to death by our superstitious grandparents or forebears – but the techniques are implicit in the forms and functions of our bodies; a true seeker will always find a way, and will be helped along by the indivisible invisible hands of those who’ve preceded you, if your mind and heart are in the right place. In a universe where memory is truly ineradicable, lost techniques and memories can be recovered and resurrected.

In our primitive superstition-ridden cultures of the early New Millennium - in which people are automatically taught to be suspicious and afraid of their own bodies and sexuality – most humans don’t even know where their physical organs are located after a decade of ‘education’. How can we expect to have any idea of what we are when we’re encouraged not to look at (or touch) our selves or each other? How can we find our true nature (or even nature itself) if we allow ourselves to be continually distracted by bullshit and melodrama? Will we find ourselves in a sitcom or ‘reality’ show? Do clothes make the woman? How’s the attention span going?

If you want to be cleansed of unpleasant memories or the pitiful painful results of an unexamined life and self-destructive lifestyle, an easy way is to cut off all your sensory inputs. You can do this by staying in a sensory deprivation chamber, by taking opiates, by going to sleep or by dying. If you remain in a sensory deprivation chamber for a couple of weeks your mind will be washed clean – unless you’re particularly adept at meditation - and a womb makes an excellent sensory deprivation chamber, washing you in the warm waters of forgetfulness for months.

            Some philosophers suggest that if people knew they were immortal, we’d all automatically be aware of the laws of karma and dharma and practice the Golden Rule. But immortality is no impediment to free will. We all have many of the same motivations to be creative, honourable and compassionate or cruel, uncaring and destructive, whether we have a small single life or a big multiplex one. Regardless of whether you’re immortal or not, the same ethical questions apply; and either way, you can’t leave yourself behind and wherever you go, there you are, for as long as you are you. It’s an excellent motivation for changing the things in yourself you aren’t comfortable with – and a terrible lesson for would-be suicides.

            In the folklore of forgetfulness, the amnesiac is compelled to relive aspects of the events they have forgotten; he who forgets the lessons of his story is condemned to repeat them. Until full waking memory relinks the past with the future, the amnesiac is trapped in a cycle of repetition – and hell is often defined as repetition.

            Yet immortality provides a wider and deeper perspective into the connectedness of all things and beings, and this does make a fundamental difference to our beliefs, motives and actions. In the absolute centre of the cyclone, I am you, and we are Divine.

Who are you again? Are you distracted yet? What’s that over there?

Your parents and grandparents were happy and satisfied to be lied to and cheated 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! Find like-minded friends and work with them to free the world and free our Mind…

-         R. Ayana

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For more by R. Ayana see http://nexusilluminati.blogspot.com/search/label/r.%20ayana  

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Remember to Remember: The Temptation of Inner Sense

Remember to Remember

The Temptation of Inner Sense

Could it be you are immortal? Could you be an immortal with amnesia?
 
How much do you want to remember of your past? Is there anything you would rather forget? How much would you have to give up to completely forget a single memory – and how to regain what you don’t know you’ve lost?

If you are actually a reincarnating immortal, how much have you forgotten, how and why did you forget your past – and do you want to remember it?

In a single life you can do many different things and be many different people to those who encounter you. The stages of life alter your attitudes, image, self-image and perceptual reality. Are you the same person you were when you were younger, or a child? Does that child still dwell somewhere within you or is it sleeping or buried beneath the detritus of time?

You were born and lived for years in the body of a small child. All that time you were conscious, learning and aware. You were probably more aware and sensitive than in the rest of your entire lifetime. How much of it do you remember? Your personality and character was almost fully formed – and fundamentally identical to your present state – before the age of three.

How many of your past lives can you remember? If you can’t remember your own childhood, how can you expect to recall any times further back, beyond your birth? What was your birth into this world like?

Can it be that you are immortal and that you have chosen to forget? Would you choose to remember, given the choice?

The processes that can lead to a loss of memory are many and varied. For example head injury, a spell in a sensory deprivation chamber or hypnosis are able to alter memory or suppress it beneath layers of reactions that can drive the mind away from its own experiences. Painful experiences are one motivation that can help convince you to lose your memory. But the will to forget comes first, before the actual forgetting. 

You’re the one in charge of your awareness. You have to decide to lose yourself before you can; but that decision may be a single traumatised moment in an entire lifetime and it may be separated by years in time from the apparent ‘cause’ of forgetfulness, be it injury or therapy.

Almost everyone wishes for a ‘clean slate’ at some point in their life, a new start or another chance. It’s the temptation of innocence. The implications of wanting a new beginning are rarely considered, but usually involve death and rebirth, actual or mythic.

Fortunately, we don’t actually get a tabula rasa – a clean slate – when we die or otherwise forget, but a palimpsest – a sheet that’s been erased to write upon again. And the underlying inscription always lurks beneath the surface scribing.

More intense memories inscribe deeper impressions in our mindscape, that tend to emerge from beneath the single sheeted plane of (con)temporary temporal existence. They may arrive as memory ‘flashbacks’ (often dismissed as dreams or hallucinations), bouts of deja vu, or be the source of unexamined compulsions. Any imagery that recurs over and again deserves closer examination and can be a seed point from which you can expand your recollections. Suppressed memories and their effects are never gone. They’re always here. Wherever or whenever you go, here you are. You may run, but you can’t hide from yourself.

The common mechanisms for self-erasure involve death and rebirth. A few weeks in a sensory deprivation chamber removed from external stimulus will serve to erase much of your mind. Without meditation training and/or much self-examination, current existence dissolves in an ongoing miasma of dreams and visions.

The Other ‘Little Death’

Every night you surrender to sleep, abandoning your willed focus on the present moment and location and slip into dreams of other possibilities, lives, worlds and universes. Every night you are lost to this world. Every day you come back again. Remind you ofanything?

Meditation, lucid sleep and conscious dreaming are pathways to expand the time your own awareness (and memory of these other realms) is available to you. Examining your awareness on the threshold of sleep can show you that you are more than the sum of your mundane experience. Without such experimentation at least a third of this life is beyond your ken.

Effective meditation lifts you above the local realm of your cultural imprints, particularly language. Real communication occurs at much deeper levels than those available through local, temporary linguistics. The eternal being doesn’t speak in linear languages. Words and syllables are finite shorthand used by the immortal and ineffable to express itself; one reason why ‘oral traditions’ are effective at communicating truths that are all but inexpressible in the written form.

Meditation involves stopping your thoughts, quieting the continual chatter of the ‘monkey mind’ – the local personality that believes endless talking and action proves it’s alive, the internal being that panics and attempts to distract you with more thought when you ask it to shut up. The monkey believes that peace is death and can’t be convinced otherwise until you leapfrog over it to reach the central throne of your own inner self, where the only real peace resides and where true will abides. It’s this nameless core in you that survives to go on forever, wreathed in the cloaks of personality and experience.

God doesn’t dwell in books or words. God lives in you.

 
The will to forget may arise from a single moment but it’s an ongoing process. You can’t forget once, but must continually re-forget, day by day, again and again. The amnesiac is held between and attracted by two magnetic currents of their own construction; the will to forget and the wish to remember. A physical or mental trauma will be buried not once but continually as the amnesiac allows their self to be distracted from the source of inner terror over and again. Every time an intimation of the ‘lost’ memory appears it’s ignored, suppressed or otherwise run from.

Knowing that there’s something you don’t recall, it’s all too easy to believe you don’t want to remember because you’re guilty of something horrendous. This easily becomes a motive to continue to suppress the memory that’s trying to awaken you. But far more often the guilt is actually imaginary and is simply a major motivating and reinforcing mechanism of amnesia itself. It’s another tool of the monkey mind that serves to keep you split from yourself, away from your own centre.

The wish to remember is always present and the moment of Enlightenment is always immanent. When exploring past lives the first memories that return are often ones that have left the deepest imprints. The impression may be of pain or ecstasy but it will commonly be of an intense time, often involving trauma at the end of an incarnation. These first recollections are sometimes enough to stop the seeker from searching further into the endless realms of experience, where wonderful ages full of magic and bliss can be occluded by one angry moment. Don’t put yourself off – the monkey is panicking.

As Kurt Vonnegut said, one way to get through life happily is to concentrate on the good things. To achieve inner illumination is to see that you are continually creating reality at every moment, from a place beyond time and space. Your mind is always somewhere other than where you are. Words, language and even thought are always at least one step behind reality and with them you can never apprehend NOW.

To do that, you have to be here now. You have to want to be here now. Look around, explore it will all your senses. It’s still a beautiful world and you are God. Love yourself and all others – we’re all in it together!

- R. Ayana

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The Prince of Centraxis

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Spirits Crave the Mother's Cave

 Spirits Crave the Mother's Cave

 - click to enlarge -

Mortal  Recoil

Total Recall - The Life of Meaningin the Carnal Nation

If you are an immortal being living through a succession of mortal lifetimes, why can’t you remember your past? If we’re all in control of our own destinies, how and why have we decided to forget?

            Where do you go when you’re asleep? How do you ‘go to sleep’? Are you the same person when you wake up? Can you remember who you were yesterday? How much of your own childhood do you remember? How much of last month – last year?  

 Have you ever experienced anything you wanted to forget? Have you ever wished you could start your life all over – with a blank slate?

If I want to remember my previous lives, I must explore memory itself to pass through the waters of forgetfulness and reach the dawn of illumination. I must expand and refine my recollections of this life, sorting truth from accretion and memory from fantasy. I must divine for truth as a dowser divines for hidden water or minerals.

I must learn how to tell truth from falsehood, illusion and self-delusion – and continually practice this art, by being my harshest critic and taskmaster and my most compassionate mentor and friend. I must develop a very sensitive bullshit detector and an expansive sense of empathy for the blind sleepwalkers all around me.

I can’t expect the world to make much impression on me if I’m living a half-waking dream all my life – if the reality revealed by my senses is always passing me by, drowned out by the incessant commentary always running through my mind. I have to be certain I’m awake to know I’m not dreaming a vivid fantasy.

            I have to be here now if I want to actually experience my life. I have to be mindful of what’s really happening inside me and all around me. To do that, I have to stop my thoughts, or alternately separate my self from the eternal chatter of the surface veneer of my identity - the acculturated monkey mind and emotions that have grown with me since I was swimming in my mother’s womb.

I have to find a deeper wellspring within, beyond the unending entertainments that distract me from life itself. I have to silence the chatter or remove myself from its internal influence, by locating my self in the centre of the eternal cyclone of thought and emotion.

I have to know who it is who goes to sleep and wakes up every night and every day.

            I have to know the true meaning of the word ‘meditation’, which has nothing whatever to do with thinking. I have to find out who it is that’s doing all the thinking – or being distracted by it!

            I have to open my mind to all the things that the purblind natives of this dawning New Millennium deny and exclude from their blinkered tunneled visions – the realities filtered out by hidebound neo-feudal cultures that stubbornly refuse to observe anomalies, discrepancies and outright disproof of their common beliefs and quaint ‘scientific’ notions.

            If I want to have a life I have to walk away from the screen when I finish reading this and explore reality – if my memory span extends that far!

 If I am not the sum of my thoughts, beliefs, habits and culture, then what am I? What is within me that survives to carry on?

            Am I a projection into this four dimensional TimeSpace, a partial expression of an expanded being, who simultaneously dwells throughout many other dimensions as well? Am I part of something and someone that dwells in all the hyperspaces and parallel continua that we know exist (in implicate, interconnected conjunction with the reality we can see, hear, feel, smell and taste with our terrestrial time-bound senses), from the observations of physics and the realities implicit in geometry? And from the subtle magic of synchronicity and coincidence…

When you realise your mind isn’t yours and your consciousness isn’t confined to the cave of your skull, it’s easy to see how an apparently finite, mortal, death-bound being could in fact be a virtual extension of something else entirely. You can access all these realms and dimensions by expanding y/our consciousness. And paradoxically, this is facilitated by concentrating on the smallest things – or nothing at all.

Staying alive and aware is a continual weaning process. Potty training only ends in infancy in primitive societies full of throwaway people with short lives and attention spans, whose purpose is simply to maintain a dreaming gene-pool. Gaining complete control of your breathing, digestive system, heartbeat, brain activity, fertility and all other physical parameters is well within the capabilities of most children. It’s the way out of the matrix.

Almost all those who could have taught us how to escape the prisons of our cultures by exploring our own nature were burned at the stake or stoned to death by our superstitious grandparents or forebears – but the techniques are implicit in the forms and functions of our bodies; a true seeker will always find a way, and will be helped along by the indivisible invisible hands of those who’ve preceded you, if your mind and heart are in the right place. In a universe where memory is truly ineradicable, lost techniques and memories can be recovered and resurrected.

In our primitive superstition-ridden cultures of the early New Millennium - in which people are automatically taught to be suspicious and afraid of their own bodies and sexuality – most humans don’t even know where their physical organs are located after a decade of ‘education’. How can we expect to have any idea of what we are when we’re encouraged not to look at (or touch) our selves or each other? How can we find our true nature (or even nature itself) if we allow ourselves to be continually distracted by bullshit and melodrama? Will we find ourselves in a sitcom or ‘reality’ show? Do clothes make the woman? How’s the attention span going?

If you want to be cleansed of unpleasant memories or the pitiful painful results of an unexamined life and self-destructive lifestyle, an easy way is to cut off all your sensory inputs. You can do this by staying in a sensory deprivation chamber, by taking opiates, by going to sleep or by dying. If you remain in a sensory deprivation chamber for a couple of weeks your mind will be washed clean – unless you’re particularly adept at meditation - and a womb makes an excellent sensory deprivation chamber, washing you in the warm waters of forgetfulness for months.

            Some philosophers suggest that if people knew they were immortal, we’d all automatically be aware of the laws of karma and dharma and practice the Golden Rule. But immortality is no impediment to free will. We all have many of the same motivations to be creative, honourable and compassionate or cruel, uncaring and destructive, whether we have a small single life or a big multiplex one. Regardless of whether you’re immortal or not, the same ethical questions apply; and either way, you can’t leave yourself behind and wherever you go, there you are, for as long as you are you. It’s an excellent motivation for changing the things in yourself you aren’t comfortable with – and a terrible lesson for would-be suicides.

            In the folklore of forgetfulness, the amnesiac is compelled to relive aspects of the events they have forgotten; he who forgets the lessons of his story is condemned to repeat them. Until full waking memory relinks the past with the future, the amnesiac is trapped in a cycle of repetition – and hell is often defined as repetition.

            Yet immortality provides a wider and deeper perspective into the connectedness of all things and beings, and this does make a fundamental difference to our beliefs, motives and actions. In the absolute centre of the cyclone, I am you, and we are Divine.

Who are you again? Are you distracted yet? What’s that over there?

Your parents and grandparents were happy and satisfied to be lied to and cheated 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! Find like-minded friends and work with them to free the world and free our Mind…

-         R. Ayana

image - author's

To Infinity and Beyond: This Is the Afterlife

  Click to enlarge

To Infinity and Beyond 

This Is the Afterlife 

Turning inside out, the young shaman falls though a long swirling tunnel formed of his inverted self, his unbodied mouth and eyes agape in a primal rush toward extinction.

He accelerates through a tightly wound vortex that shifts and bends to accommodate his course, always centred in the swirling tube which never touches his falling, disembodied perspective. The tunnel is made of light, and of his own bloodstream, and of all the memories and unremembered details of materiality and personality that made up his life – yet not merely ‘his’ life.

Every human, fish, bird, animal, insect, cell and blood corpuscle that has ever lived is there with him, all at once – the dying shaman can feel their bright fear and ecstasy pouring through him as they all rush toward an unseen destination around the curving, translucent bends of the primal vortex. Even though every being dies alone – no matter if a multitude of witnesses is present – the moment of death itself is one great screaming orgasm experienced simultaneously by every one, every single thing that has ever lived – all our eyes and mouths and ganglia agape at the same simultaneous culmination of our material existence.

The tunnel is an eternally vivid living record of past events and future dreams, all memories and visions embroidered into the seamless fabric of its swirl – and Ram’yana’s private past and the panoply of his personal memories are displayed most prominently to him, brightly livid episodes which emerge from the tubular walls as he passes. His strongest experiences – the most impressive ones, that imprinted themselves most brightly into the palimpsest of his being – leap out at him in high relief as he turns and twists and falls and flies, a singular eye of consciousness accelerating toward the endless end of the convoluted time tunnel that’s leading him home.

As the world we experience slips past us at the periphery of our sensoria, an ongoing tunnel vision moves with us at the extremity of our perceptions, whether dying, dead or alive. Journeying out of the physical plane, outside the material matrix of the world, Ram’yana is beyond time and the ken of time-bound beings; as he leaves four dimensional Timespace and approaches the speed of light everything twists into a tunnel which lengthens fore and aft.

He sees his grandfather and grandmother, Mickey Mouse and Pluto, all the dogs and cats and mice and goldfish that shared his boyhood years, the smells of his houses and the flavours of his lovers. He hears the laughter of his kindergarten friends, their bright faces visible all around him singing ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’, while pretty little Abigail jumps over a spinning rope twirled by Gina and Hannah, her long blonde pink-ribboned pigtails rotating around the sides of her head.

He holds his mother’s huge hand, grasping her finger through the wooden bars of his bassinet while she sings to him in the sultry evening air. He witnesses the expression of semi-resigned shock on his father’s face during the Cuban missile crisis and again when Kennedy was shot, sees the squashed remains of mosquitoes on the wall above his crib, watches the strange lights moving in the sky while all the neighbours point and speculate, sinks again with a collapsing sandbank on Bondi Beach, swept away with hundreds of panicking faces being pulled out to the deep sea along with him, while hundreds of man-eating sharks are driven off by the beating, splashing oars of desperate lifesavers.

He sees his mother’s eyes for the first time all over again and screams at the hard slap on his bottom as he hangs before Doctor Traub’s thick-lensed glasses in the bright, antiseptic birth theatre. His paternal grandmother smiles at him as she leans over and obscures his view of the magnificent giant yellow flowers of the magnolia tree while she wheels him in his pram; he can still smell the cloying fragrance of the flowers. His mother’s mother screams as he holds a dingo puppy up for her inspection and she tumbles over backward in her bedroom, breaking her hip while his eight year old eyes wash the scene away with tears that burn through the illusory years.

The Cat in the Hat and the Mighty Thor; the smell and Hungarian accent of alcoholic Uncle Tony, putting him off beer for years with his first taste of bitter ale at the age of six, and the bright laughing face of his babysitter Wendy by the blazing wood fire; the spray of blood when he cut his wrist falling onto a broken bottle at the age of three and the dizzying view from the emergency surgeon’s high private balcony; the first time he kissed a girl and the first time he dreamed of kissing a girl, all bound up together; flying through the sky in a propeller-driven passenger plane, watching circular rainbows following him in the clouds below.

White sulphur-crested cockatoos and sparrows circle his yard while kookaburras laugh in the gum trees; the first terrifying time his father holds him up high in the air to place him in the fork of a tree; his first night after he ran away from home, reclining on a beanbag in a Kings Cross commune reading Philip Jose Farmer’s pertinent To Your Scattered Bodies Go – everything is there, each scene and sensation embedded within and revealing a multitude of others. Everything. His dying mind seeks out everything he’s ever experienced, seeking a way back into the womb of living as he falls through something else entirely, riding a rollercoaster beyond the imagination of the most topologically tormented tycoon.

As Ram’yana falls he flashes before the eyes of his whole life – as others fall with him, many others, all others, sharing the time tunnel with his self-judging awareness. In the eternity of the Fall everything hidden or repressed is exposed in the Divine Light of clear sight and each being is their own Judge, emerging from the blindfold of their material existence to weigh their own soul on the ineradicable scales of justice and mercy. Conscience is the soul and the soul is immortally, inescapably honest with itself when released from the fetters of self-deceit and delusion.

Beyond time, at the singular moment of the great primal rush that is the birth and death canal leading from one world to the next, everyone experiences the same thingat the same time. We all come and go together in a mind-blowing orgasm; dreaming or screaming, laughing or crying, all emotion quails and pales before the rush of unstoppable motion that dwarfs any and every trivial concern.

No thought of gods or devils, life or death in the primal scream toward the Light at the end of the tunnel – the only thing that matters is holding onto your headless hat and the wordless regrets felt toward all the people, animals and conscious entities you ever knew deeply, or ever loved – and still love, deeply, tenderly, with a perspective of forgiveness, understanding and compassion never vouchsafed to your flesh-bound, in-coiled, emotion-embroiled mortal personality.

Ram is every human who ever lived and died, every fish ever caught in a current to swirl down into lightless depths beyond its control, every bird caught in a whirlwind that flings it to flinders, every animal diving for cover into cloaking vegetation from an inescapable predator, every individual blood corpuscle flinging itself on the way to the crushing pressure at the heart of its warm, pulsating cosmos. As he pours through the end of the world the tunnel twists and whirls, always hiding the point of it all, the point of no return, the heart of the matter, the source of every thing and being – and his mind expands to simultaneously see his spiraling course as a single thread in a vast interwoven image.

The tunnel is one thread among myriad drab and colourful strands in a great uncharitable tapestry, an inextricable part of its intricate pattern. The dying shaman follows the course of his life along its undulating strand and sees that his thread rises and falls above and beneath uncountable other interlocking threads, a spectrum of hues and textures in the enormously unfathomable tapestry. As his thread rises above another he is ‘conscious’, while the thread it occludes is ‘dreaming’; where his strand is covered by another thread, his mortal body sleeps and dreams while the other strand lives their waking life. Everyone and everything is there, all at once, simultaneously, lain out and displayed before him with no need for the flow of time to elucidate the infinite multiplicity of being.

Turn the tapestry around. The thought comes unbidden and the cloth reverses itself around him in a loopy topological twist; the implicately shared complementary nature of consciousness becomes apparent to his blown mind as he sees himself dreaming the lives of others, and others dreaming through his waking eyes and flesh. The intermingling pathways wind around the curving delineaments of their divine co-creation, which turns into itself like a Moebius strip until the beginning of one thread seamlessly winds into the end of another. The falcon is the hunter is the arrow is the feather is the truth. All is alive and whole; nothing is partial or frayed.

The tapestry is vast, but he’s able to follow his individuated thread through the colourful patterns and sees that the enormous conglomeration of dreams and lives is incomplete – not completed by the path of the single thread that is his experience of existence, rising from the tapestry to enter him as him. At the same timeless moment, Ram’yana approaches the plexus of light that is the destiny of all nations, women and men – the future and past of all that are born to fall along with him, minds blown in the blinding light of the immortal portal.

An immaculate blazing white-hot sun glows at the end of the tunnel. He can see it ever more clearly through the transparing walls of the vortex, thinning and fading in the face of the overwhelmingly brilliant source and core of existence. Ram sees the arcs of a trans-finite net spreading outward from the source, sees an infinitude of other vortices approaching its plexus from more angles than he can wrap his bodiless head around. They pass through each other in ways that defy and tease his mortal three-dimensionally entrained mind – but the arrangement makes subtle sense to a higher form of his being, trembling on the edge of an unchartable metamorphosis into something so much greater as to be intrinsically unimaginable. Simultaneously, on another level, the individual personality of the shaman approaches its ultimate rebirth and transformation in his flight toward the blinding light of the central sun.

The source of all is the hot, bright core and central axis of the centreless multiverse, the eternal end of every tunnel; the maw of a transdimensional creature about to swallow him up, the Infinite Light of God and his own silent heart gently glowing in timeless repose. He flies around a final bend in the dissolving tunnel, surging toward the arcane net that veils the core – which flares into him as the tunnel widens, opening into the final straight.

Ram’yana flashes toward the weave that’s flung to the ends of the cosmos, spreading himself to embrace the Light – and as he reaches it, he encounters the safety net. A web-like sieve is strung across the open maw of All, and as Ram’yana passes though it a great, resounding BOUMMB fills the boundless universe – the sound of one heartbeat, as loud as the boom that eternally creates the unborn, ever-living universe; the sound of Shiva’s eye opening and of one hand clapping.

Before your time, he hears and feels, not ready, not yet – unfinished – and he feels himself shrinking toward an infinitesimally small spot in the multitude of multiverses – back into the weave, where plan net X marks the spot where all things meet in his current-bound primate life.

Boumb… Boom…. Boom!  

That’s why I’m here, writing this to you ‘now’ – the same ‘now’ that you are reading it in, really. I and eye remember it all vividly, not as something to slowly forget or avoid in the unfocused mind’s eye, but as an ongoing experience that is with me now, always, dynamically imprinted. It is with me as it is with you, when you close your eyes and open your memory to see truly through the waters of forgetfulness, to the infinite waters of eternal life.

Life and death, sensory wakefulness and supersensory dreaming are the same thing, appearing as the warp and weft of the reversible tapestry of existence. And everyone, each of us, is the whole tapestry, inextricably interwoven – everyone is everyone, and that’s about as close as this constraining corsetry of early third millennium Inglesh needs to get at this point in infinite time – xcept, perhaps, for the most important thing of all -

Every one you truly touch and are touched by, in every way, leaves the deepest and most prominent engravings in your heart, mind and soul. What we do unto others is what we do to ourselves – and other living beings are more than mere memory mirrors or handy usable tools. That’s what draws us back for more, and more again – the need to do better by our selves – over and over, until we do it right. Then we get another choice – or another chance to ride the carousel Wheel of Fortune again, if we so choose.

The multiple layers of ascendant consciousness are a self-filtering system of co-evolution – a system of slowly developing focus and perspective that leads our awareness to other dimensions, already inextricably interwoven with the relatively ‘familiar’ bounds of our largely unknown but ever-present reality. There’s no dim-witted hierarchy of order-givers or sword-wielding guardians barring the doors of higher perception – the gateway to Heaven on Earth. There’s just you – and me, and all of us, together. We all have our time to shine, and that time is always now.

Yet Death is not Dying. In the Bardo spaces between thy flowering carnations of existence, all the bright religious hopes and turgid superstitious terrors await the untrained monkey mind in its ongoing fall toward dissolution or reintegration. The Bardo Realms are entire worlds or pocket universes as apparently solid as the full-blown reality ye imagine around thee, right where thou art sitting, right now. How do ye know thou art alive, not dreaming this experience, right here and now? Do ye think that’s air you’re breathing?

A true story

By R. Ayana

From Shaman of Centraxis 4 via http://nexusilluminati.blogspot.com/2012/10/to-infinity-and-beyond-this-is-afterlife.html

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