Vis Viva – Chapter 2 No Man

“No man is an iland intire of it’ selfe:
Every man is a peece of the continent;”


John Donne, Meditation XVII from Devotions Upon Emergent Occasions.

So then what happened to this organism called Eric and why is he writing this, his own personal Chautauqua? His motives for this are not clear. Nor yet are his natures for there are many of these. All that he has told me is that there is in him a pressing need to express, to find a way to describe what was and is a most interesting path through life and onwards.

“It all started with Jason Bourne.” He tells me this is as good a point as any, from which to start. When Jason, after he realises the nature of what he has gotten himself into, refuses to submit to the programme he is forced, trained as an assassin and begins his missions. When asked to kill a man in front of his children something of the David Webb in him resurfaces, he botches the mission and is nearly killed as a result. He is then quite literally adrift on the sea of life not knowing who or what he is, with but a few clues to his past and a fog of amnesia surrounding him. He goes back to look at all the places and the people he once knew, trying to piece together what has happened.

Metaphor then is what it says on the tin, it is a transfer by linguistic connivance; a transfer from another reality or world into this one. It presupposes that this one is common. Of course it isn’t, yet it might be. In the use of metaphor Eric reckons that one can get a flavour or a taste of what he is trying to say and hint at the depths of the other worlds’ journey to Annwn in search of Awen, the inspiration of the vis viva. The breath which breathes life into all things, the breath that comes on the four winds and the moods they bear with them upon their shoulders, sometimes lightly and sometimes not. The Chautauqua then, is the search for a personal sense of Jesus, that sense of the divine potential incarnate in us all; where we are our own personal saviour, a sangraal quest for our inner being; the sense of at-one-ment with the world around us and perhaps the non mundane.

Eric came upon something quite by accident when he was a young man, caught up in all the hedonism of student life. It was a series of books starting for him with “The Journey to Ixtlan” written by Carlos Castaneda and so he heard of this thing called “the Warrior’s path”. He was rather taken by this series of books and read them all with a zeal, he was later to become famous for. When he talked about them with his flat mates it was rather clear that he had taken them seriously and they hadn’t. Something funny was going on and that year he was rather ill with many fevers. But he could not pretend he hadn’t heard, because he had. He did not know what he had heard but it was, something.

He got his degree and went on to study for a Ph.D. in chemical physics or “pissing about with lasers” as he liked to call it. The solitude of dark laboratories, expensive toys and the beauty of pure, coherent light, brought him much joy. After a while he twigged that he was pretty good at all this, he understood the theories and could make a laser sing. When he stood up to talk about his work, people listened, they even published his papers in scientific journals, what a hoot!

Later, when Eric went back to his school in Gloucestershire and walked around the sports fields, where he had snuck out during “lock up” to watch the fireworks of Guy Fawke’s night, made dangerous, secret, trips “out of bounds” for walnuts and ran and ran and ran. How many times had he done rounds as punishment? How great was that slip-slap-slip of his feet in rhythm with his breath. This was where it all began; one of his Jason Bourne moments, and it was at the hand of a well meaning man who in one sentence and in one act changed a life.

Eric had not settled in boarding school, his school work was messy and erratic reflecting his inner turmoil and his struggles to survive. Finally now at the age of 12 he sat his common entrance examination, though for him it was really another mock as he was due to be in the scholarship class next year. And there it was, on the English paper; write an essay inspired by any of the following. He chose:

“No man is an iland intire of it’ selfe:
Every man is a peece of the continent;”


John Donne, Meditation XVII from Devotions Upon Emergent Occasions.


There it was his first quay off, off from the day to day and into the palace of dreams, it was the febrile stuff of a doorway into his inner world, shimmering, veil like, in the wind of his existence. There is someone else, after all, who had something of him.

Eric for once let it all go; he expressed all his inner loneliness drifting in a coracle from that Cape Town harbour, abandoned under the stars of the Southern Cross and without hope, until there, on the horizon was the first light of day. The master marked his essay and wrote of the poetry in Eric’s soul on his report card and then he did it. He read it out in assembly.

No man would write like that would they? After all the bullying on his sexuality, that was it, proof and in front of the whole school. There it was, never, never, never let it go again. How very attractive the science classes were after that. How easily he gained marks and passed the exams.

Eric says that it was a life that had two potentialities severed by a choice that was not really his, circumstance made it and his parents were now happy. His Nan though, was so proud of that comment, a poet in the family! When Eric saw the report card quite recently he could still smell the ink, a dark vivid blue, Parker’s Quink, written with a sloping italic nib. He experienced the same fear as he had done thirty years before. Eric had been here, here with the musty thin report book, charting his progress. He had held that book many, many times. Now though he could read between the lines, written by the teachers, having written many such things himself.

This was a node in his life, one of many. That world so precious and private to him had been taken out and with the best intentions, thrashed in public. Eric began to blend and here the chameleon was truly born. The twin Gods of should and ought began to take their hold on his psyche and he became the best sportsman he could be and the best scientist. He still did languages but kept them tight on a rein. He needed the marks for his exams.

Still and even on days like today when the rain caresses the ground he can remember the other country where people can be who they are; and all those water bottle windows gazed through; day dreaming in the foothills of that other country; the one that seems so far yet so close. And, again the window ledge is just wide enough to sit on, waiting for his parents who never came to rescue him. They weren’t of that other country so how could they possibly know what it was like. Nor was anyone it would appear.


I vow to thee, my country, all earthly things above,
Entire and whole and perfect, the service of my love:
The love that asks no question, the love that stands the test,
That lays upon the altar the dearest and the best;
The love that never falters, the love that pays the price,
The love that makes undaunted the final sacrifice.

And there’s another country, I’ve heard of long ago,
Most dear to them that love her, most great to them that know;
We may not count her armies, we may not see her King;
Her fortress is a faithful heart, her pride is suffering;
And soul by soul and silently her shining bounds increase,
And her ways are ways of gentleness and all her paths are peace.


I Vow to Thee My Country, Sir Cecil A. Spring-Rice, 1918.


And that search for the other country was to continue for many years to come, always resident and poignant in his heart. Ready and fresh in his dreams yet as secret and as encrypted as it was possible to be. Buried deep within the layers of ice, the ice of a thousand tears cried in a silence of a song unsung and unspoken. No one knew what he thought and that gave him a sense of power. There, no one could harm him. There he was safe and he didn’t have to trust anyone.

When they let him read the lessons and the prayers he was very happy. Deep within him then the sense of the sacred was sanctuary and he did not mind that the others had their parents with them and that his were five thousand miles away. He and all the other expat boys got to ring the bells too!


Seigneur, faites de moi un instrument de Votre paix.
Là où il y a de la haine, que je mette l’amour.
Là où il y a l’offense, que je mette le pardon.
Là où il y a la discorde, que je mette l’union.
Là où il y a l’erreur, que je mette la vérité.
Là où il y a le doute, que je mette la foi.
Là où il y a le désespoir, que je mette l’espérance.
Là où il y a les ténèbres, que je mette Votre lumière.
Là où il y a la tristesse, que je mette la joie.

Ô Maître, que je ne cherche pas tant à être consolé qu’à consoler, à être compris qu’à comprendre, à être aimé qu’à aimer, car c’est en donnant qu’on reçoit, c’est en s’oubliant qu’on trouve, c’est en pardonnant qu’on est pardonné, c’est en mourant qu’on ressuscite à l’éternelle vie.

Par Saint François d’Assise


Later in life it was another rose that sneaked into his life and turned partially in the mortice to release the first seeds of an efflorescence that was to take him deep into Annwn and Awen; there again to offer him the proof that he was different and yet ultimately, the same.

Eric tells me that until you have been touched by the fingers of death there is no real concept of life. That you cannot begin to conceive life itself and that living is more of a going through the motions of existence. There is no fecundity in living and the organism which is the vehicle remains only partially awake, until the organising indwelling thing catches the breath of the vis viva and is inspired. Before this can happen the form side of life needs tended. The weeds and brambles that adorn the island of existence are pruned and hacked back; all that is unwanted is bagged up and taken to the re-cycling centre. Only then can the form side of life settle in the sea of floating things and allow creativity to stream forth un-abated. And it is the fingers of death that encourage the danse macabre of transformation, for it is only in the theatre of death that man can see his true script for this, his sojourn on the stage, where he is player for us all.

Eric says that he is lucky in that death has touched him three times now, and that the archetype of le mort should be welcome as it brings with it true change, for only then can man touch the very outer limits of his potential and truly, dance the edge. It is the universe’s way of showing the glory of incarnation and if we chose to see it, the pettiness of our doings and the darkness, which is so very often of our own making.

That island is crammed full with stuff, thoughts, should and ought. Filled with words that are not ours, choc-a-bloc with ideas put there by others, aspirations and ideals that have precious little to do with you; a veritable Shinjuku station at rush hour in time lapse photography where wave after wave of gripes and moans chant the koans of consumerism; the must have and the “if only” of the realms of the hungry ghosts.

“You know that people are rarely truly silent.” He says.

“True silence is what people fear the most. There and then, is the no-thing-ness of existence and it is primordial. It is before and will be after us and that is where the creative power of the void can be found, echoing out the very first sound into the darkness of manifestation; a single word which breaks the silence. It is this connectivity with the in-finite that man fears, insisting that it is only he and his island. He is lost in the sea of life, that he is one and has already separated from the zero.”

Eric likes to call the organising thing that animates the form the power within, as all the other words are now second hand. He distinguishes between the power within and the power without for clarity only. They are all part of the same awareness. He says that this distinction is a hangover from his sense of individuating identity and helps keep him sane, allowing him to tell all the stories that other people like so that they don’t panic or think him odd.

He says we all have a power within and it is the vis viva that animates this potential within us so that it incarnates. The one life chooses an aspect of awareness to materialise into form. This manifestation has an impact, it slows things down so that awareness becomes dream-like and foggy. It is just that so many people like the dream so much they aren’t willing to stop the world and wake up in the dream. The matrix of existence is so full of clamour and glamour that it straps people into a sense of reality that isn’t really there in the sea of the floating things. The folly of permanence and the arrow of time exclude the magic of being; after all we are all counter entropic beings are we not?

The incarnate matrix of existence has its stories and rules, by focusing intent upon their maintenance the world conspires to limit the potentialities to physical plane function whilst the organism and its thoughts keep the power within at bay with the brouhaha of social interaction and the relentless mind numbing noise of mass media and marketing. The voice of the power within remains unheard and talked over by the internal dialogue, often externalised, that convinces itself, at least partially, that the world of illusion is all that there is. This then is the sleight of hand that tells us we should be interested in what Manchester United are doing and whether of not Jennifer Anniston has found Mr Right; a sleight of hand that distracts us from perhaps our true purpose which is maybe, just maybe understanding the meaning behind why the vis viva animated the power within to incarnate so as to gain knowledge through physical plane existence and the challenges inherent in that.

Eric says that the irony is we dreamed this world into being yet most of us don’t even remember doing it and insist that this dream is real. Eric says that people have told him that he is a pretty powerful dreamer and he has no evidence to prove otherwise. He knows that for ten years of his life he did his very best to kill all of his dreams, he numbed them with chemicals and beer so that they would not speak to him at night. He says that coma is a good way to do this. The power within was wise to this and set him up with that visit to Negril, it had been silenced for too long and the sleeper must awaken. Eric didn’t realise it but he was in for a pretty rough ride after that.

Is Academia Quantised?

In metaphorical terms, yes.

Only certain things are allowed, others are forbidden, ergo taboo.

One could see it as a one-dimensional potential well with only certain allowed states. These might be Ph.D., Post. Doc., Lecturer, Senior lecturer / Reader, Professor, Faculty Head, Dean, Provost / Vice Chancellor, God. The nomenclature is country specific, we might have Assistant Professor, Associate Professor. To transition between states, one needs to use the harmonic “ladder operator” and the “selection rules” for this are partially defined.

No wavefunction from outside the box can tunnel in because the potential energy barrier is high.

When a frog lives in a well, it knows that well very well. But it has never climbed out of the well and is unaware of things like the sea, the stars, the horizon. The frog imagines that its world is complete and that it encompasses all that any frog could ever possibly want to know. It imagines it knows the extent of reality. It may think itself omniscient.

Yeah, the analogy works.

 From time-to-time academia can be treated using a particle in a one-dimensional box metaphor / model.

Transmutation, Transformation and Transfiguration

There is a human tendency to read things verbatim or dead letter or face value only. The extent to which one has this tendency depends on personal preference and psychological orientation.  To some extent educational training plays a role too. As an INFJ with dominant introverted intuition, I tend to miss the dead letter interpretation on occasion, this is because I am nearly always looking for deeper meaning and a metaphor can provide for me what might take several paragraphs of descriptive text to explain.

It amuses me slightly to image someone working with 20 pounds of antimony in a furnace in his shed. One of the main criticisms people have of the bible stems from an insistence on a dead letter interpretation. People read “the gospel” in a dead letter way. I have speculated that given when it was written the vast majority were illiterate, it is in fact full of metaphors and other narrative devices. People like to argue the toss and nit-pick about their own personal face value interpretation of text.

The Tibetan describes the first three initiations as Transmutation, Transformation and Transfiguration. This is a very alchemical way of explaining. Alchemy to my eyes is not trying to turn base metal into gold, rather it is about transmuting one’s shortcomings into a more helpful set of behaviours. Mares says that the warrior’s path is a path of the three Ts as above. If you look at the degree of change implicit in the language, it starts small and gets bigger.

The alchemical transmutation changes one’s beingness, the transfiguration transfigures which sounds like a whole order of magnitude more radical. Within the scheme of the Tibetan, the third initiation is considered the first “proper” initiation and is indicative of final liberation. After the third it is only a few more lifetimes before the causal vehicle is “blown out”.

Given that human minds are trained in school to compare and contrast, to use ratioing or so-called rational mind we are trained to pick holes in things, to find fault. Searching for holism is discouraged and my even be seen as wishy-washy. We are trained to justify our answers, this tendency for justification has allowed humanity to participate in some truly heinous acts.  

{Everyone is doing it, I was only following orders, there is a precedent.}

I can read alchemical texts from a basis of a degree level understanding of modern {relatively now} chemistry and the periodic table. I don’t imagine myself ever trying some of the frankly dangerous sounding experiments. If one reads Hermetica, attributed to Hermes Trimegistus there is a whole lot of sense in parts. It can be enjoyable to read things and not want to argue the toss and be “right”. Just let it flow over and enjoy someone else’s train of thought.

One of the first things to transmute is to change closed, dogmatic, I am right mind to a more open enquiring and non-concluding mind. There does not have to be a conclusion. This goes against everything we are taught in school. There must be a summing up and a conclusion.

Why?

Explain to me why there must be a conclusion, explain to me why there must be a right answer. Justify your answer.

Is Covid a Metaphor for Deforestation?

This is prompted by an article in Les Echos.

« Les poumons de la planète sont au bord de l’asphyxie

Qu’ils soient verts ou bleus, les puits de carbone et de régulation climatique se dégradent inexorablement. Leur mécanisme pourrait même se retourner contre l’équilibre atmosphérique global. »

This is a pair of years in which we heard the phrase “I can’t breathe” and when there is a shortage of oxygen, dephlogisticated air, where people have died struggling to breathe in their hundreds of thousands. A year in which the lungs of the planet, Brazil, have continued to be scorched and where the death toll of not breathing is very high. The leadership has done little to prevent deforestation and pooh-poohed the virus. It is a time of floods and fire. When the air has been filled with smoke.

As we stop the planet from breathing, is it stopping us from breathing too? Have a taste of your own medicine you nasty, greedy human beings. See what I feel like when I can’t breathe.

Is it our knee on the neck of the planet?

On the way back from the supermarket I suggested to the wife that we buy a dephlogisticator just in case. As the oxygen content in the atmosphere drops, we might be in dire need.

I don’t think we are paying sufficient attention to what the planet, the universe, is trying to teach us!

It seems people can only see the light at the end of the tunnel, so that they can get back to “normal”. Have drink in a bar and go on holiday. What we don’t perhaps realise is that the light is a TGV {Train à Grande Vitesse} heading in our general direction.

Karmic Submarines

A karmic submarine is a piece of unresolved karma that travels along “under the water” out of sight and out of mind. It doesn’t show on echo location but when the time suits it rises up to the surface. Depending on the nature of the submarine, it may or may not unleash “missiles”. One could term it a skeleton in the closet, a karmic boomerang or something which comes back to bite you in the ass. It may have been suppressed, denied, justified, redacted and explained away. It may simply have been forgotten. But if the submarine decides it will find its way to the surface.

The Indian terminology is karma which ripens and then bears fruit. Fruit can fall from the tree and rot, or it can be picked willingly and enjoyed.

It is difficult to know if one has any karmic submarines, because they can travel at great depth and for very extended periods. Anything might become a karmic submarine. If a challenge presented to one is not faced it may well come back later and say; “Hi, remember me.” One may indeed store up a whole bunch of karmic submarines, a fleet even. I like the metaphor because some of these submarines can “blow up” and turn your world upside down and not just your own world but the world of others too.

It is a bit like secrets. Some secrets don’t want to stay secret, so they push against the container until it pops. Others don’t mind so much and so don’t struggle to reveal themselves. A secret can also be a karmic submarine. An incorrectly attributed paternity could be a nuclear missile armed karmic submarine. I read somewhere that the figure for misattribution is as high as 10%. This kind of thing was the basis for the Jeremy Kyle show.

I have a pet theory, and this is that karma is similar in nature to an overdraft. If one puts off paying off the karma, it accrues interest. The karmic debt simply gets bigger. The longer one puts it off the more likely is the karmic submarine to unleash “missiles”, the destructive power increases. And of course, such destruction is causative of yet more karma.

Just Treading Water

Early this morning as I was drifting in and out of sleep, I was trying to find a metaphor for how this pandemic feels. I came up with the notion of just treading water.  This means that many are simply keeping their head above water in the best way they can. Some of course are sinking.

Of late the news has been reporting more and more mental health problems. People are losing it.

I have been getting an increased spam traffic offering various cannabis products.

When all the hand sanitising hit the headlines, I predicted and OCD pandemic. Will there be a surge in PPSD, post pandemic stress disorder?

This long cold spell has probably added to the difficulties people perceive. I have a feeling though that this cold spell is some kind of transition, at the other side of which is spring.

Yes, I think just treading water is a good metaphor for life in our times, just now.

vis viva – Chapter 11 Heightened Awareness

Today then has been a day for dreaming and touching long dormant fibres in the fabric of the web of life. Some of this appears to be coming back today. Eric reckons that if we talk about it more will come back and that we may even shift into heightened awareness whilst writing, that is how I used to write poetry he reminds me. It allowed me to use metaphor to bring things back from that other world. Because much has been written about this and there are many highly technical descriptions perhaps we should start from as close to scratch as possible.

If we call the state of awareness which we normally operate in quotidie, then we have a word that can encompass all the awareness we use to keep our day to day world operative. This awareness is used to function on the physical plane, order pizza and do our book-keeping. In this awareness we share the common (well nearly) view of the world and are subject to thought, thinking and the application of “linear” logic and perhaps rationality. This awareness also encompasses our emotional responses, our control dramas and of course our sense of individuating identity that gives a name to this collection of things which animate the organism in which we live. It encompasses pretty much all our doings and that wealth which is inter-human interaction. It is characterised by a certain speed, the speed needed for thinking, talking etc. and is therefore quite slow.

If there is a state of heightened awareness which transcends the quotidie and takes us away from the mundane we might choose to call it alia. I am pretty sure that most adults have experienced something like this state and we all can reach it. The question is how long can we stay in it before the quotidie claws us back into the safety of what, for it, are the confines of the known and “predictable”. How long before we rationalise the experience to such an extent that it explained away as if it didn’t happen. I am going to make a posit then and discuss this in rational space first by use of a hypothetical example.

A mother is pushing her child in a buggy along a canal and is having a bit of a rough time of it as the canal path is uneven and a little rocky. Nevertheless they are both enjoying the spring air; her attention is caught by a moorhen as the buggy goes over a rock. The buggy starts to tip towards the canal and it looks like the child is going in. The mother experiences a sudden quickening of attention and instinctively knows that she has to jump into the canal to catch the baby. She moves faster than she ever though possible and lands in the canal catching the baby before it hits the water. She is then standing there up to her waist in water with a dry baby in her hands and somewhat bemused at how fast she reacted. There had been no time to think. As she climbs out of the water she is already berating herself for not being careful enough and thanking God for her mother’s instinct that saved the baby and beginning to sob with tears of relief and the prospect of the embarrassment of walking back through the village soaking wet.

She has missed the miracle of heightened awareness, alia, which allowed her to operate with such speed. In effect she has just expanded time and perceived with a clarity and speed that left no room for rational thought, she simply acted in alia, there was no doubt only a very direct knowing of what to do, she had tapped on a hidden potential within her.

Have a quick read of the same passage. I have added emphasis, allow yourself to open up to the story pausing a little longer on the emphasised words.

A mother is pushing her child in a buggy along a canal and is having a bit of a rough time of it as the canal path is uneven and a little rocky. Nevertheless they are both enjoying the spring air; her attention is caught by a moorhen as the buggy goes over a rock. The buggy starts to tip towards the canal and it looks like the child is going in. The mother experiences a sudden quickening of attention and instinctively knows that she has to jump into the canal to catch the baby. She moves faster than she ever thought possible and lands in the canal catching the baby before it hits the water.

Hopefully this has had you perceive the situation from a slightly different angle that is more action oriented and it has altered the pace of it in your mind. If this can be done with a few italics what more are you truly capable of?

Reports of people acting as heroes under difficult circumstance are manifold, the heroes afterwards are a little sheepish about what has happened, often not quite believing it themselves. My posit is that people have all had an experience of time changing at some stage in life, where events seem to play out in “slow” motion.

When I was a child my father was driving over a busy intersection with a road joining ours from the left. There was bright sunshine on my side of the car which stopped him from seeing the large Landrover approaching us broadsides. I saw it as it impacted and the side of the car began bending in and towards my legs. I watched the door crumple in and assessed that all I had to do was move my legs to the right because the crumple would stop before they were crushed. I was correct and by the time my body swayed back to the left after the impact the world had speeded back up. The jolt was huge from the impact but no one was hurt. I remember quite a lot of swearing after that.

This type of heightened awareness is similar to the “zone” that competitive sportsmen speak of, it is not quite alia or rather it is the outer fringes of alia.

During my martial arts training I trained at various dojos learning karate, ju-jitsu, hoshinjutsu, shorinji kempo, judo and aspects of akido. What was striking about all this was the difference in teaching styles of the various sensei. Many adopted a linear “learn by rote” method of teaching, standing in line doing endless punches and kicks until such time as the technique was perfect. Others taught in a form of alia and used “learning by doing”, this is as I am told, the traditional way. Rather than learning the intellectual breakdown of all the moves and their confoundingly difficult Japanese names to remember, we were encouraged to feel the techniques and not think them.

Whilst the learning by rote method gave an early apparent success, it became a handicap at later stages; the learning by doing method was slow to start but had no limits. To this day I can remember the things I was taught in alia, all I have to do is shift my awareness, the stuff I learned by rote has all but disappeared. The maxim that in a fight the moment you think, you lose, is so very true.

In practice the sensei who taught in alia would speed up his perceptions so that his motions seemed incredibly slow and deliberate (to him) and we had to do the same otherwise it was a tad painful. He knew instinctively just how far to push each one of us. I can’t remember the name of the techniques I learned, but I can remember how to do them.

This martial arts zone is a little further into alia than perhaps in sport because it has elements of art attached to it. The feats that fully trained martial artists can achieve are quite stunning because of this. Even I was able to train my peripheral vision so that I can use my eyes to get information from around 270 degrees.

This alia then is awareness within us all, it can reach beyond the scope of what of what people perceive in the quotidie and into other worlds. The sense of dimension which we take for granted “there” isn’t and the realities which are perceived are both separate and contiguous to those “here” in the quotidie. Alia is where there are no seams between the dreaming and awareness, it overlaps with the quotidie and allows differing perceptions to be made informing us how to act in the here and now. It is a place that is so completely non rational that it challenges the precious and its core beliefs, to an extent that it can cause panic and fear. This awareness lets one tune into the flow of the universe and begin to map out the fate which the vis viva and the power within had in mind, namely to evolve awareness as a whole through playing our micrcosmic part of the macrocosm. The techniques of dreaming and meditation can help one gain access to this state of awareness, its scope though is vast and there it is easy to get lost.

One can perceive fluctuations in the ebb and flow of the world and directly intuit the death force at work. One has heightened sensitivities to the motives, motions and intent of others. This state of awareness allows one to interpret the flow of the power without through the mechanism of dreaming. One can dream things in, there. In time and at will it is possible to shift from the quotidie into the alia, with as much ease as changing shoes.

It requires a great deal of sobriety to hold extant the perceptions of the quotidie and the alia and function in the dense physical world. It is very difficult to interact in a manner that makes sense to others who have access only to the quotidie whilst in the alia, because of the very non-linear interaction of events that high level of interconnectedness is outside the scope of normal awareness.

Plunging deeper into the alia the world becomes a very strange place indeed and learning what few rules govern it, is a scary experience. Consistent with esoteric thought there are many worlds that we can access whilst still in human form. The temptation of all this is the glamour associated with being able to align perceptions of these worlds because actions in them have real material impact on the dense physical world as we perceive it, bringing with it the added temptation for high adventure and use for power over others. Because of the speed of heightened awareness is different from quotidie what appears to be a long time in alia may be seconds in quotidie or alternatively what appears to be seconds in alia can appear to be a very long time in quotidie.

Exploration of this awareness and mapping it out is part of the potential of humanity, yet many balk at the thought of it and in so doing limit the awareness to res quotidian and the mundane.

The ability of an individual to access this depends upon their level of awareness and that imbued upon them by the power within, to garner new knowledge which enhances the awareness and its vitality. Copious stores of this vitality and a fluid perception are needed to shift between alia and quotidie. Truly the scope of what can be achieved and what insights can be had extends way beyond what one can readily envision.

Eric says that it is worth pointing out that once one realises, that is makes real, the ability to do this, it can become such a cop out from things that need to be done on the physical plane that it can interfere with evolution too. The physical plane events and circumstance act as a script for the evolution of awareness which is best done with both types of awareness. He says that people notice when you use alia, they don’t know what they notice, but whilst in alia you notice that they notice. They may rationalise that they had a weird feeling or some glitch in time. In a funny way he says that it is like operating on a different vibration.

He reminds me that I spent such a long time in alia that I don’t notice the edges any more and that when people first “get it” they really notice the edges and that this transition freaks them out. He says that he hasn’t met many people that can go as far into alia as I can and that the explanations of assemblage point are all well and good; the problem is though, people spend huge amount of energy trying to visualize assemblage points rather than simply shifting into alia.

The description of an assemblage point hooks the quotidie into rationalising something which cannot be rationalised, it just can be done. He also reminds me to warn of the lure of this and that it is possible to get thoroughly lost and bewildered there and have great difficult coming back. He reckons though that I have only really begun to dip my toe into the possibilities there, despite having got my self lost a number of times.

He teases me about my attempts to visualize all the chakras and the assemblage point; then once I had done it; I forgot completely about them, because it was a waste of time.

Who needs chakras or assemblage points when on can access alia direct?

Stigmata

I once had a new pair of shoes that kept leaving marks in the appropriate places. So I investigated this phenomenon and watched stuff about them, trying to imagine a little of what it might have been like, by metaphor.


each nail of judgement

sinks deep into my flesh

hammered home by reason

 

the leaden, blunted edges

pierce my ankles.

I try not to get cross.

 

the sharp verbal point

drains all the fluid

out of my lungs, my sails

 

the vinegar sponge

is brought close my lips

for me to suck upon

 

the cup of myrrh

full of bitter tannins,

rasps at my palette

 

all my water-colours fade

wearing a pendant

of thorny, bloody tears

 

I am the Stigmata

who no-one wants to see;

am I here or am I gone?

 

to be such a Stigmata

is a sign of the times.

A pariah knows his place.

 

He clasps his palms together

Bodhi, Mind and Heart

Ajna, Mouth and Core

 

and the Stigmata

genuflects before God

for he brings only, a temporary stain

 

To be washed out

To be cleansed

To be deodorized

 

a Stigmata, stigmatized

abandoned, desolate

and almost entirely alone.

Margin

a turbulent river

meanders ever towards

the delta of death

trying to forget

all the rocks of reasons

with which it scoured the world

 

in its blind surety

always too busy to think

think, things through

its clever and cunning

brings only cataracts

and sudden sink holes

 

always glossing over

dependent upon

immediacy and desire.

it sees not the margin

at the edge of the page

where the truth is written

 

hens in a coop

they coo, chatter and cluck

as the spirit

silently passes them by;

no knock on the door

which they might hear

 

pecking in the mud

always for more corn

and the winter’s eggs

lie unsullied in the hay

and soon, there is nothing

for them to brood upon

 

in the tranquil margin

the water reeds bow

as the spirit plays his flute

softly amongst them

and the warm wind fades

into the cold of night

 

there in the margin

the ghost, the sprite

an ephemera, even a man

waits for an aeon

for a sensitivity which

never, ever comes

 

a turbulent river

meanders ever towards

the delta of death

trying to forget

all the rocks of reasons

with which it scoured the world

 

Mirror of Rejection

Forlorn and alone

the scarecrow looked again

into the mirror of rejection

 

Even the carrion birds

ran from his gaze

not looking his button eyes

 

Waiting day after day

and night after night

whilst Jack sneaks past

 

Dusting icing sugar

and piping icicles

on his hands

 

The hundreds and thousands

in the sky

twinkling light years

 

Is his love too meagre

his heart so cold

to look at?

 

The straws by his ears

greying a little now

scratching his stubble chin

 

Quizzical as ever

and wondering

each every epoch of hours

 

His eyes look through

the mirror of rejection

desolate and all seeing

 

As November nears

he sees them gathering wood

and building pyres

 

He knows only too well

what this means, but at least

He will be warm for one night.