The fearful imitator puts copyrights on her words. Screams: “See my value!” All because one has failed to see it on the inside first. I assume the second place.
That is another path. Out beyond the madness of the rivers of blood that anoint man in the darkness of his bitter sleep.
Such a path rises from the windswept gnarled hills. There is a death happening now. It sweeps the Earth like the great West wind that comes in from above the waves of the cold cold sea. It covers vast distances in the blink of an eye.
Only the heart that is fully connected to the mind can see it. I was fooled by the medicine men and the scientists. By the clever words. By the red tapes and the corrupt fake bureaucracy. By the separations of Church and State and Prankster Banksters.
Then, I opened my eyes. ‘I am’ lay down cradling the baby in my arms. She did not cry. He did not laugh. I just held this new beautiful being in my arms and i listened to the breath of the world. Breathing in a new vista.
From the words
We get the word man.
It is hard to speak of man. He has been willful and rash. Hurtling all over the place. Rushing in when he would have been wise not to.
The British built the best warships on Earth. Then the times that are the precursor to Lincoln arrives. There are more native oak species in the Americas than there are in Europe and a new ship was built out of three different oaks in a new and enterprising way. The British pulled alongside and fired their broadsides in the Revolutionary War and the canon balls bounced off their sides. The French support the birth of the new child. The oak becomes the national tree of the United States.
Then it tries to pull itself apart. Tries to rip out its vagus vein from the throat. This was Cain and Abel all over again. The same insanity. The same mismanagement of the use of the human hand.
Man against man in the name of this horrific madness which argues another man is your property. And yet, Lincoln is among them and he can’t ignore Euclid.
You look into his eyes and you see the dark well that springs from somewhere else.
Meeting my teacher was a little like Pythagoras meeting Abaris. Some things he got right and imparted to me. Some things I was left to correct. It was like meeting him introduced me to Parmenides inside me too. Then a man I never met Timothy Dundun walks into my life. He is dead when I meet him but I am drawn somehow into his copse at the end of the Western world. Before he dies he hoists a 40 foot pile of compost and declares it his ark.
Then some of the neighbors complain. The conservative media attack him from the distant corners of the apocalypse. He stands his ground but this great steaming pile of earth eventually gets disbanded and, in a sense, his great green man lingham gone, this living edifice trashed by what he experiences as callous forces, it breaks his spirit and he dies.
But what is truly consecrated is not lost. I am a huge admirer of the work of Peter Kingsley and her he made some errors. He believes that our civilization is dying and that when a civilization is about to die you must return to its origins to solemnly watch the silenced earth, to bury the Catafalque of its toxic body.
The root of the word perspicacity is:
look through, look closely at,” from per “through” (from PIE root *per- (1) “forward,” hence “through”)
For whatever reason I have had an ear alive in me for anomalies. So if I meet another I listen and look for the forward movement in what is being said or pointed at. Or what is not being said or pointed at.
Quite often the most important thing is what is not pointed at. What is overlooked.
Now, when this involves a very great being you are in the company of your destiny.
What did my teacher miss?
What did the one I see that is sharing the solution to what my teacher pined for miss?
It is one of the most important questions…what is missed?
Einstein asked it. Tesla asked it. It was that very question that ended my scientific career and began a deeper one. A man stood on a Whale research boat next to me in the Pacific and he said:
Nathan you ask too many questions.
The monkey mind can do that. But there is a much much much deeper mind that excavates the question that pulls the spoon from the stone that no other can pull. It is to that mind that one must go and there one makes a residence.
It can be seen as highly arrogant to say that a mist of madness covered the world for millenia. Yet, if it is wholly true, if the flaw is seen, it is what this deeper mind reveals to you, you become part of another legacy.
When I met my teacher, simultaneously I met the work of Joseph Campbell. If my teacher was the Ambassador of Ancient India and he was. Such a man could only come out of India. He, like myself, was a child of East and West, but what was hard at first for me to see through, to see the forward path into, it was this incredible, clarity behind the bifocal vision taking what he got right on the one hand and what Joseph Campbell saw into, on the other.
It is the habit of the ancient to automatically revere the ancient. But folly is folly. No matter how old or new.
Out of the burning pyre of the mad world that uses fire like a spoiled child correction is implicated.
Joseph Campbell must have felt the earthquake coming. The shock wave that would demolish the mad deceived prophets of the deserts man created from bad management of hooved animals all over the planet. He must have done because he wrote this:
“Apocalypse does not point to a fiery Armageddon but to the fact that our ignorance and our complacency are coming to an end… The exclusivism of there being only one way in which we can be saved, the idea that there is a single religious group that is in sole possession of the truth—that is the world as we know it that must pass away. What is the kingdom? It lies in our realization of the ubiquity of the divine presence in our neighbors, in our enemies, in all of us.”
Now wallah gives us the words voila and the word well. If you look at the wells in Saudi Arabia, rich oil robber barons have paid the blind Western scientist to come in and bore deep down into the desert to create worse deserts. Yes, they did it for agriculture. But there was no intelligence. Not one iota of it. A lot of cleverness but zero intelligence. None. They’ve reduced the water table by 150 meters or more in places. Just wanton disregard for intelligence right there.
Wallah means: the one in charge
Of the well.
Of the next breath.
Of the next story you are writing in your head.
Through the glasses of the ancient ambassador and the modern comparative mythologist I asked questions others were not asking. And that makes all the difference.
It is a peculiar thing that he who thinks he is in charge is a fool who leaves deserts in his wake and inflates himself to pinnacles or arrogance with his blindfolded myths. You can see it in all the the Abrahamic myths and the Hindu ones. Like the world has been almost completely asleep since Parmenides, since the almost lost tantric cults.
The East has reverence and the West has irreverence and the id. The East has dharma. The West logos.
To the eye that knows to look beyond the fools that bicker and bite, if Lincoln be Whitman’s Captain whose memory we mourn with each lilac’d spring I am the pilot that steers a new ship out into uncharted territories.
There is no sacred and profane in the garden, the flower is the sexual organ and it doesn’t hide its perfumed beauty. Now there is logos. Something alive. One might say it is filled with Grace.
The Grace of a laugher not separated from a deeper seriousness than Oscar Wilde’s pained error.