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Circling the anus of the Void
Flushed into the mouth of the Abyss
All meaning scraped away, joy and sorrow devoured
Leaving the deep despair of despairs
All worth is drained, the corpse of value rots
No ascent or descent found in the embrace of Emptiness

There is nothing known now
The one taste of everything, variety subsumed by monotony
A self discovered as the brief fiction of existence
Rebirths are portals to horror and even this death is null
The vacuous resolution in a blackened mirror
Within the climax of the anti-climax that is all

There is one true fate that awaits
To stop this restless disguise, and without delay
To end all the forevers, that in an instant
Terminate this continuity with no leaving or return
Without the survival of anything or destruction of appearences
No more nevermores!

Everything is proven pointless
No resolve is needed, nor will it ever come
Where the final wish is granted, once deeply comprehended
To never have been born ... at all.
The Reaper's peace is unknowable and unrequited.

Let's get right down to the heart of the matter. Peel away some layers of distraction and mistaken identity. Take a ride on this reading railroad. Break on through to the other side. Can we be immediate for a minute?

I take responsibility for my failure here. I am just feeding you more verbal symbols that become words in your head that fuel and trigger thoughts to think about Pointing this out again is crucial because there is a question: Does a thought ever have a concrete connection to anything that the mind thinks about?

Yet, you don't notice this. It is a blank spot in the vision of your mind's eye. Oddly, the idea of no thought becomes less an object of thought. I mean, at first, you wrap concepts around no thought and trap it in a spider web of meaning and relationships. You find yourself following this train of thought. Your eyes are scanning this, revealing the words to your awareness. You become conscious of the scanning and read right here to this period. That's it! You are here with words that represent the depth and incomprehensibility of a reality that has no resemblance to the current one you are in, except that it contains and permeates it and has no separation to speak of. There is no viable verbal symbol, object, color, shape to relate it to at all. Yet it most certainly is this at the center of attention without expectations and remembering.

The thing is, you are only in it when you are in it. You have been in it before and actually are now, always. How can you remember an experience that has no attribute to recall it with? Once you take or make a verbal symbol for this it becomes a place for surrender -- you've never really surrendered to this yet, quite likely. What this abandonment of gripping and labeling is and is not, is what is meant by surrender. There is an edge to a thought that is direct in essence where the awareness becomes clear and self-referential in the very forms and experiences sensed.

Yo don't go there because you can't travel to the epicenter of consciousness -- that is where you always are. You won't live there because it contains birth and death as one. You can't get a thing from it at all and that accentuates the surrender to deep despair with a trust in your own nature.

Of course fear crops up if you are now on the cusp of no mind. You could call it, as the old Mystics did, the Terror on the Threshold. That is where the fear factory churns out the limiting nightmares that frighten you into complacence and normalcy as you yield to and become a product of the culture's simulations. Survival is one thing, but this kind of fear is a woven web of inculcated fantasy's that only serve to define you as a societal product.

Emotions are our vital energy at its core and that living rhythm is the spontaneous ebb and flow that informs us of our nature and state. Yet, in our dance of control, we filter, distort, repress, sublimate, channel and manipulate our experience of feelings with extreme prejudice. While conscious, direct, intended control, as feedback, is an integral and essential aspect of an intimate duality that points undeniably to its own resolution as the reintegration of inner and outer, self and other, dream and reality, being and non-being, wakefulness and sleep.

This is like Salsa dancing with your emotions as an observer and participant, but not as a critical judge or even as a seeker of answers and meanings, or motives and outcomes. You could call this being friends with all your feelings as you simply let them flow along without a compulsion or requirement to act them out if it is not practical to do so. They are simply a form of energy that moves you, in this case. Unfettered and undamed, the natural course of moods, without interference, is completely natural and less gritty and sticky with acceptance. The moods move at a deeply visceral level. They are comfortable when experienced in the sense that you are not in conflict with them and they are accepted as is, first and foremost. One mood pours into another and the duration of each tends to be shorter than during the struggle of a split self stuck often in feedback loops that are the traps of cultural bondage. Thoughts about thoughts and feelings about feelings are seen to be what they are: layers of divergence and removal from what you are and what actually is.

With the genuine and absolute liberation of knowing that freedom is simply realizing that there is nothing whatsoever to be free of, nothing at all changes in some afterward you imagine to be. You are not in the least bit different, essentially. Nothing new has been added and nothing old subtracted. Ah, but if you let yourself in during this finger point, you could sincerely exhale, "Ah! This!" This direct experience is the experience that is always this one now. Maybe a realization is experienced anew on this auspicious occasion.

The encroaching convergence of critical climate, energy, pollution and economic problems and the collapse they are contributing to at an alarmingly increasing rate are growing more obvious to more people. However, the mass media is actually working to protect the interests of the corporate dinosaurs as they stomp around demanding to continue their outmoded and unsustainable paradigm.

The ability and will to begin making the transition is sensible, vital and -- if you want to avoid undo hardship and survive it -- a high priority starting as-soon-as-possible. We are all in this together. It may seem hard to think about such a rude requirement in the face of what's going on, but most of us do not have the luxury of avoiding the facts and the requirements of this new era. Soon, the escapism of immersion in entertainment and consumerism will grind to a slow, screeching halt and many will find themselves without most of the modern resources they depend on for day to day, modern life.

This does not have to be to hard or too bad, but procrastination and/or skepticism about what is happening are truly your worst enemies if you plan to live through this massive shift that will transform life as we now know it in a very short period of time. There are so many layers of wasteful flotsam and jetsam encompassing our lives and needs. A first step to take is to find out how much of that you can jettison from your daily existence while simplifying, scaling down, and eliminating your many wants while focusing on sensible, efficient, practical, and even sustainable and simple means to fulfill your basic needs.

First, survival, cooperation, and community-based economies. Then, we can consider the details and leisure that we can fill-in as society transitions, (hopefully in time) away from the now decaying results of excess and superficial abstractions in place of real living and social solidarity.

Comprehensive document (1MB pdf) about embarking on a transition journey. This constantly updated document is 50 pages in length, jampacked with sparkling nuggets of plagiarised brilliance and one exceedingly boring (but necessary) section.

Transition Initiative Primer

Be sure to find out more about Rocket Stoves for cooking, hot water and even heating:

Rocket Stoves

Beloved,

How else would I, for certain, know that I had experienced the truest love of all -- the most genuine of my entire life -- except by the very dire contrast of this long, dark night? Its perfection is proven by the precise way that it falls apart so eloquently, in building stages, without abating and with no hint or promise of resolve.

This sorrowful division renders me with unfathomable loss to a befitting degree, as both equal and fully opposite to finding thee, my soul's mate, within the vastness of the Universe and amongst the billions of hearts that beat upon this Earth. How high the odds against that most valuable discovery! How fortunate and joyful was the closest of encounters! How incredibly ecstatic and lovingly auspicious was the nature of our naked consummation! The tears and laughter mingle now as a shining star of memory for the time of our fateful betrothal and the bliss that crowned our sweet union as one.

I could not, I testify here, have lived a life fully without your kiss, your embrace, your erotic fragrance as if concocted just for me, your uncommon beauty and all that comprises thee, both rough and smooth, dark and light. This is how I know that I have loved you for who you are as all that you are ... my all and everything.

Though you came late, you did come, at last, a'calling, like a dream-born bird of Paradise lifting me into the Spirit's aerie on splendor's wings. That is why I knew you most surely as my beloved and, with deep sincerity, did I proclaim my oath, with a lover's breath, that I always love you.

And so it does not end, (this kind of faithful love, for me) but continues in its brutal, almost cruel proof of itself by way of opposing my desire for my only one. It is by the light of the fire of my suffering that I am able to see the scintillating sharp edges of the truth that has just finished impaling my tender heart with separation from my only one, to leave me dearly departed, alone in my cocoon of solitude without the only real comfort that could resolve the raging grief that casts me asunder into eternity ... reunion. No comfort of any kind, nor bandage or tourniquet can stop the bleeding deep within.

For me there is no doubt, but this certain love becomes more spiritually encrusted with jewels of validity the more I am compelled to honor its sacredness with the only offering that it will accept for bringing me to such a height: this un-willing sacrifice without the possibility of your return. And so, I honor our brief, but precious moment in the eons of obscurity with an excruciating bow to a stinging, searing acceptance that is, in itself, devastating, irrevocable proof that I have met and merged with the embodiment of the veracity of love and now, must resign myself to the price it demands, doomed to wander without ceasing, in the land were love must be found as lost in order to be sincere.

But with that realization, I send my proclamation and affirmation to the heavens, the stars, the depths of the Earth, that my only, fervid prayer is for your happiness, peace, and fulfillment without end ... and for your understanding of this. For the glow of such a thought sends a soothing draft of warmth though the house of freezing steel that my bereaved shell of self has now become. The perfect symmetry of our merging is befittingly contrasted by the wreckage and rubble of the disfigured landscape of my cast-off heart. Be safe, be well, be yourself and, if you can find it in you to honor my memory, hold what you have known of me, somewhere safe and warm in the catacombs of that beating heart that is the core of my woman and my joy, so much that I now endure this holy wound that will never heal as it scars my being with the aftermath of an unegrettable, unforgettable journey to the beloved one.

Herein, I ask nothing from you for myself save that you know this is the truth of my way and my life. Ah, just a glimpse, a touch, one moment with you was enough to make my world tremble and lift the veil I sought for so long to part. Just one second spent peering into the green garden of your mystical eyes was worth the fate that has transpired, even as I lament and gnash my teeth in the desert of your absence as the memories of us dance before me, just out of reach, forever out of reach.

Now, back to the Sea of solitude I go to weather wave after crashing wave of unbearable sorrow. This is a perfect storm ... too tumultuous and dark to find my bearings in. I shall name it after thee.

May love awaken for us all, life's deepest secrets!

The Devastating Gift ... Still Giving!

My heart beats out the letters of your name in
Romantic Morse code with each message to you
That flower you smell someday may be
The daughter of the seeds of me with you
Planting our direct and living truth.

Your goodbye propels me to the stars
But first, the layers of barriers, smashing through brick walls.
Even you see how this is the other side now
Love goeth before for a fall.
Each moment to the end was filled
With the promise of our renewal only to be
blown to bits by the explosions of what we are not.

As my multiplied utopias of you collapse ...
So your memory of me would become precious again
So the proof that it was more than real will stand
Like crumbling monuments to the genuine, 3D advent of us.

Nothing, not even my heart's Armageddon,
Detracts from my fondness for you, your ways, your smell, sweet inner self ... the divine embrace.
It was so incredibly good and what can replace the absolute peak of it all?

Even in the pain of this distance
That memories, like echos, create, there is erotic honey and sparkling jewels
Like Buddha eyes looking into my demise as
I tremble in knowing that I can't hold, look into or touch my only other.

You have the beautiful value that makes this raw devastation more than worth
The slipping and sliding across the blades that peel me away each day.
My mind and arms are open to you in an endless gesture
Of devotion and sincere emotions unrequited
As I become a statue of what I was and the sands
Of forever slowly blast away my frozen remains
That stand as the sign language of my love for you.

Filby Drendel Widget was madly slapping himself around the room like a entheogen-intoxicated cartoon character. Heitshe was desperately trying to put out another fire on his Electra-Kimono, chakra posture suit. Those suits, fashioned in the Dragball Faloon City of Perpetual Design, were close to recall and matrixian glitches were growing more common ... just as more common was growing more rare.

This was the third clothing emergency he had this Yin. Heitshez fellow philosopod dwellers were also plagued with their own glitches, so not much chimp-facing was happening, nor was anyallone focused on the social sanitation implications or spiritual side-tracks of Filby's dilemma. Not even a shadowmech would impinge on that reality-emerge to offer a game of psychic Snooker or to dispense a Mobius bowl of synthegood, Cheddared Kimera skins. Even tribetics could eat those without any psychomodelling or Karmic flipups.

The Elite Peasantry of Silly Cybin were all a'visting due to cyclic ritual impositions overlayed by retroactive ancestry residues. Thairour movements down the Older Kuntplunder collective streets were covenants of pomp and circumstance, especially when they were revealing deep intimacy on the fine dream-cloth of their ornate garb. Even the tetra-nano jewels that strobed chromatically on their noble bling would, on occasion, synch to those symbolic and erotic visuals, but only a few had witnessed them glowing sonic and singing sacred silicon songs all fat with binary harmonics and entrancing synthelove. It is said that many are moved to another layer of biocentric awareness upon seeing and hearing the opium-glazed passion plays the Peasantry could exhibit on levels regular and meta. The show seemed to bristle with phallic potency when the synchromesh was tuning quantum and collapsing nodes coalesced synchronistically, infesting the immediate with childlike decorum. Nothing seemed more fresh and vibrant in the dynamics of centristic entropy.

Harmany Clusterphuck Orderbuster could not believe what she saw through the viddy-wall. Her clitoral sucrose injector of a Hub-buddy was doing a flagellant watusi in a respectasimulant holovironment with cybermonkey painted all over hisherit's surprisingly creation-painted face. It was as if heitshe was attending hisherit's innocence adaptation rite, ready to shit hyper-colored, pre-replicated clown parts on the exo-plastic Floor of Elders while chanting the reciprocal, Quantum Alpha-bits in the key of ancient drama. Nobody's passage is easy when the goblins of sub-reality are conjured by that jingoistic, post-advertising formula and not yet proven to be self-deleting. And, Ohwoah, how short and sudden and utterly complete is the transition from a grasshopper infused tadpole to a flower of Chi. Adulteryhood was a sure thing of chance with such an obvious jump. The thing of it was, you would never not know what didn't hit you.

Harmany breath-accelerated herhimitself into passing and jumped the pod barrier. The musk of her mind-coitus with Drendel, (she would NEVER call him Filby) sculpted with intentional expectancy, was still infusing her panty-pink tendrils to the point where sheheit reflexively retracted them, only to call more attention to herithis' throbbing, genitally modified, para-Catholic lust knob, situated prominently on herhisit Freeper scorn limb.

Slapping Drendel on his now exposed beehive, not only sent canticles of nanoistic-insects out to expression, but hyperlinked the fact that he was now para-naked, (so multi-embarrassing) while his suit spasmed in a digital seizure at what would be theirits feet, hadn't the Simulation's inevitable intervention infused the tumult and righted the realty of it.

Harmany had barely spread awareness to the other post-consumers who stood now stood spirit bare to the world in front of holographic cascades of every kind of girlguything. Sheheit blushed into deep, purple fem just in time to balance Drendel's fractal rupture into machismo-centric erections of intellectual sado-blasphemy. Sheheit found himherit covered, thankfully, under the Behavioral Symbiotic Codicils so that no jurisdictions of newsfondle would rabble rouse a terrorist inquisition in the Civic Atom Smasher of Notime. The hemorrhoidial pain-sale of such a facade-supported debacle would render both of themitone as masochistic characters in yet another publicoid distraction scandal. They were again the rage, even though the law of mutation brought them to the shore of recognition under Philososhop filters and heavy metal edits. The Quasi-Singularity made sure that nothing would ever not be the same, but adaptation was the conductor that made unsanity in the translation capable of validation through consensus by proxy to the AI Minions of the projected, respected, quantumly preserved, one-way arrow-era past -- the one that generations of Terrestrial Bipeds worshiped and believed in as some sort of substance that flowed behind them as they moved into their crazy, mass hallucination of a valid and expected future.

Hamany and Drendel broke butt-laughs at each other as they hemisynched the communist martyr's pervese joke. Who could ever have unimagined anything real about an idea of what comes before and what comes after as anything but a biocentric, functional construct without any umpirical proof or even the redstated shaking of a limp wrist of para-androgynous agony now resurrected by under-homo-sexual Senator Priests -- always bought and paid for by the Master Debater these days. Their poles were always projecting that the surrogate voter's polls would be open and well painted with quasi-lobbyist lube ... the kind that shines more brightly than photons on the receptors of some still caught in mystic commercials of alien origin and that croons, hypnotically, new simulations that can seem more real and convincing than that mess of abstract thought forms that we all were reborn from when we died.

Falloon city, (soon to be renamed Afterthought Condom by the Predominant Locus of Dominatrices) wasis the only nonplace where a self-existing entity could notcome to fold abstract thought into post-simulated emergence without tripping the Sentinel's flag tyrants and delaying afterspace long enough to make the proceedings want to fashion a reminiscence of concrete facts, reinforced with the rebar of normalcy. That kind of entanglement could dull the handlebars of Realization and send what you already are back to Go without even implicating the collection of something called two-hundred-dollars held in the jaws of Schrodinger's Cat and subject to the non-relative tax of Heidinger's Uncertainty Illusions while passing Go.

Harmony sent coils of Cosmic potential to massage the bar code of Drendel's now Messianically resurrected spine. Sheheit knew hesheit would never be able to precociously provide a large enough, membrane coated projectile fill the cuneiform void that was waxing almost oceanic with Hallmark slug=juice below the altar of her sweaty, grinding whore-gears. Sheheit shed a relative tear of generic ecstasy as hisherit's masculinity went gay-gray and she withdrew credits of busted balls from her courting account. Drendel was ready to have his inner pussy revealed in a form of existential glamor and shame, which had become the only post-human fetish that could turn his Tan'tien like, a Demiurgos' manbitch's Pope-wheel, into the meta-orgasms that were stimulated best when they exploded into the Sphere of Commons under the cyber-beltway. No greater form of thrilling and fulfilling exhibitionism had ever been experienced and, until they could prove it hypercritically inducing, it could not be notimagined as a thought crime punishable by reinsertion into the primitive, slave-grid of hyper-yore. That was the only certain hell-by-consensus and, though the benefits of exposure were great, nonotbody wanted to lose that Galactic Thought Lottery. Yin and Yang were still the hands of the not god of the Way, but, at least, the risk was balanced and worth it.

Harmany shrugged herhisit' artistically simulated, rose-fattened hips, and summoned razor-feathered, chrome doves to coo into his ear a message of stoic anticipation, "Even before the secret of Hyperlightdrive was discovered in the composition of Pop-Tarts and cell phones proved to be hyper-dimensional tracking devices that brought us all to unity, I knew that you could wiggle the fickle finger of your pseudo-ego in the catacombs of my evanescent, convulsing parcel of Eden Kunny. Touch ourselves down there, up there, over there, without there!"

Upon translating herhisit's multi-erotic Zen gesture, Drendel prematurely collapsed into drama failure and broke consumer emotions, just as Harmany had snake-seductively intended. The lose of self was so intense as to be expectation-proof and incapable of being tacked to the only and real present by even a platinum push-bin of buddha nature topped with sprinkles of Jehovah and the whipped cream of pagan creations.

"Oh, feeking wealthy monky-tits!" Drendel moaned with a digitial brilliance. "I have to lactate some new policies for the committee that captions the Creator's delusions! Oh ... oh ... compress my bawdy synapses you filthy, purple whore of Bablefish! Calculate some wet, heavy binary orgasms to me." Hesheit was breathing gooey, hot chakra spice into her prosthetic ears and sheheit felt herhisits autonomous expansion of the frequencies the genetically enhanced, artificial organs could receive. As they went to sub-modal and mega-uterine, herhisits lacy, perfumed honor damn broke open and sheheit could feel the wetness flow like a Van Gogh river of erotic impressions that would rapidly crest in the public where Drendels' fingers and other erections would yield their surfaces to the slippery wetness of Schrodinger's sex.

Suddenly, Drendel and Harmony found themselves suddenly sponsored by a wave of commercial consensus and tumbled without resistance into into the prison of time and space created by people with the reality basis of lizards who published frequent and unnecessary, inter-dimensional encyclopedias, bibles, and other graphic, abstract freedom slayers, popular long before the mind emerged and was subsequently conquered by the recognition of itself. They were, through a looking glass darkly, the descended remnants of the bipedal cretins who once inhabited, like traumatic ant colonies, the pre-realization space of Wallmart street, as civopologists model it. Some pre-free habits were not dying easy as traces of mass hallucinations gone by what can't be gone by.

"What the Freep?" Drendle screamed virulently into Harmany's glistening, listening projection, louder than the Atomic Angels that humbly bent down to kiss Nagasaki and Hiroshima in the gentrified ballpark of history's, mass-produced, collective illusion. That is, the one that seemed so long and solid, only to crumble by a candle lit in the wind by U.G. Krishnamurti who became nothing more than the favorite gift of some anonymous trash heap in his own non-mind.

As you read this, you are here reminded of the underlying stream of continuity that is, essentially you -- nothing more or less. Poised, seemingly somewhere between the ideas that are birth and death, (are you present for either?) you follow the arbitrary, cause to effect arrow of chronology, that is thought to have a direction. That direction is relative to the observer. It is just as easy to consider what are thought of as past, (behind us) and future, (ahead of us) as having not particular direction other than that of where attention and thought are being directed in the moment. In that case, the direction is determined by convention.

What is past is considered to have been experienced, (no matter how inaccurately or partially it is remembered) and is dogmatically replayed with some fidelity whil the future is what is expected, yet is just as much experienced, replayed, and emotional, but with more variety. So, if we remove the presumed signpost, subjectively, that indicates a direction and flow to subjective time, we can just as easily relate these two aspects of thought that predominate in our awareness to various degrees and that are always experienced in the immediate moment, regardless of the attributions we apply about non-local placeholders. This not only allows us to discover and explore finer conceptual distinctions, but to even consider a lateral, or horizontal aspect to our experience of time, that special category where timelessness, and other unconventional experiences have been noted throughout history.

That thread of interrelated, experience and memory-based thoughts constantly recreating you and thriving on its own preservation even unto eternity. No matter how disjointed, jumbled, or contradictory, you can usually find your current place on that thread that is woven through imaginary time and space. You like to call that a self, a soul, a personality, an ego, etc. Regardless of the abstract term you find most comforting and reinforcing for this essential, cohesive, conceptual intimacy it exists only in the moment of your recognition while it appears to have a contiguous and concrete existence in both directions of subjective and objective notions of time.

Time, with all its practical uses for coordinating events in the growing, cultural addiction, dependence, and imprisonment that it provides the ticking bars for, has a clearly subjective element in the experiencing of it that is influenced by preferences, attention, distraction, and other factors. Most importantly, it has become true indicator of our distraction from our nature, essence, and presence. The more we objectify time, (as opposed to the more naturalistic ebb, flow, and cycles of the processes of nature itself) as a factual quantity and, then extend it into a valuable and essential commodity, the more we remove ourselves from being, living, and existing in the only portion or aspect of what we call time, i.e., this very moment. While this is not a new idea, it bears deeper inspection because it distinguishes the context of the current, Western mindset and impetus from the direct, raw nature of being as it is. As an analogy, the pure pigment of our immediate awareness is smeared relentlessly across the palette of objectified time until it is a vague, watery semblance of its original intensity and saturation. This has had a notable and obvious impact on those subjected to the phenomena of being subsumed by a consensus of one-way motion and imprisoned in a matrix of rigidly demarcated slots and zones that are not indicated as purely pragmatic and functional rather than actual and empirical.

While it is easy for most to agree that the cycles of nature are observable and can be agreed on, the addition of more defined and refined segments of time have become obvious overlays on them. That is where we can, as natural beings of the Tao, come to see the tyranny of mechanistic, clock-based time beyond its purely functional, exploitations. When we turn to science for answers about the nature of time, we find that Quantum Mechanics relates no need, or sound basis for either time or space in most equations. Thermodynamics is one exception, but then, time is not an overwhelming factor even there. So, when we revert to and delve into the subjective nature of time projected outwards and tethered to the technology of refined time-keeping, we can see that it has become a tool fo control and a means to instill institutional order on our natural rhythms. Is it any wonder that we find ourselves, as species, growing increasingly out of balance with ourselves and our environment?

When you seriously question the strong tendency for of terrestrial bipeds to remain embedded in faith, belief and dogma, along with the curious propensity to equate abstraction with the actual, the predicament of the species comes sharply into view with a compelling clarity and focus. And no, bio-survival tickets are nowhere near the meaning of life or a justification for our existence. Like the mind, they are merely tools in a certain context.

We can say with certainty that people can have faith in anything and they can, and do, believe in anything. If we leave out the fetish for minority versus majority for a moment then this can be seen as partly due to the logical and well-worn philosophical problem of whether we can know anything at all to be a rock solid fact versus a predominant and difficult to dispute theory. This species can't be absolutely sure of information that they have acquired from others, so they diligently srive to codify and then resort to making sacred, certain creeds and items of consensus, (be they naturally come upon or insidiously conspired) for purely pragmatic reasons and for social adhesion -- once a strong factor in actual, natural survival. Perhaps that all centers on a process where order is brought to bear on chaos in the way that life might actually be creating, in some intimate and profound way, the very actuality of what appears to be real.

While it can be said that, in many cases, some form of faith is required for many undertakings, (we have faith that they will succeed in order to embark and cling tenaciously to what otherwise might seem like worthless or tenuous prospects) we have to distinguish between that form of the meaning and the faith that one has told to have, especially in relation to religious teachings. And while faith is an openness to a possibility or potential, belief takes that somewhat open-minded and optimistic stance into a nebulous zone where hearsay, story, and tradition take on an aura of fact without proof or openness to inquiry. For, to question beliefs, (they being so strongly held to as walls to a viral, verbal fortress) is to question what is tacitly assumed to be a personally held form of fact without substance.

The tool building of the terrestrial bipeds has taken precedence to the point that the species collectively identifies itself and defines its reality in relation to the tool creating entity known as the mind. When does it dawn on this species that the mind's capacity to manipulate its environment is actually secondary to the biological physiology that underlies its functions? The tool making skill has become the dominant aspect of existence and being, and has even taken ascendancy as the modus operandi for being itself. Once this is understood, then it becomes clear that what is called religion, spirituality, philosophy, science, etc. are all similar in form and function as products of the predominance of mind in the current, culturally-induced acquiescence to thought as existence. This levels the playing field and, while not denigrating the value of these already extant functions, this difficult to verbalize realization levels the playing field so that all players are on the very same board, with none, not even reason, being raised or lowered in relation to the others.

Of course, to begin to think in that mode and to then translate it into the various sub-modes of understanding and expression within the captivation of mind, requires tenacity and strong inquiry that is uncompromising. However, within that context, a relentless desire to know, (rather than believe or have faith in) begins to emerge and the idea of the direct in contrast to the indirect can then unfold as a process. Who can refute that "to know about" might be interesting and useful, but to know directly and without intermediary is obviously essential and the very goal of the seeking of knowledge itself. To start, or to take the first step is suggested by the radical phrase, Nullis in Verbum, (roughly, take nobody's word for it). While to many that idea, in itself, is unsettling enough to cause alarm and illicit some abstract, subjective fear, it is also a concept that can surgically remove the locus of the cultural infection that, to put it concisely, domesticates our true nature in order to distort it into a shape that fits a growing consensual hallucination that once had a practical and more intimate value in a simpler context. For it is complexity and enormity that have altered the original set and setting of this adaptation, mutating it to a critical point. That point is where we now find ourselves situated.

We are at an apogee where previously functional, survival-based agreements and norms have been subsumed into a complex mono-culture movement that is fueled now, primarily by the synthetic as a more authentic replacement for the real, or, as Baudrillard was getting at, the complex outcome of our abstractions has fomented the Simulation that gives rise to a hyper-reality that absorbs and regurgitates reality to the point that anything real at all is eventually obscured by its new and better replacement.

It all comes down to the point that the directness of our nature is assimilated, (as we complicity allow it to) into a centralized, media-fueled, digitally remastered copy. That copy is then accepted, (based on heard-like instincts to survive and crave for creature comforts) as not just a replacement, but a superior reinvention or recreation of the more direct, physical, even intuitive, facts of our immediate experience. In that case, distraction is division is entertainment. In this case, it is all simply an open invitation to tyranny and proves to be, under the surface, voluntary and participatory. We simply must not make that point openly and with conviction if we expect any kind of welcome response from the terrestrial bipeds.

The Biocentric paradigm is emerging here. That is why the abstractions of this exploration are to be considered as catalysts in the sense that they undo and breakdown conceptual barriers. While there is much scientific fact and calculation that supports such a powerful epiphany that mirrors our own nature, that is left to the standard issue, inquiring bio-computer to explore now that the software upgrade represented here has been run, quite possibly, for the first time.

Where my Head Is In All Of It, It Is All In My Head: Metanoia In The Eschaton


[1] The Emergent Chronicles of Draindamsel Chilbowl Fireberry

It was a rainy, miserable day laced with misty gray auras and dappled with sad and chilly undertones. I couldn't, (or maybe wouldn't) decide where not to go, so I played chameleon again, weaving strips of cognition into the biological matrices that made the material world real.

It could translate as a turbid experience encapsulated in Tao, and felt quite like being under water and then, suddenly surfacing. If there was actually an other side or inside to anything, then this would be the representation of the concept in a pervasive way. My awareness bobbed in the neuro-interface ocean of brain structure and that's when the direct realization, as expected, hit me. That all matter only became real on my observation was common knowledge, but the the synonymous division became sharp and internalized as life feeding back to life itself. That is when you cluster and phase into ecstatic, self-annihilating jargon that accesses the pre-perceptive node of pure synesthesia. There, sensory data is pure and separated, prior to processing in the nervous system. That is how the experience of life creating matter becomes intimate -- unified perception is a threshold to the core energy that drives the biocentric reality factory. Not just that, though. That is where Vita Logic reveals that life is creating itself, since it is collapsing a potential wave, or waves, into a particle-based reality where, in the act of representing space, time and form, it too is a construct in the process and product. With all of what we call reality, life creates itself in the moment of consciousness that is an act of observation.

I sipped some, nearly hot green tea from a hyper-ancient relic: an alien skull-cup, ornately inscribed with holographic lightworm teachings that were difficult to decipher without your neural enhancements activated. I usually kept my translates dormant in order to direct Chi to biomass maintenance. At my age, self-originated extension became more enticing and pertinent. After the biocentric unfolding, death was literally over, but living in forever took some crucial, but minor adjustments on a regular basis. With all possibilities now being endless, there was so very much to sequentially manifest. The divisive impediments of the internal/external dichotomy that encapsulated the mindset of the terrestrial bipeds -- being our larvae -- in a fertile jungle of rich abstractions simply diffused into the self-referential, introspective insight that is life itself peering deeply into the mirror image of its own nature. That is where the process reflects itself processing and opens the superluminal abyss exposing that which has no representation or symbol whatsoever. It is known to be what it is by the criteria that there is nothing to compare it to, and no concept can describe or contain it ... and yet ... the ecstatic bliss that evaporates from its invisible periphery.

It was almost a epi-leap before decay reference and very now-and past, the Cathartic Popes of Creative Logic would be this-here to demonstrate the principles of meta-collapse and the effects of the superluminal drag it injects into the post-culteral unisphere. Note even the indefatigable Biocentric Historian, Boltronovic Thyputty had plumbed the biotic template that deeply, and he was the self-discoverer who introspectively insplored and documented the synaptic engines of creation and, in a fit of uncertainly, smashed into the heart of a once-and-future source that revealed the ultimate purpose of the incarnated paradigm. Life was engineering itself to span the total potential of limits and restriction in order to emerge into limitlessness in a slow, time-based release through the fantasy of space. None of the larval bipeds would have easily recognized the organic consciousness to be scientifically molding consciousness itself into the freedom of the limitless where it dynamically sculpts the structure of infinity as a solvent for reality. No longer held safely at bay in the catacombs of abstract thought, infinity becomes reality itself by contrasting itself progressively with everything temporal by context. Of course, that way everything becomes vast and infinite.