The Roaring of Her Voice

As I sat there listening to the roaring of her voice, knowing that behind me there was a jungle of life, and in front of me an ocean of time,

I could see the immensity in front of me; and behind me, the void. Everything and nothing behind me––just empty space. All that there was, was the ocean before me. All I could hear were her stories, but the stories kept coming one after the other. The images of origins and endings, beginnings and nevermores were here inside me and outside of me, and as the ocean was inside my mind, bursting it open, I couldn’t tell the difference between the ocean in me and the ocean outside.

I had no idea where I was. I had no idea what I was hearing. Voices came and went until every word, and every concept, and every memory lost any proportion and meaning. It was just sounds until no longer could I remember who or what I was, what I was hearing, what was she saying––only that reverberation that was felt through skin and spine, only the wailing until nothing else could be had, until that point of reference which is I was barely there.

Yeah. There I was, just a point of view, barely there. I, perceiving the ocean, hearing the stories. The almost I. The barely I. The uncreated. The eternal. That nothing that was not absent. That point which was ceasing to be. Unmanifested. Uncreated.

Something sat, maybe. I cannot really tell you for I did not see it sitting. There was an immensity, I believe so now. I can’t really say. For compared to what could that be an immensity?

There was a vastness that came and went that would give me moments of reprieve, when I could collect myself and think maybe enough to know myself as the teller of stories, as the thinker of thoughts, as the one who yearns for the kiss of that vastness whence I came.

I could never have enough time to consolidate this long enough before she would take me again, before my point of view would change to being a vast something that had existed from the beginning of time and will continue to exist until the end of time when the last flame in the last star goes off.

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Always the Ocean

The sun had just immersed itself in that beautiful golden rainbow water in the distance. She came out, this beautiful creature, out of the ocean. She walked towards me. I remember it. I could almost see her, but not quite. But she was there, I think—or almost there.

She was barely true, almost real. I could tell she was there because of the soft shimmer on the outline of her body. The light of the sun, indirect and gentle, almost as if saying goodbye, would reflect on her surface––small glimmers of dew telling me of a hair, a curve, a breast, maybe a mouth.

She was almost there. Barely there. But the likeness of her being was unmistakable. I could feel it in my skin. It would tickle me. It would make me burst with a small gentle smile. It would make herself known when I took a whiff of air into me, and she smelled like the ocean. She smelled like the sand. She smelled like the sunset. And there she whispered in my ear.

She told me the story of the doll made of salt who would sit by the ocean as I sat by the ocean, waiting for the water to come close to her, almost kiss her, and go back; come back and go back; and one day it came too close and it kissed her on her feet. The oceanic water touched the feet of this doll who sat just as I sat. But her love and yearning for the ocean was so great that just one kiss of the ocean begun to dissolve the doll of salt. In her love for the kiss, all of her dissolved and she became the ocean.

When she told me this story, I asked:
-“So, what happened to the girl made of salt?”
-“She became the ocean” she said.
-“But, aren’t you the ocean?” I asked.
-“Yes” she said.
-“So, do you remember being the girl made of salt?”
-“I was never a girl made of salt,” she said. “I’ve always been the ocean, and I will always be the ocean.”

Why I Lay This Soul to Be Torn Apart

I have seen the dunes of time, rolling with the shifting sands of the endless desert between the dream of life and the wake world of the House Absolute.

Who can cross this unforgiven vastness?

Who survives the ancient whirlwind that tears apart gods and worlds?

Who stands whole before the terrible stentor of The Heart Of The Sky, whose voice creates and destroys the infinite abode?

Who will cross this desert, whose ever shifting dunes are formed out of the cold breath of the eternal void upon the sand of time where every grain is the unique divine point of view of every traveller, of every dreamer of the House Absolute who ever entered this desert void?

And why is it, beloved of my soul, that I would lay that very soul to be torn apart, to add one insignificant grain to the infinite sand? It is so that you too may come to find your completion, your satiety in the constant embrace of the beloved, and that you may also know the glory in plenitude as I have.

When I Can No Longer Remember

What is this, penetrating me over and over again?

What is it that pulls me out of myself, over and over again? What is impregnating, causing me to give birth to words and stories and thoughts? What presence is sending these words out to see if any survive, to hear some of them coming back to die in the vastness of my mind?

Thousands of children created, all living inside myself; a few of them daring to come out in words, in teachings, in thoughts and stories. What is their life like out there? I don’t know. All I know is the swelling in me that sends them out; and they go out there not knowing why I sent them. I can’t tell them that. They cannot know why. That is for me to know. That yearning is mine, and I send them out, each one with its own orbit, to live and die, to one day come back.

More and more are created in me, from the pulling of that Goddess-priestess––her silver touch pulling all the way down to my womb. And that sun God! Harsh, brilliant and penetrating, hitting my flesh, burning.

This womb of my heart is ready to swell, to live, to yearn, perhaps one day to surrender into that vast thing I call the ocean, when I can no longer see it because it’s too big, when I can no longer hear it because it’s drowning me, when I can no longer remember myself stepping into the waters.

 

This Impulse to Know

My mother ocean, maybe she’s hoping one day to have swelled so much that one tip of her womb would breach the infinite ocean above and become one.

One with what? It does not know. It only knows that one day long, long ago it must have come down from that big, big, big heaven. One day it, the ocean, was only a drop that came down from that roaring, infinite vastness of which the sun and the moon are just two tiny creatures that play with her, that penetrate and pull her, making her give birth over and over again.

One day––and this is for sure to happen one day––she will also die and become one once again with the oceans whence she came. Then she will forget herself as the waters above swallow her whole, and her consciousness and vision become stretched way beyond her capacity to know, to think, to remember, and to be.

And so, every star, and every galaxy, and every God one day too will dissolve into the vast, vast ocean-void whence they came.

That part I know. That part I remember.

What I don’t know and cannot know is why that vast ocean of mother Binah swells once again and sets me forth into this harsh and vast light. Why again am I down here where I forget, where all I know is to yearn, and to love, and to desire?

Not even having the memory of what it was, I only have the pain of the yearning; and out of my soul, the depth of my being that has no name, no memory, no ego, nothing… but out of the depth of this pain, the memory of my origin pulls me, and the presence of God penetrates me day and night. In thought and in silence it pulls me. And out of me comes, now as a thought, then as a whisper, this little impulse to go back.

Go back… Go back… This impulse… This thing in my heart of hearts that wants to swell up, flutter up, and become and know what is there outside myself.

¿A Dónde Se Va el Silencio?

¿A dónde va el esfuerzo del amor
si tan efímero es el recuerdo
y tan feroz e indestructible es el olvido?

¿A dónde van las palabras que jamás se oyeron?

¿En qué rincones se quedaron los juegos de niño?

¿En qué paredes se vieron plasmadas todas las vivencias?
¿Y a dónde va la luz solar cuando en color se convierte
y se absorbe en la pupila de tus ojos?

¿En qué oscuridades cabrán tantas y tantas vivencias?
¿En qué rincones oscuros de tu cerebro penetra la vibración de cada palabra?

¿Dónde se pierde la comprensión de lo que nunca fue?
¿A dónde se va el silencio después que absorbe todo sonido?

—————–

Check out SoundScapes—Otherworldly Sound Trajectories by Vox Angelus and Koyote: https://youtu.be/fR_D-AZSxEE

What’s with All the Narratives Out There?

In the process of birthing the New Sun, which is also the process of creating the Human Being, we will see all the worlds melting as they approach the core of being, and then dissolve. You will experience all possibilities, and will seem to be performing all things; because even the consciousness of humanity is becoming one at the same time that it’s becoming all.

The human mind is one. One mind operating in the human being, but it is being experienced by every body in a different way. So, my nervous system, my experience, my language, and my personal history are a particular instantiation of the human experience––and so is yours and everybody else’s. There is no such thing as my mind and your mind. There is my experience and your experience, but the mind is one.

This over-mind is experiencing through each of us, and as we approach this historical event horizon, we increase the number of events we experience, and as the frequency of happenings increases, we begin to feel what is like to be all and none.

Identify with anything that is not the true center of things and you will always be experiencing the struggle. All things are happening now. All things are being experienced. And you are doing all things, except not all through your own body.

We used to live only in a planetary world. Now, we still live in a planetary world, but more of us are becoming exposed to the birthing process of the New Sun, and therefore the world is not going to be solid for a while. Not until it becomes cosmic.

The awareness of different planes is more at hand. Observe, then. Stop trying to figure out which of the narratives is the truest. There is no true narrative. You will never find the real reality of what is happening out there. Who is really controlling the world? Nobody is controlling the world. What world can survive at the core of this celestial explosion? None.

You are seeing the struggle of worlds as they merge. The more you try to make your understanding solid the more the mystery will embody your experience and destroy it. Become the mystery. Not the secrets. There are no secrets. There is just the surrounding unknown in the middle of this awareness that is forever trying to go within and forever giving of itself.

In that constant struggle between burning within myself and giving my light to the world I become one with this new being that is being born. And as I observe all my lifetimes and all my possibilities I feed my fire with all things. I love all things. I perform all things. I understand all things. I dissolve myself even as I give myself. And I find nothing to hold.

Do not despair then when you see all the confusion of the worlds outside. Do not think that this is just because you are going crazy. You are going crazy but that’s not why this is all so confusing. It’s also confusing. Stop trying to figure out what the true narrative is. All narratives are exploding and imploding. A New Sun is being born and it’s here at the core of our experience. And it’s here with the voice of the sound-that-makes that the heralding of the new light is carried.

Island of Solace

This island of solace will one day vanish away. It will be washed away. For the more I feel the reality of the illusion, the more I touch the hard reality, the more the events of my life prove to me that whatever happens to me is important, that my children are special, that my life is unique.

The more I entrench myself in this illusion of life, the harder the weight of the illusion, and the harder, stronger, and heavier becomes the self. The less flexible I am, the more mechanical and robotic my move, my thought, my emotion.

The more mechanical and fiercely solid my movement of consciousness, the deeper the suffering is and the more entrenched, harsh, solid, heavy the illusion of I am becomes––forgetting the womb of that mother that lies in the emptiness of the eternal presence of the void.

In this Space I sit

In this space I sit, surrounded by a mystery that penetrates every particle and creek of my being.

This mystery moves. If I look inside I see nothing. If I sense the space before my eyes, I find darkness. If I place my attention behind, I see nothing, a dark shadow. I feel the cold presence of the empty void behind me, pushing me, supporting me.

I notice the emptiness moving through my fingers. I hear the emptiness surrounding my words––words that pretend to have meaning but are carried away from me by this emptiness, the echoes of something unknown.

Even the being who says “I am”, implied in every sentence, the being that observes, that hears, that sees shadow and light, the being that says “I am” sits in the shadows between the worlds.

If I look within the source of attention, trying to find the I am, it retreats even further. When I think I’ve grappled the self, surrounding it in a craftily and carefully constructed web of meaning and concerns, saying “here I am,” the I am becomes smaller, more remote, more in shadow. I look for the I am not realizing that the one who searches is also the I am, forever retreating yet always at the center of every experience.

In Samsara Caught

I become entangled in the dramas of my dream. I worry that I don’t know what is going on. I worry that I’m wasting my time. I worry that perhaps I have not accomplished enough. I worry that I will be alone. That I will not be what I should be. I worry about what they would think of me. The more I worry what they think of me the more I forget the solitude of the empty space.

I play this game so well that I forget for a moment that I truly believe for a moment that I am here sitting, surrounded by an ocean of minds, of people moving–each one in their own way; that they look at me and that it matters; that whatever happens to me is somehow important. I worry that I might not know what’s going on. And what then? What will then happen to me? Me, me, me, me, me, me, me, me, me, me.

Each enunciation of me, of “I am,” becomes like a pebble, a rock, a concentration of tiny impressions that I put in my pocket, filling myself with the weight of time. Self importance. Solid, I become––hard shelled, immovable will––until everything is so heavy, so hard, that I no longer see beyond myself; that I no longer move outside this box. No longer these hands touch anything but themselves. No longer my heart feels. No longer my ears hear other than the crazy tumultuous thoughts, unconnected impressions that flow. No longer can I touch anything outside other than the mere sensations generated by a physical network of nervous systems sending impressions of light––chemical reactions flowing inside, an entire lifetime, an ocean of illusory time moving within this empty shell, heavy with false concerns.

The stage feels more solid. A spark flows from somewhere, somehow. It comes as a delicate smell. It pulls a tiny part of my attention. A very small light that I can’t quite see vanishes the moment I fix my eyes on her, leaving behind only the most subtle trail of mystery as a tiny moment of life outside the mesh of self concern. It comes and goes. Comes and goes, like the tides of an ocean.

When it’s gone, it seems like just the faint trails of a forgotten dream, something not real enough, not truly tangible, just a hint of a something indescribable. And when it’s here it has such an undeniable presence that for a brief moment seems able to dissolve all my suffering, all my concern.

It’s just at that moment when I’m about to surrender to the joy that seems to come from that gentle touch, just at that  moment, I fear that if I give in to that voice I might lose all the weight I’ve accumulated throughout my organic existence. I hold on to my suffering, for the fear of dissolution into the kiss of that beloved star. It comes and goes in an odd rhythm with odd sounds.