There is a school of thought, I believe it’s called Gnosticism, wherein the God of this decaying, dying material plane is seen as mad, and we, the individuated conscious monads are trapped, as it were, in his nightmare. The True God, being perfect, CANNOT have any intercession with the material plane, as that God is in a state of perfection beyond the material. Until we find the enlightenment of transcendent knowingness, we cannot, as it were, “Go Back to Godhead.” Until then, we continue, as Buddha said, “to reenter the womb,” to stay mired in physical reality, which is the stuff that, cyclically. always sickens, decays and dies. The world of Maya, the Illusion.
Spent the wee hours this morning watching Eraserhead on You Tube, projected against a background of shifting, animated stars. I suppose the uploader did that to get around the copyright restriction. The film reminds me of my life twenty years ago, starting university in Muncie, walking around through old buildings and rooming houses, bars; buildings where you can still feel the tired, worn-out but undeniably real energy of another era. Little Chicago, 1928, or even 1898. You can still feel the shuffling, forlorn footsteps of old ghosts, lost on their way to the Light, forever perambulating their musty, nocturnal hallways and empty, dust-choked rooms, in search of an exit. If you listen closely, you can hear their murmuring sobs, their old, tired, petty arguments and passing thoughts repeated endlessly, the music of their lives flowing down the frequency fields of space, trapped in the walls, as if the very environment were a vast, brick-and-mortar tape recording device. But, I wax too poetic for four in the morning. C’est la vie.
Has it not occurred to you that everything you do in this life is eventually shoveled under and forgotten? Believe me, anything you create will eventually be rendered an obscure artifact, a museum piece. That is if you are lucky. Your possessions will be sold, traded, given away, or discarded as obsolete. Your music will become dated, outmoded, a comic relic of a past that is folded between the pages of so many history books. In time, worms and mites will eat the pages of those books. (Although, I suppose today they could be digitized!) EVERYTHING is transitory; nothing is permanent. Just another shifting illusion. Only the ghost, the vibrations of the past can be picked up, as a dim frequency, IF youy are intune with your own ability to do so. That is, if you cancel out the noise of the waking world, and allow yourself to FEEL it in your fingertips.
One of the watershed moments for me in life was when I realized I had dreamed the exact images of a movie before I had ever actually seen it. Say what you want about that, but it always stuck with me through the years. I fell asleep one night, and witnessed what I can only describe as a scene of horror, hundreds of people screaming in a hell-like agony, and marching into the mouth of some hideous metal demon. The last I remember was an onlooker below them crying out in terror, just before seeing his back disappear through a set of heavy iron double doors. Later, while visiting relatives, an uncle brought a videotape of an old silent film for my other uncle, because he was an enthusiast for the Roaring Twenties. This was maybe 1988 or 89, so VHS cassettes were in use. As I was watching it, it was then that I realized that the thing I had dreamed was, in po0int of fact, the EXACT visual images from the “Moloch” machine explosion scene from the beginning of Fritz Lang’s “Metropolis” (1927).
Socialist reformer W.T. Stead was fascinated by spiritualism and psychic phenomena, so much so that when a medium told him he must not, under any circumstances, travel by sea, he went and booked passage aboard an ocean liner for her maiden voyage.
He died aboard the Titanic, April 15, 1912.
There is a story told of Lord Krishna. When he was a toddler at Brindavan, he liked to steal butter and cream. He was roundly scorned for this, and his mother told him he should take care never to do it again.
So, the next time the little Lord set about playing at the homes of his young friends, instead of making off with the butter, he grabbed a baby fistful of mud, ramming it into his mouth. His young friends, seeing what the baby had done, were offended, and went to tell his mother, Yashoda.
When he returned home, Lord Krishna’s mother said to him, “You awful, unthinking child! I will teach you never to put filthy mud into your mouth again!”
And she started to enact his punishment. Perhaps she was going to make him suck on a sour lemon, or even a cake of soap. We are not told. Whatever the case, though, when Lord Krishna opened his mouth, his mother was treated to an astounding sight:
She saw hills and valleys, trees and fields, rushing rivers, and vast craggy peaks. She saw mountainous rises and shallow dips, the twinkling, starlit array of diamonds in the black, vaulted firmament of heaven. She saw the planets, each with its own life, and the suns burning brightly in wonder, and the forgotten depths of the ocean floors, and even the raging waters of other worlds.
She, indeed, beheld the universe in the suckling infant’s mouth.
Lord Krishna’s mother fell to weeping, as she realized that Vishnu had come to earth in the form of her son.
(We imagine that, after that, he was treated to all the butter and cream he liked.)
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Consciousness is the laser pointer, or to use an old metaphor, the needle playing the groove of the vinyl record of what you experience as “waking life.” All is just a frequency field, emanations or vibrations of lighter and denser frequencies, and this is decoded by the conscious mind as the YOU. If you can transcend or escape this prison, find enlightenment, then you return to the ALL. But God experiences Himself as YOU, and you experience God as everything and everyone else. How could it be otherwise? Every physical sensation is simply an electrical impulse decoded by the central nervous system–all just illusions. More dreams, more “vibrations.” None of it, ultimately, any more real or permanent than a dream, a soap bubble, snowflake or flickering flame.