Poem: Bathing in the Moon

Moons

The Moon is my teacher
But where is she in the human body?
In every cell, a crystal,
A tiny micro-filament
Attuned to her lunar flux
You do not need a shuttle to go to her;
You can make her come to you
All her history, she will tell you
You just have to sit down, listen
And close your eyes.

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Poem: Master of the Long Grasses

Mountain face

Master of the long grasses

Married to the wind

Do you see the stray bullets

That the breeze carries?

Care-free and pliable

Riding on Nepalese Music

Like a wind-blown blossom

Starting rock concerts on lakes

Sitting on logs

Sailing rafts of bamboo

The second master is a mountain

He has no name

He is the ‘face’ in ‘Rock Face’

Grimacing against time

With features woven from placid boulders

He casts a wry smile

From time to time

Flashing shattered teeth of Chrysacola

That would not hesitate to chew up

Any unwary traveler

Who failed to show their respects

His personage possesses all the awesomeness

of Obscurity Lightening

His breathe is the strange halitosis

Which perfumes all ages

Every few Millennia

He raises a wry eyebrow of stone

Which he slowly lowers again

To the crumbling of civilizations

But even with all this power

Is he is still bitter

That after all this time

No one has ever offered him

A breath mint

Or a glass of water

Short Story: The Assassination of Abdul the Lech

Tartarus

Last I dreamt I was witness to an assassination.

I was roaming along a half-constructed and war-torn stretch of suspended highway out in the Middle East, where I had been hazily employed as a War Reporter.

Whilst taking a brief rest behind a pile of rubble, I observed a man – whom many of the locals held to be a holy man and saint of considerable repute – being beheaded by a well-known radical insurgent.

“What are you doing?” I asked, emerging from the somnolence of my detritus. “That man is a saint, highly revered by many of your people. Why did you kill him?”

The insurgent scoffed at me callously.

“This man was no saint, though he may have been called as much by many ignorant pigheads who didn’t have the sense to know better. He was a lecher, a rapist, and a slave-trader. Come – let me show you how he spent his days.”

Thanks to the elastic morphology of dreams, the hitman was able to transport me into the past, where I could experience several years in the life of Abdul the Lech.

This esteemed mystic lived in a corrugated tin warehouse of incredible squalor, piled up with junk and fluffy accumulations of asbestos-containing insulation materials, the carpet comprised of dirt and litter. The living conditions were unbearable. But the mystic, who shared it with many of his assistants, spent most of his time in a semi-conscious haze, completely oblivious to the scunge and rot that was his decor; most of his time expended lying in a dissolute, bilious state on the floor, incapacitated by nausea, and groaning and keening soundlessly into the ether.

Despite spending most of his time like prophet Ezekiel, lying paralyzed and sick on his side – I never once, in my tenure as the mystic, saw him engage in fornication –  Abdul was known to be an incorrigible and demented Casanova, sleeping with, and impregnating upwards of thirty women a day.

I asked the insurgent how this was possible.

“A man with Abdul’s power does not require a body to act. He projects many hybrid forms around the community, and uses them to enact his bidding, appearing in exactly the right form to seduce the unfortunate women he molests. He fabricates his semen out of dirt and demon spit. But this enterprise still costs him a lot of energy, which is why you see him in this recumbent, pathetic state. Return to him now and take a closer look.”

I did as the insurgent commanded.

Several months passed, and Abdul was still lying motionless on his left side. But a change had come over his grotty dwelling. The floor had begun to literally expand and distend, looking very gravid, with strange, tendril-like protuberances emerging from each lump, like the shoots of a sick onion plant. I recognised later that these tendrils were actually a species of organic antennae protruding from the heads of a new generation of women that were gestating there.

It seems that, again, thanks to some mysterious occult agency, Abdul, once he’d inseminated the women through the medium of his impish projections, was able to transfer the wombs that he had fertilized into the floor of his squalid chamber, where, I now realized, all the junk that was scattered therein was not arbitrary, but had actually been placed there deliberately, as a sort of necromantic manure, to the aid the children he had begotten to grow, without the envelopment of their mother’s body. Truly, these were not woman-born children, but children plucked straight from the chthonic depths of Tartarus, unwanted and despised, except by this mystic, who sought to exploit them.

Eventually, the soil and loam began to shift and quake as his children all rose at once from the pregnant earth.

Every child that he  bore was a fully-grown girl, about six feet in height, dressed in the sackcloth clothing as of some medieval peasant. They could have passed for impoverished, if not overgrown beggars, were it not for their mutated heads, which were cuboid in shape, the colour of decayed spring onion, with those ugly long tendrils pointed out of their heads. They produced an awful, unnameable smell, and bore wretched, termagant scowls on their faces. Despite this, I felt very sorry for them, and was disgusted that Abdul would have any part in bringing these tortured beings to life. It caused me pain to contemplate their unhappy existence, and I felt a deep loathing for this man whom before I had been willing to save.

The square-headed women crowded around Abdul with mania and glee. “How are you going to feed us?!” “When are you going to start working and get some money in?!” – that’s what they wanted to know.

They chased Abdul out of his house, and it was amazing to see him move so sprightly, given his extended lack of motility.

But here the flashback was abruptly cut off.

“What happened next?” I asked the insurgent with a morbid eagerness I was disgusted with myself for feeling.

“What you witnessed there,” he said, “was but a single turn in a cycle that this perverted man played out again and again many times in his life. No one really knows what he did with the women once he had born them. Some believe he slaughtered them just for the fun of it. But, judging from photographs and corpses I have had the privilege of autopsying, he mostly used these women to generate money by selling them to powerful people as slaves.”

“But I thought slavery had been abolished here?” I asked, somewhat naively.

“It has, on paper. But, as these women couldn’t readily be classified as of human origin, he is able to traffic them to whomever he likes, marketing them as ‘jinn’ or ‘ifrit’. From the analysis of their remains, I suspect that sexual abuse is a common occurrence.”

I was very close to throwing up.

“If this is his life you have just shown me, how is it that he earned a reputation as a holy man?”

The insurgent shrugged his shoulders.

“How is it that we knowingly allow evil, corrupt, genocidal maniacs to rule the world?” he asked me back, socratically. “Charisma and mythology can be an excellent disguise for just about every misdeed. How many clean-teethed celebrities do you think engage in child sacrifice on a daily basis?”

With this he left, taking a leap off the motorway.

I turned, threw up into the wreckage of a crashed car, and got out of there at once.

The Unraveling of The Self

 

Before we are born, we are in an oceanic, atomic state. We exist as The Indivisible Engineers of the Manifest and Unmanifest, drifting through space, whilst simultaneously creating it. Every action and inaction, every intention and non-intention is part of the code that enables things to expand centrifugally, even when, on a smaller level, they seem to contract and disappear, the way bubbles enlarge and then explode, without destroying the ocean that engenders them – what one scientist has referred to as ‘The Quantum Foam’.

But, if we are indivisible, how is that we can become finite when we are born? How can you apportion infinity and make it appear to be isolated and separate? How can you take a single cell of the cosmic worm, and make it writhe on its own?

Whilst we are still in our bornless state, though we are infinite, and not separate from the rest, each undulation within this ineffable fabric could still be said to possess its own centre. Every part of the whole is the centre from which the rest flows; every entirety, no matter how big or small, could be said to be made up of an endless sequence of centres, a non-stop train of nuclei. They radiate, emanate, and generate more centres. This is how infinity propagates itself.

Each of these centres could be defined according to the Hindu notion of ‘The Atman’ or ‘The Self’. It is this arbitrary but necessary centre that imbues you with your sense of ‘you-ness’ when you are born. From there, it unravels and expands, like a spiral following the ineluctable equation of The Golden Mean, fulfilling and realizing all the properties and myriad algorithms that are inherent in it. As an encyclopaedia contains an enormous amount of entries that have no existence of their own until they are read and understood, so it is with your life. All these algorithmic potentials are waiting for existence and reification – but it is up to you to seek them, activate them, and make them real. You are the initiator of your own programming. So create the optimum that your unignorable potential implies.

All of this became obvious as I sat reading in the bath. When I examine all the properties of Reuben The Present, I can find no difference between him, and the beings and be-gones of Reuben The Younger and Reuben The Just-Born. All of them are exactly alike. Reuben The Younger implies all that is now manifest in Reuben The Present, and will continue to do so, even once he becomes Reuben The Latter, or dies, and becomes Reuben The Thus Gone. As a spiral may continue to develop more and more rings, but still remain spiral in shape, so will we continue to grow and grow, and reify and reify, without losing our inherent nature. That is our own personal ‘Tao’ or ‘Dharma’ which cannot be lost or destroyed, even though, at times, we may stray, or be wild enough to attempt to go against it. When we die, and are re-unified with the primordial Tao or Dharma, then our Tao becomes merged with The Ultimate Tao, and nothing has been gained or lost, created or destroyed, anymore than a door ceases to be a door whether it is opened or closed.

The Buddhists say that, on a core level, we are all lacking in self. This is true. On the ultimate level, all the myriad centres are essentially centreless. But for the time being, we still have a self, a personal centre, imbued with its own pullulating stem cells of potential. Nurture it, sustain it, and aggrandize it while you can. Selflessness will only come once you are ready for it and choose to seek it.

How to See Gods Without Tearing Out Your Eyes

 

We live in a myopic culture in which righteous belief in anything is held to be a visual, evidentiary process. “Seeing is believing, people say; and whenever proof is demanded, it is expected to be shown in a visual form. But the greatest things in life, and those which possess the most power, are those forces which remain unseen by almost everyone, even though they parade before us, as naked and as clear as crystalline nudists. Yet we continue to assign a veridicality to visual processes, taking all that we witness with the eyes to be the ultimate, though, in reality, faith in this ascription leaves us as blind as worms in a narrow tunnel, thinking these subterranean worlds to be the entire gamut of existence, even though the sun, not even for a second, has ever graced, our true, most subtle of eyes.

But people do not believe in gods or higher beings for this same reason. Because they cannot see them, walking around as openly and as obviously as humans and animals do, people cast doubts on their veracity. “Surely, if they were as all powerful and as all knowing as people say they are, then making an appearance to everyone on earth would be of no great difficulty to them. Why, then, do they remain occult, and an unbelievable mystery to us?”

It is because of their all-knowing, all-powerful, limitless compassion that they do not show themselves to us. It must be understood that every man and woman writes the contract of their availability to enlightenment and divine knowledge on their own terms, according to the limits of their perception and ability to comprehend. A particle physicist wouldn’t take a duck for a wander around The Large Hadron Collider and expect it to understand – he would know that it was a useless venture, mostly unappreciated by the duck, who would much rather be swimming on a lake, being fed bread by tourists. The gods treat us with no less a conception of noblesse oblige. They know that if they were to show themselves to us in all their expansive glory, not only would we not appreciate it, but we would resent it, especially as the encounter may leave us mortally wounded, traumatized, irrevocably insane, and marginalized by the rest of society, who would not appreciate our feeble attempts to try and convey our experiences to them.

The gods only grant experiences of themselves to those who have prepared themselves for it. Just as an illiterate person would have no use for a complicated book that contains all the answers, or a legless man would be ill-suited as a competitor in a 20 KM marathon, so would a direct encounter with the divine be useless to one who has not spiritually prepared themselves for the experience. You can’t catch a fish by clapping your hands over a molehill and expecting one to jump out. Nor can you meet the gods by bowing and scraping in churches and temples. As a fisherman needs a fishing rod, patience, and a fertile pool in order to be successful, so does a spiritual aspirant need a clear, translucent mind in order to witness the gods pervading and permeating all aspects of the astral aquarium of his being.

If you can turn your attention inwards, and study it for long enough so that you can readily perceive how all things arise therein, within and without will break down and merge so that there is no longer any illusion of separability between them, and the gods will situate themselves on the doorstep of your being like gnomes in your front and back garden. But, after a while, even these will not be enough. Like the gaudy idols outside a temple, you will come to seek THE GREAT UNCOGNIZABLE FACE OF FACELESS AWESOME which they feebly hint at the presence of. Use gods as signposts that point towards the infinite. But once you achieve this, go beyond them, and continue to seek that which is greater. Then the ever-quenching nourishment of eternal bliss will be yours to drink, like a bottomless, sweet elixir, served to you by a dancing sun on an endless summer’s day, embracing all the innumerable directionless directions with its incomparable radiance and light.