Limits of an Infinite Self

These past couple of days have seemed to follow some kind of weird script. I've spent them with a friend of mine who's been going through some internal malaise that could be described as depression, but that I might also term an existential crisis. I've been through quite a doozy of the same myself in the not-too-distant past, so on some level I can understand what it's like.

My own deep existential crisis occurred in September of 2008. I was visiting the town where I was born, seeking my next foothold out of a dead-ended life situation. I was looking for answers with a mixture of nervous hope and bright-eyed desperation. But instead of the answers I was looking for, I found something I never expected.


Chaos.

The Void.

The complete and utter antithesis of God and Creation and all that might give a shred of meaning to this cruel joke of an existence that we call “life.”

In deep metaphysical contemplation, I saw God and looked past his shoulder; right through him, in fact. What I saw behind him was absolutely terrifying. The Abyss swallowed every last bit of my capacity for joy and pleasure and satisfaction. Next to that mind-boggling nothingness, the Divine seemed an insubstantial dream of the utmost audacity.

In that moment, I hated God. Almost every fiber of my being was turned against him. I raged at him for being such an idiot, to think any of it justifiable. I cursed him out for a good six hours straight, no exaggeration. For six hours, I ran a loop in my head saying “fuck you” to the universe in general and its maker in particular.

Not surprisingly, that didn't make me feel any better. I could almost physically feel my frequency resonance vibration dying down, down, down, weaker and darker, to what felt like the bare minimum to function as a human being. I was a weary, grey husk. As therapy, catharsis was a failure. As a tool to mess myself up, though, as some twisted revenge, it was perfect.

That night, I was drawn into imaginings of my own death, by my own doing. The most convenient location would be the local ski jump, if I could get up to the top and throw myself off. I never fully intended to do it, but I was engaging in a reckless game of brinksmanship with the Creator. I wanted to see how far this cruelly compassionately dispassionately orchestrated universe would let me go before it either stopped me... or didn't.

I snuck out of the place I was staying at and went for a hike up to the mountaintop where the ski jumps were. The new one was inaccessible, being a walled concrete tower, but the older, wooden one was open. I went up and found myself in the company of a romantic couple, a few years younger than me. “All right,” I thought. “So much for this game.”

By then, though, my suicidal motivation had cooled down by several degrees due to the walking it had taken to get there. Walking is always good therapy. It helps one mull things over and see them in a new light. I was still pissed off, but only a little. I could see the humour in the situation. I knew I was ruining the kids' romantic interlude, but I didn't give a damn about that. I chatted them up a bit, friendly-like. Commented on the view (amazing) and the stars (awe-inspiring). Asked them if they believed UFOs were real, a usual question for me. They were polite, but soon realized I wasn't going away, so they left. I had the tower to myself, and I lingered there with my thoughts, admiring the view, until the cold got to me and I hiked back to the apartment and snuck back in with no one the wiser.

It actually took me about three weeks to recover from this crisis, to feel like myself again. It was not easy to come back around, but I did. I had the support of a few especially dear friends with whom I was able to share what I'd been going through.

It was as much a crisis of belief in general as it was a crisis of my relationship with the One. I think that may have been the point where I finally gave up on the idea of being able to grasp anything objectively. I realized that my personal reality is the one that has meaning for me (if any), and that it can only ever be subjective. Therefore, belief is purely a matter of choice and it is probably best to indulge in it (if at all) with a generous helping of “I really don't know.” At the same time, I recognized that eternal agnosticism on everything until proven or disproven is a hell of a useless and boring way to go. One needs to have faith in something. On some level, faith is a risk. As such, I find it's also very exhilarating, and, more often than not, pretty rewarding.

Since that time, I haven't really had any issues with belief. My approach to truth-seeking has been psychologically pretty well-balanced, in my opinion. I'd say it was well worth passing through the darkness of that existential nightmare. Once I faced it and won, I could move on and not look back.

Returning to the present case of my young, deeply intelligent and aware, but troubled friend, I had a dream about him before we spent this weekend together. I dreamed that his car had blown up while parked on the side of the street, with him in it. Gasoline fumes, most likely. Blew the roof off and charred everything. He was dead. I saw his body in the remains of the car, somehow perfectly intact in death. His face looked peaceful. I mourned the loss of him and my soul wept. But then I felt this knowing, like he was still around close by, floating above our heads somewhere. I felt his relief at being released from his pain and bondage, and his joy at discovering that it was all right after all, there was nothing to feel bad about, and that, truly, there is a divine agency that sustains and embraces all existence with its eternal and all-surpassing love.

It wasn't long before I saw him again in the dream, wearing a brown leather jacket and a smile that reflected the awesome gnosis he had received in death. After considering things from that new perspective, he had chosen to come back, and he was READY TO ROCK THIS WORLD.

As for what transpired in the waking world, I won't bore you with too many details. It began and ended with highly significant and impossibly mirror-image-like events, and the middle involved mild inebriation and dancing at a local watering hole, spiced with a mysterious triple synchronicity from Bill Shakespeare. What's to tell, right? Yeah, that's what I thought. You think I'd tell you about that cute girl who was totally digging me? Forget it. (grin)

I am often frustrated by the inadequacy of language as a mode of expression. Stringing words together in a linear sequence to form sentences and paragraphs seems so clumsy and crude. The confluence of brevity and precision is so hard to achieve. In writing, thank goodness, the process of composition is at least somewhat non-linear and unbound by time, which is a big help. But the fact remains that one is limited to a single perspective and a single voice at any one time, and as a result, the literal description of a complex thought or idea takes a great many words.

Poetry seeks to circumvent this limitation by calling upon the imagination of the reader as a decoding device. It is well understood that poetry is not like prose; it cannot be absorbed in an instant of literal understanding. It requires the engagement of the intuitive faculty. Because it depends upon the ability of the reader to decode it subjectively, poetry remains more or less opaque to the mind that is not already calibrated to receive it.

Even now, looking back on the few sentences above, I despair of my inability to express what I mean. I feel like a painter without the ability to mix his colours. If I say this, then it is automatically not-that until I say that as well.

I would like there to be a mode of communication that were more like a holographic projection than a flat image built up of one-dimensional lines. Instead of one word illuminating one little piece of an idea at a time, I could convey the whole idea at once, with all its shades and subtleties, in such a way that it could be viewed from all the multiple perspectives that I perceive.

Of course, such a mode exists, although few of us are yet able to make much use of it. It's called telepathy. My concept of telepathy is that it is something like poetry, something like music, something like sculpture and painting and photography and dance and theatre. It is all these things and more. Speaking and writing would be included, but in their higher-dimensional aspects.

The Internet gives us the ability to start bridging toward that model. Using hyperlinks, mouse-over texts, context menus, images, sounds, videos, and other interactive media, it is possible to convey information in an almost fractal or holographic way. For this reason, I sometimes think of the Internet as “training wheels for telepathy.” True telepathy will be much smoother and faster, since we will no longer need these crude technological interfaces and our brains will be operating at a much higher bandwidth than they do now, in higher dimensions, allowing for exponentially greater data density.

The transhumanists believe this will be achieved through man-made technology. Maybe it will, for some, but I would much rather let it happen naturally, through the activation of DNA. That, I think, would ensure that physical evolution doesn't happen without the corresponding spiritual evolution that is needed to be able to handle the new abilities responsibly.

I know there are going to be people reading this who think this idea of our consciousness evolving is just New Age bullshit being pushed on the masses to distract and placate us while the controllers steal the last of our wealth, genocide the useless eaters, and implement the final stages of their world police state. Others will call bullshit on both of these views. It doesn't matter. You can believe whatever you want, and you will. This is just me talking.

Anyway, I'm of the opinion that we're all one mind to begin with, so telepathy is ultimately nothing more than us realizing and manifesting a slightly truer image of ourselves. Whatever you might think of that, isn't it interesting to note how there's less and less privacy, more and more transparency in all human affairs? That's why so much dirty laundry is coming out into the open. You can't keep secrets anymore. The times don't allow it. For those who only want the truth, that's great news. And if you've got something you're hiding from the world, well... I'd say you'd better come clean while you still have the chance, because it's going to come out one way or another, telepathy or no.

This is the sixth and final Night of the Galactic Underworld. Shit stinks and there's no hiding the smell. We've all got our own shit to deal with. Hoo-ee! These are the times that try men's souls. (And women's, obviously. Stupid language with its stupid conventions.) Yeah. So let's all work on ourselves and not waste time about it. Evolution ain't optional, I'm afraid. It's happening whether you want it to or not, and the more you resist, the tougher the schoolmaster'll have to get on you. Might as well do it the fun way, huh?

That sounds like a good idea to me.

As you know, I was recently given a test in life. One of those experiences that life throws at you just to see how you react to the circumstances, I guess. Circumstances that may look challenging, but can also offer a needed opportunity to go beyond your comfort zone, to learn something new, or remember something you'd lost sight of along the way.

Now that the trying situation has come to its happy resolution, it is time for me to reflect: how did I do? On the one hand, well; on the other, not so well. Five days of total isolation did not bring out the best in me at some points. I found myself terrified of facing the quiet, clear reflection of my own thoughts and feelings in the mirror of my mind and heart, and so I did everything I could to disturb the surface. I even overwhelmed my senses with loud, restless, pounding music, with a certain vengeful satisfaction at disturbing my neighbours as well, which is totally out of character for me. It was a far cry from where I'd been at the beginning of my trial, when the isolation only worked in my favour as I purified myself and moved into the power of stillness.

I don't know how seriously I believe in interdimensional interference. Certainly a number of people of integrity and knowledge whom I highly respect are of the opinion that such things go on, and some have described their extensive experiences of them in detail. My own experience leads me to consider the idea a reasonable one. I have had unequivocal subjective proof that hyperdimensional forces are active in my life, guiding me, giving inspiration, and effecting some mind-blowing synchronicity. Why, then, should I disbelieve that negative forces are also at work on me, doing everything in their power to lead me astray, distract me, weaken me, and prevent me from fulfilling my potential?

Is the notion too wild to entertain that, by engaging in spiritual warfare, I made myself more of a target? I may have, I don't know. Or maybe all that is just another way of seeing things, another illusion that points the way to the truth. After all, there's nothing external that doesn't somehow reflect something internally. If I succumbed to a non-material counterattack, that means I still have work to do on myself. I should qualify that: I have a lot of work to do on myself. And I've just barely begun that work, even having come as far as I have in some ways.

I once half-jokingly told a friend on Internet chat that I consider myself a Jedi, and that I'm just waiting for my Force abilities to activate. Big LOL there, no? Just waiting around isn't going to make them appear, of course. Universe, however, is kicking me in the direction I need to go, so waiting around isn't even an option. And the more I start to carry my own weight in the right direction, the more I will find universe meeting me halfway, boosting me forward.

Knowing what to do is easy. I've been hearing what I need to do from so many people, so many sources, including the voice of my own inner knowing. The first and foremost thing I need to do is to consistently seek God. And the only place a person can “get” God is within themselves. That's where the divine spark is that sustains our life and is indeed made in the image of the One. To practice that connection to Source is the key to an abundant life. It is necessary to meditate, or pray, daily, and not in a half-assed way, either. It has to be absolutely the single most important thing in my life. I had grasped that before the holidays, and then I forgot it again just as easily in the midst of all the hustle and bustle. That is what I had lost sight of, and may well have been the main reason why I had to go through this five-day blackout and the ersatz insanity that came with it. It showed me how lost I am without that awareness of God, without my recommended daily intake of Awake, Focused, Here and Now.

No one ever said this would be easy. I'm still at a stage where I'm wavering between strength and weakness, remembering and forgetting. For every victory there is a defeat, but I am reminded of the motion of a pendulum: every swing moves the hands of the clock forward another notch. There will always be challenges; of that I am sure. But as what was challenging before is easier now, so the future will bring ever greater challenges. From each according to his ability. No one is given a burden beyond their ability to bear. I find that, for all the complaints I might choose to make, my burden is still mine, and it still fits me perfectly. Really, I wouldn't have it any other way.


Adiemus - Adiemus on YouTube

P.S. This morning, when I woke up, I put on some music from Adiemus' Songs of Sanctuary. The effect was immediate and overpowering: my emotional dam, which had been doing such a wonderful job of shielding me these past few days, broke to smithereens and I found myself weeping uncontrollably for several minutes, followed by alternating and intermingled laughter and tears. Perceiving the simultaneous horror, tragedy, and injustice of this harsh world together with its incredibly noble, stoic beauty, and the possibility of Sanctuary from it all, is what did it. It is at once a heart-rending and a cosmically humorous scenario that we are in, we humans.

Due to an ill-fated moment of absent-mindedness, I fear I have lost my computer, along with some other rather important items. Much as I would like to continue writing actively, my ability to publish anything here will be severely restricted until I get my machine back.

Here's hoping whoever found my belongings turned them in to the police. :)