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The Ratio Phi

5 May

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I am busy.

I am busy everywhere.

And you, my friend,

Are privy to all the hallmarks of my existence

But you care not to look.

You are blinded by the rays of the sun.

You look too much into the light

And thereby become ignorant

Of the delicate structures of nature

Playing in the shadows.

 

I, on the other hand,

Have marked my imprint

In every conceivable corner of the universe.

I have owned it and infiltrate my being

Into the very texture of the fabric underlay of all things.

And there I wait in the hope

That one day you will take your eyes

Off the blatant beauty around you,

And accustom them to the microcosmic world

Of the real substance of life.

 

I am a pattern.

I am a unit of measurement.

I am the primal element on which

The vast universe is built.

You cannot think one thought

Without being influenced by my proportions.

Even your daydreams spiral

In synchronized patterns with my ratio.

I am the wheel of life

Onto which all your hopes and dreams are pinned.

And you cannot escape this design…

 

Unless, of course, you do as I say

And take your eyes off the light.

Unless you allow your mind

To still the cluttered clamour

Of the thoughts in your head,

And listen rather to the vibration of silence within you.

 

Only when you discard the romance of outer peace,

And search for the reality of being,

Will you be able to escape my influence

And unblock the shadows from your heart.

 

I defy you to find my absence.

Where I am not,

There is the essence of life.

I am the Creation

And you need to find the Creator.

Therefore you have to follow the steps

To find my absence.

 

And if you would forsake me,

 I who am in the fabric of everything,

Then you would find what does not exist.

You would find the beyond

Of the most distant thought.

You would find the mover of this phantom opera,

And you would have then no need left

In your basket of supplies.

Because now my construct

Will be meaningless to you.

 

You will lay aside all knowledge,

All experience, all wisdom.

And in your emptiness

You will know the completeness

That is the vacuum in my world.

 

Indeed, I am beautiful and divinely wrought.

And you would think you would miss me,

But, as intriguing and engaging as I am,

When you cease to be blinded by my exquisiteness,

You will know yourself for a fool

For playing with infant toys

In preference to the superior trinkets

Of the adult soul.

 

Adorn yourself with my absence!

Leave behind your worn-out garments and soiled shoes.

Risk all and lose all.

Go where I am not

And gain everything that I long for but can never have.

 

[The phi ratio runs as a thread through all planes of existence and binds us all within and without.

It represents the realm of universal mind, which longs to structure order from chaos, understanding from ignorance, peace from disharmony.

As long as we place our trust in sacred geometry and natural laws we are doomed to disappointment because these things are designed to distract us from examining the longing buried deep within our hearts. Phi would have us look beyond the seemingly innocent allure of symmetry and splendour, into the space between ourselves and our intellect, and find that place where nothing makes any sense but fits perfectly all the same.]

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Judas Iscariot

22 Sep


I follow the thread of the tale.
I see it has wound its way,
Ever present in the history of the soul,
Through the passage of time
Connecting each word,
Each paragraph,
Each chapter,
Into the fabric of a life.

In its meandering it has taken on a glow.
A gentle, quiet glow of effervescent silver sparks.
And if you look closely you can see them pulsating,
Like tiny explosions, one after the other,
In an electric display of miniature fireworks.
Yet there is no heat. It is cool and calming.

And as I follow this storyline,
Passing it gently through my hands,
I come to a place where I feel and see an anomaly.
It is as if the cord is broken, but it is not.
I can feel the gap and there is a definite break.
But no matter how I hold it or pull it on each side,
The apparent gap stays the same as if joined by an invisible link.

There are no sparks here, there is no glow,
Only a seemingly empty space
Representing a break –
But refusing to act as one.

I am intrigued.
I go through all the thoughts I can possibly find in my head
To explain this phenomenon.
Ranging from the sublime to the ridiculous,
The only one I can find that makes any sense
Is that there must be something there,
Its just I cannot feel it or touch it.
I have no sense that can detect it.
Therefore it must come from a world
Other than the physical one
I am inhabiting at this very instant.
Perhaps in that world,
Only the missing link can be perceived,
And the rest of the cord, which I have in my hands,
Is not visible there.

So now what?
My active imagination then begins to wonder
What lead am I following?
Whose strand of life is this?
If I could know that,
Maybe I would have a clue to that other world.

I feel a great sense of sadness welling up inside me.
As I hold this cool, feather-like strand,
I sense its loss and longing.
I sense its wishing that things could have been different.
I start to feel that it is trying to tell me
Of something that happened,
Which was unavoidable, destined and inevitable.

I sense and hear the anguish in its voice
Of how events were written into the history books
Long before they occurred.
And it sings to me the sad song of its fate,
Caught up in the rotating planets
And the coincidence of its being there,
Synchronizing with the juxtaposition
Of the earth, the sun and the moon.

And it whispers to me,
How in that unconscious moment,
When, hidden from the eyes of the seeing world,
The soul of a betrayer slipped into a next door world
To avoid the karmic debt of an allotted task.

One cannot move between worlds without a dire consequence.
Only he who has good reason is given the choice
To abandon all experience
And erase all memories of existence.
Only one who has the strength of Titans
Can accomplish this kind of task,
And only one who has earned the grace of God
Can expect to survive the challenge.

The strand becomes quiet in my hands.
I feel it is looking for past memories
Somewhere in its lost history.
Gently, I make a loop.
I bypass the gap allowing the two sides to touch.
I fashion a knot to keep them together.
It looks unprofessional and unwieldy, but no matter.
I feel a quickening in the cord
An electricity and a renewed vigour.

I get the impression
That an unexpected reprieve
Can come our way sometimes.
Not quite perfect,
But enough to allow us to move on
And pass the hands of destiny.

I get the feeling that we all once,
In some way or other,
Have had to swallow a bitter pill
And suffer the consequences
Through no fault of our own
Except the circumstances of our birth.

I begin to understand,
That for one such man,
An appointed task of such heinous proportions
Fell on his shoulders,
And that only the desperate measure of an eclipse
And a portal to another world,
Could save him
From the madness
Of bearing his destined guilt.

[Judas Iscariot, due to his lineage and destiny, was the only possible candidate available to be
selected to play the part of the betrayer. In the story, which needed to unfold, only the unique planetary alignments and his own mystic capacities could allow him to escape the epic karmic debt
he would have had to have incurred: by him being there but not being there, at the same time.]

Time

18 Jun

I have four letters in my name,
Four unprepossessing letters.
I am written down in your book so easily,
So recognizably,
So succinctly,
I am impressed.
A four-letter word,
An unprepossessing, recognizable, succinct word
That can only be meaningful
In the context of human existence.

I am measured by the demarcation of long and short intervals
Etched onto the wheel of evolution
And pocketed into eras of past, present and future.
I am inexorably expressed in the constant churning of day into night
And the battering of interplanetary revolutions
Upon the temples of our own solar systems.

I am wound tightly into the cogs of the seasons
And inked indelibly into earth’s orbit of the sun.
I mark everything in your existence with a yardstick
By which you can judge your position
In relation to everything surrounding your consciousness.
I am a concept from which you can never be free.
I am the sentinel of this universe
And you are captive in my stockade.

It would be best if you made friends with me.
My parameters are set,
And although I move constantly
I am immovable.
‘Inevitable’ is my hallmark description,
My force is untamable and impossible to arrest.
I am the intrinsic fabric of this universe’s construction.
I am the framework on which the system is built.
I came first and the decorations later.
If you strip away every element of human existence,
It is only at the stopping of the clock
That dissolution really occurs.
The whole illusion is built, essence upon essence,
From the first unit of an event inserted
Into the demarcation of an interval.

Knowing all this is of no use except to help you understand
That without me existence is non-existent,
And that you had best come to terms
With the limitations I saddle you with
So that you do not leave my jurisdiction
Before harvesting the crop that can only be grown here.

For within my confines
Lies the treasure of knowing mortality.
Concealed among the chaff and husks of the harvest
Lie the sweet, edible grains of understanding and realization.
Buried between the layers of threshing and sifting
Hidden truths are to be found
That are apparent nowhere else.

And it is because of my gift to you,
That of finality and the perception of limited resources,
That you are compelled to seek the fruit of human birth
And partake of its sweetness
Before it drops to the ground
And decays,
Its value wasted –
Spoilt and unrecognized.

[Time is an extraordinarily valuable tool that longs to be seen for its true value to us in this finite paradigm. Its constant ‘breathing down our necks’ wills us to wake up and perceive the true value of life.
Short of being able to speak to us directly, it does all in its power to make us uncomfortable in the full glare of its presence. It invades our every day with an urgency in whatever form it can manifest, goading us into action to serve our own souls as best we can given the circumstances in which we are placed.]

Light

5 May

I sink into the soft featherbed.
My weight lowers me down and snuggles me close to the soft linen bed sheets.
The feather-light down duvet whispers its warmth over me
And creeps into each and every air pocket it can find
So I am enveloped in a cocoon of lightness and warmth.
As I drift into the hazy dreams of sleep,
I forget my connection to reality,
And here, with no control,
I am surrendered to the protocols of other worlds.

Exactly when and where do I find this point at which I exit my reality
And enter this other world?
Exactly how do I access this dimension?
Exactly which parts of me accompany me into the new state?
It is so intriguing:
Realizing that I have this ability to step from one state to another
Like a magician.

I know only two keys to this locked door:
I have to shut my eyes
And I have to switch off my mind.
Only in darkness and absence of thought comes sleep.
And it is at the instance of achieving a sleep state
That the portal opens and I transform into an ethereal being
In another world.

When I come back to this world,
It is almost always that I become vaguely aware of myself in my bed,
And then I open my eyes.
I may remember the other world or not,
But I have remembered enough times to know that
I have lived in dreams.

So now I wonder.
Is it like a contrary mirror that when I open my eyes to wake here,
I have shut them there.
When I become conscious here
Have I become equally unconscious there?
Maybe the reality is that I never sleep.
Maybe my perceptions of the reality of my dreams are distorted
By the different laws operating in the other dimension.
Perhaps my experience of the oblivion I feel in my deepest sleep
Is merely the cancelling out of two opposing emotional vibrations
Of equal intensity.
Perhaps life on this inner plane
Is similar to life on the outer plane
Where sleep patterns are necessary to keep a body revitalized and replenished
But the spirit is always moving and conscious.

So then, perhaps consciousness is just a wave –
A kind of binary pulse that slips from one dimension to the next
In an irregular pattern.
And each pattern is unique to each individual.
And perhaps this pattern of being here and then there,
A slipping in and out of our own physical form,
Is like a light being switched on and off.
But the light does not disappear.
It just moves from one room to the other through the switch –
Its just that we can’t see it going through to the other side,
And we can’t control anything there.

I like to see where I am and what I am doing.
I like to be aware of what is around me,
And I do not like to be cooped up in a dark, dingy room
Feeling sorry for myself.
Light brings good cheer and understanding in my life,
And I can always feel the worth of a place
By the light that surrounds it.
What is this connection between my mood and light?
Why are the two so intricately entwined?
Why is it that the long nights of winter feel so heavy on my heart?
Is there some connection between the light around me
And my consciousness in this physical world?

Does the darkness around me echo my footsteps
In the corridor between my sleeping and waking worlds?
Does my psyche recognize the shadow of the sleep portal
In the shadows of this world?
Is the grey winter drizzle found in the path
Between one dimension and the next?

Perhaps for us, our real darkness of heart and soul
Is found in the transition from the consciousness
On either side of our existence,
And it is at this node where, for a time, we are lost to ourselves.
And perhaps this loss holds a fear, which is reflected in the physical darkness
Found in our earthworld.
When we sit at this node,
The crossing point from one place to the next,
Perhaps for a split second we cease to exist.
We are interrupted in life,
And we are separated from that which defines our existence:
The consciousness of light!
Perhaps it is the perception of light on all levels
That defines us as living.
Perhaps the secret of life is being able to be aware of light.
Perhaps light is the life force
That burns its way through our eyelids
And reflects itself into the retina of our eyes,
Nudging the mind into movement
And stirring our souls into breath.

Perhaps light is, by definition, life
And the ability to be conscious of it and unconscious of it
The duality of existence.

[Light is energy, a force whose inception cannot be pinpointed or discovered. It is more intrinsic to being than breathing. Our consciousness is an expression of light. Perhaps the more sophisticated our consciousness becomes the more light we are able to perceive. And as we grow in this super conscious ability, the less darkness there is in our direct experience, until at last, everything is light and we become so absorbed in that light that we become that light. And perhaps, it is at that point that we can say we have found and experienced God.]

Fire

12 Jul

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Yellow. Gold. The colour of my heart.
It is not possible to touch me.
It is not possible to reach into my core and pull out the fabric of my being.
It is impossible to touch me.
I have no real substance.
I am reaction in action.
I am myth made visible.
I am, yet I am not.
How is it , that I can be seen and I can be felt, yet I have no substance?
How do I know if I exist if I am not concrete?
How is it that I have consequences but no inception?
How can I be, but can only be known by my effects?
Who could conceive of only allowing a result to be in existence without a cause?

I have never looked at myself this way.
I have been very happy to describe myself by external things, like colour, temperature and radiance.
But now I look at myself and wonder:
Where is my substance?
Have I ever had substance?
Who caused me to not really have a me?
How is it that every other thing I know of has a definite form and takes up a specific space and actually exists?
But me? Who would have thought that my power is based on energies coming together in a certain way, and with a sudden shift of forces, whoosh!
Lights, camera, action,sound effects, smoke, fumes and pyrotechnics!
There are all the blueprints of my existence………
But where am I in all this?
It is like some cosmic joke.
All action built on something with a name, but there is no body for that name.
No real being. Just a consequence with attendant identifying forces.
How can power be based on something that does not exist?
It is like being the reflection in a mirror.
There, but not there.
I am fire and I have my name.
And I have heat and colour and energy
And I can dance before you with hypnotic grace and rhythmic charm.
And I can leap within seconds into a terrifying inferno of voracious force.
And I can bring life into you and I can smother life out of you
And I can be all these things-
Yet I cannot just be.
I am only a description.
That is all. At the end of the day, I am an empty non-entity with only a cloak hanging on an empty frame.

How can power be so much of nothing?
Ask me. I should know for I am fire.

Perhaps this is how it is for us all.
We see the result of ourselves but it is impossible to see on what the result is based.
We see our reflection, but we cannot see ourselves.
Maybe we are not really there at all.
Maybe all that there is left of us is our energy, recorded like history in a history book.
Perhaps the real us has long since departed to somewhere else.
Perhaps we are waiting to once more be attached to our results.
Maybe we have become adrift from ourselves and we are drowning in a sea of unconsciousness waiting to be reconnected to ourselves
So that once more we can feel authentic, real and with substance.
Perhaps one day, our self and our mirror image will merge and we will not have to rely on our consequences to know we exist.

Perhaps one day the fire that we are can draw our outward persona in
And forge us into an identity that is our true self.

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