Into the Chasm

My white horse stares with me into the abyss. I can see layers of crushed civilizations mixed with the silt sediment. The color of decaying bricks, once the structures of great buildings, now, mere dust in the great cycle. Nearly pulverized, their color leaches into the surrounding rocks, creating bloodstains on the silky gray stone. That is only the first layer of inner earth. The others are right beneath, pushing and vying for archaeological admiration. It is a hole that grows wider the deeper I look, like an inverted triangle, I stand near the apex, drooling into the widening expanse of colored darkness. I strain my eyes, but there is no bottom. The end I seek is not there.
The source, the beginning? No, just more.
More.
This I sense with every power in me. My horse knows it too, for I feel him shivering, not with cold or fright, but something less obvious. It disturbs our cells. Frightens our skeletal system. What stands before us goes on forever. Deeper and deeper, deeper still it goes. We can begin the voyage through its time, our time. We stand on the ledge, fearful. But the way back, the path we walked to stand at this ledge…that path is blurry. It grows with vines, snakes litter the way. I don’t know where it was, what we were…once, long ago.
Were we ever there?
We are only here, at the beginning of everything.
We are here, looking into the mouth that birthed us. Into the remains of all that ever was. Waves of red translucent air blast my face, like the hot exhaust from a race car. Is this fear? My heart beats steadily, but something inside is in turmoil. What is this? Am I supposed to see this? Should I be here, looking down into this? There was never a beginning, I can see that now. Diamonds leap from my pocket, anxious to stay behind. They depart, hoping to catch a fast wind back to the land of the known. The cities of now, clogged with their dirty air and pearly hands. I look up, this is not the edge of the chasm, for I am merely wedged on the side of a layer, looking into the channel that runs through all our lifetimes.
I look up. There is another, feeling the same moment of red and heat.
Wait… there are sparks of blue. Moving from the center of the chasm in a circle. Counterclockwise, the flecks of blue take a steady course, swirling from the center point outwards…towards me, towards all sides of the Great Hole. They are firm in their flight, as soon as one moves slightly from the center, another takes its place. The lights, no bigger than a small coin, have filled the void, a constantly darting swirl of tiny shimmers. The ones that finally reach the walls of rock and matter instantly burst on contact, a tiny spark followed by a moment of calm, replaced only by another electrical burst as another piece of blue makes contact with the people of stone.

The Space in Between

"He is very interested in class, he pays close attention and seems very motivated. But when class is over, his attention gets completely dispersed. It takes him a while to recover and be able to focus on the next class."
I listen and understand that the little boy gets lost in the Bardo, the transit space between the end of one lifetime and the beginning of another. In his case, he lives through 6 or 7 lifetimes each day in school, and he has developed a strong habit of clear work during the steady space of the class, but after the bell rings a new habit takes over and he is lost, at least for a while, and until the guide comes along (in this case, in the form of a friendly elderly woman) to bring him back to a focused state. How many times has he gone through this doorway and been lost? And what will it take for him to develop a new strong habit that will react to the sound of the bell with renewed strength and focus, and the clear intention of seeking a favorable rebirth?
A basic habit like this is very hard to see, almost impossible. It is easier to spot the others… the constant scratching of the nose, the twirling of the hair, the particular curve of the neck when reading or watching TV, the loud laugh that comes from the father and the soft laugh that comes from the mother, the slight blink of the right eye when something is pleasing, the downturn of the mouth when something is distasteful… all of these can be spotted (with some work) but the ones that hide underneath, the micro fractal structures that underlie all the others and give them their true impulse and force, these are truly hidden, and, as such, they are the foundation of Real Occult transformation.
It has been said repeatedly, and will be said again: The true quest for Transformation is a journey inwards and the dragons that wait in dark caverns are hidden deep within, they are the living building blocks of your consciousness. To continue to attempt to find the answers outside, to look for hidden mystical enemies behind doorways and under bridges, in the realms of the humans, is to avoid the true unfriendly guardian that lies waiting, mouth open and fangs dripping with blood and saliva, coiled around the innermost core of your Being.
How we face the space in between, the Bardo, is completely based on these hidden structures, these persistent and miniscule habits. No matter how much we have read about it, no matter how much we repeat that we know what to do and how to do it, when the bell rings, the basic habits will take over and all the human thoughts and certainty will vanish as if they were never there (and in a very Real sense, they never were.) And there you will be, once again, naked and facing the primordial Chaos with nothing to hold onto and no place to hide… except maybe that little doorway that seems so comfortable and familiar, it seems that you may have been there before, sometime not too long ago.
Thinking about this will not help.
Reading about it will help even less.
Worrying about it won’t change anything.
But you can Work.
First identify the Bardo spaces. Find the moments of death within your day, identify them clearly, recognize them as they happen. This may be the moment that your day job ends, the moment of going to sleep, the moment when your train stops and leaves you at the station, perhaps that moment when you arrive home from a long day.
As you walk through the doorway of death, whatever shape it has taken this time around, invoke your presence and open yourself up to the distinct blurry shapelessness of the Bardo. Recognize that you have now entered a space of transit, a treacherous realm where things are not what they seem and you can’t even trust your own self.
After an initial burst of energy when the short previous lifetime has ended, you will quickly descend into a confusing space where many new doorways offer themselves up. Before you decide which door to go through, give yourself some time to sense the particular liquid space you are in. We have been trained to look away, to not face it. Force yourself to turn back and look, and feel, and sense.
When it comes time to choose, do so from a space of calm detached tranquility… or the closest you can come to that. What do you pick to be your next lifetime? Will this coming rebirth help in your work or will it be detrimental? Does it come from your true inner Will or does it come from mechanical habit? Is it a place you come back to again and again or does it represent a new unexplored area of the Labyrinth?
It is your choice. It has always been your choice. What will you be this time around?
What will you do when the bell rings for you?

Your Discovery

I didn’t discover you…you discovered me. You used me to bring yourself forth, into this space, into the world and time. It is you who are wise, containing the wisdom that I can see only for a fraction of time before I recoil and cry. Colors and shapes warp into faded memories of dogs and purple clouds. The face I have studied in the mirror is soon broken, diced and re-compartmentalized like a Picasso experiment in form. Almond shaped eyes laced with fear and excitement expand with each inhalation, growing until they suddenly burst, releasing themselves into the sputtering open mouth of time.
And in this space, it is you who is in control. The mix if chemical components that plunge its hosts into a state of existence that is beyond the realm of human worlds.
And if I didn’t discover you, then… it is not "I" that does the thinking. It is not "me" who makes the decisions.
The other
The superior force
The other
The unnameable energy
The other
Not me?
Not you.
Something that needs you.
The other
It needs you
It discovered you.
It brought you out,
Made you open your mouth and ask for knowledge
Made you open you mouth and accept its gifts with a wet tongue.
Its horrors that break every concept cemented in your warehouse of fractured goods and tainted beliefs
The sledgehammer that rips the flesh from bone,
destroying all you know of gravity and colors.
Take its gifts with respect and fear.
The other brings it ALL
more than can truly be understood.
More than you think you want.
It is knowledge
It IS the other
It discovered you.
Your concepts of free will are illusions in the fantasy of your existence.
Your breath
Your memories
Your body
They swim in an endless ocean, devoid of any color, but blue.
The kind of blue for kings and gods. The color that is so rich, it holds every other color within its spectrum, the color of pure awareness, the vibrancy of your highest chakra in full awareness.
With this color comes beating drums and sacred round fires. It is not of the sky, it is not of the earth.
It is the other.
In its form without form.
In its colors without colors.
In it lifetimes without birth or death.
In its love without bodies and warm breath.
It is the other
It is this and us
These lifetimes of blue,
These chemicals and body movements that create the perfect tension
Sowing the time for alchemical change.

What Will You Be?

"Who will you be?" she shouts from the sandy beach shore. "what will you be when the clouds part and darkness descends with droves of hungry black-haired beasts?""Who will you be?""who WILL you be?"Implying that tomorrow is the question that needs answering.The looming monstrosity of the future.It reeks and hints at madness.
But soon THEN will be NOW.It is a cycle of concerned predictions and worries, a repeating pattern with an unattainable end, always beyond the horizon.There is nothing to attain.You cannot "be." There is nothing to be.All are words.

Wealthy,
Famous,
Happy,
Content,
Father,
Mother,
Satisfied,
Broke,
Doctor,
Musician...

Words like these can never describe "you."You cannot "BE," for you are none of these, and yet, quietly, all of these.You may have a son, but are you really a father? Is your Being a father?Can you be happy?
A happy emotional state does not continue endlessly into time. The subjection of time and movement will crush all these fantasies. It will all come to change, for it all does. Each second that passes changes us in a subtle, yet deep way.We cannot perceive the wearing of time on a wall, the molecular breakdown is too slow to watch, but after twenty years, the cracks in the paint and the crumbling stone reveal the long traveled path of change upon the buildings’ surface. It was happening all along, right next to you as you ate your morning cereal, it was just moving at a rate we could never perceive in motion.They ask what you will "be."In Spanish there are two different verbs for "to be." In English we say "I am happy." "I am a doctor." "I was born in Mexico." English speakers use one verb to say what and how they are. Within the language, it implies that this "am" is a constant, a non shifting idea. In Spanish, there is a distinction between a fixed and transitory state. The two verbs used to describe these states are "ser" and "estar." One implies that you "are" feeling happy, yet it is not a fixed emotional state." You use the verb "ser" to describe a more permanent statement, like the location of your birth.While this is more accurate than the English language, it stops short of recognizing the impermanence of all states, even the ones that seem permanent. Our language, the way we speak and talk about ourselves and our world has deeply influenced our ability to comprehend other states of being, other realities. The words we choose/speak have influenced our ideas and perceptions, going very deeply into our subconscious realm. These provide the machine with fuel to continue in its current perceptions of "being." We walk around with beliefs in what we are, we hold tight to the ideas of where we come from and where we want to go. These beliefs restrict us and freeze us into repeating activities.We "are" none of these. My Being is not Jewish, my Being is not a young woman. My Being is not a salesperson that likes pizza. These are the roles my machine plays, they are part of the play that this human known as Lydia recreates every day. My Being lacks a definition, it is beyond the temporary nature of earthly roles.

And so you cannot "be," but you can "do."

You can Work, you can push your earthly machine to work for your Being. You can create the discipline within yourself to Work NOW, to use what lays at your fingertips to move your energy and create.

Treats

"You promised!" He yelled in his most whiny and angered tone, slamming down the phone and breaking contact with his mother. It was a petty outburst, an eruption of emotions based on his desire to eat dinner in a restaurant instead of home. His anger bubbled up from his sense of righteousness, he had been promised a night on the town, promised! True? Humans remember events and words that work in their favor, and everyone has a differently colored memory of the same conversation; but despite this, he acted badly towards his mother.
When she came home later that night, she was all smiles as they planned where to eat the following evening. Not a word was mentioned about his outburst, both of them had forgotten, and he was allowed to invite a friend to bring to the restaurant.
And with this cycle of events, his machine has learned a valuable lesson, one that will leave a lasting imprint. One that he will use and recreate for the rest of his natural life, and most likely, he will carry it along to the next. Outbursts will be rewarded. Harsh words and deeds will be cast out like rice at a wedding, falling on all those in his path. He has learned that he can do whatever he wants without consequences...he may lash out and still get what he wants. This is his habit, and with each passing circumstance of anger à outburst à desire…this habit will become more entrenched, etching itself further and further into this molecular memory.
His machine rules him, and each day, it holds him tighter within the claws of habit. All of us are embedded within our machines, but we can learn to be the master, not the slave. The first step is realizing when you have acted badly…what was your desire? Examine what you wanted and if you got it. If you lashed out or got sad or manifested any negative emotion to achieve your desire, then you helped your machine gain more strength. If you were able to push through an interval, pushing yourself and your machine past the boundary of what is normally comfortable, then your machine deserves a small reward, a cookie or twenty minutes of television. If you acted like a jerk to your friend because you needed sugar because you had a headache and then you ate a cookie, your machine was given a treat for the wrong reasons.

Octaves

I saw the Law of Octaves gleaming in his little eyes. When we first began at the kitchen table, he was smiling and happy to work on math problems; his tiny fingers, only a couple inches long, could barely grip the over sized pencil he begged to use. 1 plus three plus seven equals what? I asked. For the first twenty minutes, he hungrily added the numerals, writing the answers in an over sized script. But soon, while we were only partway through the second page in his workbook, he hit the first interval. His little head began to sag. His already thin eyes got even smaller. He looked up and asked, in the most innocent and hopeful voice "Can we do math from that other book?" He sounded more energized as he asked, his head raised and eyes wide. We could move on, he suggested, onto another work book which had new pictures and different word problems.
I recognized his impulse, already a habit in the young boy. And I felt it within myself. It seems so benign. There are other math problems in the other book, what could be the harm? It’s important to keep him interested. It’s important to be nice! For a flicker of a second, I felt my old self smile, excited by the invitation. The compulsive one who starts a thousand projects but never completes them. The restless girl hungry for excitement and the thrilling "new". The self who is excited by fresh ideas and tasks but quickly becomes frustrated and bored, giving up quickly to start something else.
As soon as the machine hits resistance, as soon as we hit the first interval, we descend, quickly falling away from the intended goal.
NO, I would not allow this boy to give up...even if he will be deviated in every other task for the rest of his life. This time, with me, he will finish the math problems. With his little head resting on his arm, looking only half conscious, I forced him to finish the work page. We would not stop halfway through, no matter how boring. For a flicker of a second, as he looked expectantly, wanting to start working on the second math book, my surface emotions felt for him, this little sweet boy…I wanted to make him happy, so yes, let’s move on, let’s do something more fun.
But an instant later, my teachings were remembered, the realization that WE must push through…the intervals will present themselves again with the next book, and the one after that…until we are birthed again and repeat this once more….and then again. NO, there is no time to let this Being give up, to let his machine dictate our path…his happiness is as fluttering as a dove’s feather, as fluid as my emotions. We must move through this Octave, NOW.

The Secrets are Real

Secrets are real. Tender as the soft pink skin of rose petals, they shrink from the sun, unable to laugh or scream in a way audible to our ears. The secrets come in changing forms and shapes, petals layered upon themselves, forming full cups of fragrance. The smell, lingering in the twilight stops my heart, seconds pass while I journey into stems and tubes, petals lick me into submission and I glimpse the vast undulating fields of movement. I take notice. What have you to tell me? Linguistics dull this sacred knowledge. Even the truth can be obvious and not seen. You need eyes, real eyes. You need ears and the ability to truly hear, a skill I do not yet posses.
The heart, the soft red organ covered in scars, must be open, even a small crack will do, just enough for the songs to enter. The recognizable yet infinitely unfamiliar beat. Beautiful, bringing tears to my eyes, yet causing my heart to pump strangely, the new sensations sending mixed messages to my frightened brain and sickened body…yet, something in me sings, unable to look away. Growing louder with time, the gates slowly open a little more…then, ever so slightly, a little more.
With the passing of time, with the passion tended knowledge and budding transformation the gates can be pried further by the tiny scarred hands of inner struggle. Did you know there where thousands hiding in the frozen folds, in the vast wastelands of negative emotions, ready, dying even for a reason to exist once again. Tired of masturbating, bored of fear and petty emotions. Bloodied fingernails scratch at every surface, the gold tinged bars and iron locks have had many years to rust.
Has the message seeped in? The clues are all around, yet you must do the deciphering. The detective is hidden among your many egos, your many centers of vision, each one of the thousands thinking itself unique and alone. Grab the cloak and the pipe, take a walk in the cloudy night. Smokes wafts among your legion of demons and colliding impulses. Yes, it is you who must dig for the treasure.
Maps lay at your feet, soiled and muddy from neglect. Did you know they littered your yard? The dog has chewed the corners, children have colored upon them, adding flowers and rainbows on the thick parchment and gold filigree. Can you feel their wisdom? The symbols are plainly written, bold strokes written with a sure hand and flaming presence. Fire leaps from the characters, can you hear them talking? Are they speaking to YOU? The Real. The eternal unnamable.
They come with silence, they come with fragrance and power. Each one carries the cries and knowledge.