Out on the High Mesa with the Tattered Ghosts of the Night

Reflections in a Petri Dish — July 29, 2015

Dog Poet Transmitting…….
Just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean it isn’t there and just because you can doesn’t mean it is.
Riding out here on the high mesa, at the outer most margins of the culture, you can see a great many strange things. Oh… they’re not so strange, if you’re up close and personalizing. Distance, so I’ve heard, has the capacity to grant perspective, unless you are myopic, hypnotized or blind. OF course there are all kinds of distances; distances from others, distances from yourself, distances from understanding and comprehension, distances from what is real and what is not, distances from uniformity and distances from normality and of course, all the distances that are in between all the demarcations in every distance so far mentioned. Avast! Thar she blows!
So it was that I went by one of those mass alternative media sites where I used to get listed before I became so chronically subjective and where I had not gone in some months (because it was always the same news at all of these sites, the same paranoid articles and wild speculations about the possible massive rises in the price of gold and silver and… rainbow poontang), only to find, only to find that this particular webmaster is pushing Donald Trump. Now… I’ve seen bizarre behavior of this sort from that corner before, just as I have seen others bemoaning 7 foot shape changing lizards, or propounding expertise about one subject or another where no such expertise resides, simply a lot of diverse information about something they’re not qualified to pass judgment on …but Trump? How jejune can one be, while having had such decades long exposure to the sort of duplicity that comes and goes around here and find themselves able to back the haarmeister Trump?
Out here on the mesa, where the only sounds are the sounds of the precipitating drip of agonizingly stretched and tormented time; the cries of a hoot owl and the lonesome wail of the coyote, you see a lot of things. Up close, much of this looks normal due to your own normality having been transformed into perversity by proximity. Far away, out here, looking into the writhing cauldron of flaming bodies, blindly groping one another in pursuit of the peace that only comes through a detachment from the same, understanding manifests as if one were watching Pumpkinhead, moonwalking in a silver jumpsuit, across the dance floor of the disco at the end of the galaxy. Up close it looks like John Travolta.
Donald Trump? The painfully obvious stalking horse, Donald Trump, being defended and promoted at one of our leading alternative news linking sites?
We’re all on borrowed time, just as we all come and go under the steam of borrowed power. Everything we know is borrowed in the form of temporary knowledge that has no stasis because it is always shifting under the force of experience and other influences that are all some form of experience in any case. We change whether we like it or not. We change in good ways and bad ways, depending on what we learn and do not learn and how we adapt ourselves to it, according to our generally fluid value system. For some, the only value system they possess is derived from the wheelhouse of self interest. That’s to be expected in a time when material interest is the paramount dynamic of the times. Not everyone is like this, however it may seem to be, depending on where you may be located. Still, if all the world were to prove hollow and faithless, this is far less important than if you are. As long as even one light remains in this world, utter darkness is held at bay.
There is a cold keening wind sweeping the mesa, insubstantial ghosts, move like tattered flags across the high wide and lonesome. As insubstantial as the ghosts may seem, they can suddenly materialize fists of power out of nowhere. They can strike you even if you cannot see them. They can do nothing they are not permitted to do, which means they are some part of the ineffable’s plan. The moving and stationary agents of the light and shadow and all the numberless chiaroscuro animated broomsticks, are all players and the quality and absence of their light is the quality of their being. Some of them are the forever members of specific kingdoms. It is suggested that if anyone knew the true value of their humanity they would never want to be an angel, yet… one can crossover. It can be done.
One’s face remains basically the same from life to life but it can be changed. It’s just not easy and why? Simultaneously there will come a moment when every being of every stripe is set apart in bas relief, to be distinguished as just what they are, regardless of the fact that it is always going on somewhere all the time. The world ends for any number of people every day yet we collectively fear the end of the world. We fear what we have no need to fear and are powerless to control, while disregarding things of singular importance that we can affect. Our ability to do that… or anything… comes from borrowed power and no power can be exercised without permission. Every particle of energy has a secret code written into it like DNA and every permutation of power comes out of the essential reservoir of power undefined. Every particle of matter and every form taken is no more than a temporary adaptation of essential matter. Perhaps you know this. what are you going to do about it?
The universal vibrating flame alphabet is written into the integrity of every shape and every shape is defined and expressed by it. In this world there are rules and laws for every science and vocation. These are pedestrian pursuits. There are higher sciences and vocations. In the pedestrian realm there are schools of learning. In the higher callings there are long corridors that must be walked, even if you believe you are in wide open spaces. Even if you are on the high mesa, you are not really there.
The sad gulls cry over the shore break. The pathos is an expression of a timeless theme of longing and loss. From the moment we are born we are dying, as is everyone passing by and they are passing by, over the burning sidewalks in the cities of desire and want, over the trackless sands of the high mesa, in the labyrinthine, underground kingdoms of civilizations unknown to us, they are passing like the cries of the gulls from sound into silence and everything accomplished here that is not concerned with the presence of the ineffable is meaningless and soon to be as forgotten, as everything else that has ever been. Great souls have walked this Earth many a time. Their accomplishments were easily on a par with anything this brief chapter of recorded history has ever seen, yet, not only are their names and all their works forgotten but also the entire age in which they labored is forgotten too, as if it never were. Yes, these and many another curiosity are remembered somewhere by someone but not by anyone here on the boulevards of vanity and hunger.
All those eternal truths, hidden in children’s fables. All those analogies and allegories. The countless sands of deserts and seas, the countless stars in the never ending skies. The unimaginable reach of the divine, who contains it all and expresses it all, who spirals out the entirety of creation and then gathers it all together through every segment of the measured interplay of the measureless acting out… the living proof of the eternity of desire.
How does one compare anything personal against this?
The birth of an age is like the pain of childbirth. It is attended by all of the apprehensions of the same. For some long time since near the beginning of the last century, the gestation period has been in effect. The water has now broken and labor has been induced by the cosmic midwife. The vehicle of delivery cries out in anguish. She writhes in all directions but the process is what it is; nothing swift or sudden about it. Because this is a birth taking place in the hearts and minds of everyone here, the effect is everywhere to be seen, except where it isn’t, except where it is ignored or resisted, or where calculating agents of darkness also go through labor in the attempt to make the birth stillborn. The truth is that it hurts and the pain is all she can think about but then… the birth is achieved and it is all relief and joy and a forgetting of all that was so overwhelming only a short time before. Any time now. Anytime, there will be a change in the song of the wind as it wails across the high mesa. It will barrel its way through the high desert and down toward the winking lights of the town of Iniquity, named after the pole dancing whore (It’s not what it seems). Our lady of Perpetual Undulation.
This is your humble herald, musing in the late night solitude of one more passing day.
End Transmission…….


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