The Grantig Army in the Fata Morgana of Paradise Veiled

Smoking Mirrors – September 21, 2011

Dog Poet Transmitting…….

May your noses always be cold and wet.

Sometimes when I am out having a beer in a pub, on those rare occasions that I actually do something like that, I find myself sitting with one or two of the people I have met here, over the eleven years I’ve been doing the limbo in Expatria, where I reside. On some occasions, I find I have to make my way to the pissoir and on some of those occasions, I find myself standing next to some fellow traveler and usually I am singing some tune I remember from the halcyon days, when lyricism was in flower and sometimes they’ll say something to me and I will say, “You know how they make American beer”? In response, I will get some version of, “No”. Then I will tell them there is an elaborate piping system that runs from this portion of Western Europe to the American mainland that transfers the piss to the American breweries, directly from the urinal into which I am depositing the basic ingredients. Sometimes this will elicit a chuckle and sometimes a non sequiter that implies, “I wish that crazy American wasn’t talking to me”. I know that part of this is because I am singing some old standard and it makes them seize up when they’re trying to do their business.

Up and down the streets of this pastoral and provincial little town I go, writing songs on the fly and gathering the puzzled and sometimes paranoid looks that are the trademark of my residence here. No one else engages in this sort of tomfoolery and it’s apparent that I’m either crazy, or high and… on some occasions both of those would apply. Why am I singing as I make my way down streets that have, in some places been here since the 9th century? It’s because I refuse to become grantig like so many here who lockstep their way to and from whatever. When they’re not walking in that heavy coat of anchors made from the tuneless vibrations of ancestors past, they’re driving with the intrinsic impatience to get somewhere so that they can hurry up and wait. Like most of the people, with the possible exception of certain rural sections of Latin countries and remote primitive regions; the eternal children with little to show for their lives except for a good attitude and an admirable work ethic, they are driven. They are driven slow or driven hard but they are in harness none the less. They are yoked up like oxen to the cart that carries their past and which reminds them that life is sirus bidness.

Observing this and seeing it most places, I realize what I am up against in terms of effecting change to any noticeable degree. Sometimes I reach with my invisible hands into their chests and squeeze their hearts and say, “You know this is a dual use component”? Sometimes I am chanting Hare Krishna, Om Amitabha or Om hare sri ganapatiyay namah, avige namas du (that would be phonetic) and I feel my feet hit the stones of the pavement or sidewalk and I imagine the vibration of the chant penetrating the stones, with the slightest touch of possible inspiration, in the hope that one day I have impacted upon the density of its composition to the point that they might speak of something other than the droning hum of commerce and confusion.

Once I threw a stone into a still lake and I watched the ripples extend outward upon the surface until I could no longer see them but I knew that they continued, until they had covered the entire surface of the lake. There’s a metaphysical law that operates in that action, which is like so many of the laws of Nature that we don’t pay enough attention to. Every culture operates according to some laws of Nature, applied to the infrastructure and the most important feature of that is the laws that surround us, for all the time that we are here and which we never take any notice of. We generally pay attention to what we want and how to get it. We seldom consider that the things we want the most are unknown to us because if they were not unknown, I would not be surrounded by the Grantig army in the Fata Morgana of paradise veiled. We’re surrounded by paradise that is hidden in a cloud of impure desire, which has crystallized into a false world that we painfully traverse from the cradle to the grave. We take the fire of immortality and we make more of ourselves over and over, as if our hopes would somehow be realized in some new and improved version of ourselves, in which we invest all of the bad information that served us so well beforehand.

According to the rock in the lake, one can say something in Des Moines, Iowa on Tuesday and it may get repeated in Cairo on Sunday. Focus and intensity has something to do with it and it is an expression of practical magic, depending on the will and concentration of the practitioner. I think any deliberate seeker should make it a point to read the Alice Bailey translation of Patanjali’s Aphorisms (well, I haven’t been able to get that version but there are plenty of others and more books on spiritual, metaphysical and occult teachings than you can ever hope to read in this life and possibly others as well. I consider it a wise investment but maybe you want to see what they got first; cheap at twice the price). I recommend reading the book, not so you can get wild about the practice of what’s contained there (not that most people ever will) but just to see what’s possible and I guarantee it works, depending on you.

Many things work, depending on you and you are either singing or humming to yourself as you go down, or up, life’s highways or, you’re Grantig. That’s the main point and it’s all about quality of life. I’ve never had much materially and I’ve done without fame and important temporal friends, as well as important positions and most of the things people get all hot and bothered about and sacrifice their health and integrity to possess but I’m singing and they are not. I’m dancing and they are not and I am generally in a good mood, no matter what is going on and if I get knocked off balance here and there, it doesn’t last long and I’ve got no hard feelings like heavy rocks in my personality knapsack. So, who’s better off?

I imagine we all come to a place at some latter moment in our journey and the question will arise, “Did I leave this world a better place than I found it”? “Will people miss me or will they be glad that I am gone”? Will I hear, “Well done”, when I pass through the gates of mystery or will the angels be shaking their heads? These are questions that everyone should ask themselves now. For some reason, most of the time, we do not. We are intentionally distracted by the one whose job that is and that is why our primary concern should be to “seal the door where evil dwells”. We have two options; senility or regenerated innocence. Lunacy comes through telepathic invasion, via the subconscious, or serenity emerges from the sublimation of the same.

You have to ask yourself if the presence of so many enduring holy texts and the historical evidence of those rare but powerful examples of what these books contain, is evidence enough of another supermarket, hidden within the blaring chaos of the well known other. If this is evidence enough then what are we engaged in at the moment we are in?

Every day we pound the sidewalks of this world and speak to the rocks beneath our feet. Every day the gripping imperative of operating according to what we think we know, takes precedence over the eternal imperative of recognizing the existence of what we do not. Everyday we fall victim to ‘garbage in and garbage out’ because we have contracted with the wrong sanitation department. If the mind is a swamp, will the body demonstrate otherwise?

In the woods it doesn’t take a great deal of time to figure out that we are walking in circles once we get lost. For some reason, the same understanding does not present itself on the byways of the organized world. When you have discovered the primary objective you cannot get lost because wherever you are it is present. Otherwise you are lost wherever you are and the angst will build until you find yourself with the radio and TV playing at all times, in order to keep reflection upon it at bay.

Is what I am doing important? Ask yourself this? Is what I want important? Does my peace increase or am I at the mercy of its absence in a cauldron of increasing confusion. Am I leaving good footprints? Am I presenting myself as someone else out of the fear of the appearance of danger that appears to attend my being myself?

How many people go to bed at night and review their day in terms of value given and then set the tone for the morrow in respect of that? How many people walk into Nature and speak directly into the ear of God, concerning any and all concerns? How many people get their information from someone who works for the plant where they manufacture it, for the benefit of those who use it to blind the world for the purpose of profit? How long can you accept the lies until they become a personal truth? You have passed your own death sentence, again and again and again. How long do we stare into a smoking mirror that is obscured by the glaring evidence of the quality of our desires?

I’ll leave you with the admonition, ‘thimk’. No, that’s no a typo. I’ll see you up the road or I won’t and I think that about covers it.

A little something different for Smoking Mirrors and certainly more indicative of what goes through my mind and where my real concerns lie.\

End Transmission…….


Smoking Mirrors looks at much of what the mainstream media ignores. While in Profiles in Evil, he seeks to expose those shrouded in darkness to nature’s most powerful disinfectant, light.

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