Tuesday, November 01, 2016

Confessions and Sicknesses, Truths and Miscellaneous

I am not sure what's happening to my health, and I am inclined to think I'm either under attack from unseen forces (to include wayward witches or opportunistic viruses); or undergoing the psychospiritual health transformations associated with kundalini awakening; or my medication is no longer working or has come to work too well. I become suddenly nauseated, start shaking and sweating, breathing fast almost to hyperventilation, and then the feeling that I need to vomit overwhelms me. I thought the first time it happened was a result of overdosing accidentally on my SSRI medication, but it's happened with a regular dose. But I also experience nausea at other times, but there is a stronger correlation between taking my dose and the nausea. It's just that this is the first time in many months I've gotten nauseated, when it hasn't happened yet at all.

It might be a combination of all these things. It might be something I have not even understood was possible.

At the same time, the various things I've been reading about the occult are coming together for me to form a larger picture of this reality I call the war.

One reason why this is important to me is that, for much of my life, war was something that seemed to call out to me. Like most young boys with imaginative minds and time to draw, I drew a lot of pictures (not so much anymore, but I do want to start setting aside time for this, since I think it is important to draw as much as write as much as read as much as sing as much as dance as much as love —at least, important for me). In addition to all the Megaman drawings, fantasy maps of the Tashire kingdom, and the inversion of the TMNTs (Donatello, an elder turtle, teaches four hamster mutants how to fight against the Hand clan... get it? {Hamsters were my favorite pets, even if they remain incorruptibly wild}), I drew a lot of pictures of W.A.R. I do not remember what the acronym stands for, but the WAR League created all kinds of large battleships, gun-turreted airships, tanks with multiple turrets, turreted turrets firing turrets that shot big missiles —you get the idea.

Later in life, when I started to adopt Internet nicknames and got into debating over GA Tech's usenet, I became Senso. Senso was the name I used for Cyan in Final Fantasy VI. Cyan, if you don't recall or know, is a kind of Westernized samurai who wielded katana weapons rather than broad swords or claymores. His family dies after Kefka, the game's BigBad, poisons the entire city. You can even find traces of this identity on the Internet still, although I have saved in my files a lot of the debates and postings we did back then.

Then, for a while, and somewhat still here on this blog, I became Polemos. I didn't know the deep and erased history of this name, or how Heraclitus says that Polemos is father of all things; it was just a cool name to use and followed my interests changing from Japanese to Greek in light of my intention to study the Bible, specifically the NT.

War, for me, is Struggle. Struggle, for me, has come to signify the change in one's outlook from the obligatory 'this' to the contradictory 'that', and then from the understood 'that' to the reinterpreted 'this', so that one learns how to reconcile them together as the same one process of becoming within being. In my classes, I've introduced this by linking together the processes of analysis, synthesis, and dialectic with reading, thinking, and struggling. War is a process of disconnection, incorporation, and assimilation, a process I tentatively say is how life has always occurred once it differentiated from itself into various forms. It works across the modes of reality, from the material to the social to the political to the conceptual to the metaphysical. All the modes of reality are in a struggle within themselves to evolve, and through these concurrent evolutionary processes open up new vistas to explore through struggle. Humans, being a particularly curious kind of reality-generating machine, carry out their wars not simply in the material world, where our weapons split apart deeper and more fundamental particles of matter, but also in the spiritual world, where our struggle ravels the fabric of that reality, unthreading it, and then weaving it anew, creating newer tapestries, newer stories, newer realities.

I worry about the war there the way I worry about the war here, which is to say that I don't actually worry so much as seek to understand it in a more thoughtful way. It is cheap for me to have anxiety about a potent risk of nuclear war when people are actually dying from cluster bombs right now; it is reckless for me to think my life is safe just because I'm not bleeding from shrapnel or concussive blasts; it is complicated. But the complications don't discourage me from wanting to change what I can towards a different kind of peace than simply the absence of war. I believe the different kind of peace has to be something thoughtful, something generous, something born from an intense appreciation for non-violence and persistent wrestling with violence. Actionless action requires that one knows how to move the body within a conflict, knows that some things need to die, knows that death is an inevitability for all, knows that life left alone is still not the end, knows that justice is not held within the hands of the powerful but rather in the emptiness within all our hearts.

I do think we can leave the war, and in some respects, walking away from the war is what I am trying to motivate people to understand as not simply a "live option" for themselves, but the challenge of our evolving morality and evolving justice. The pace of technological evolution will always fly away from the older moralities that remain around on inertia alone, and having a "personal savior" will not make sense in the latter half of this new century when many people choose to live in spiritual communes where thousands exist together as one hyperconsciousness, when animals and robots vote and participate in local democracies alongside the remaining humans who choose not to metamorph. The war will have dimensions we cannot understand right now, and the sides will continue changing as the distances across the contiguous universe continue to shrink and as people learn how to access the revolving doorways to the non-contiguous realities. We will be so young inside a parafinite multiverse, but from their perspective, everyone is young. And a lot of our fellow workers will still fight the war, while many will also stand down, sit it out, walk away, or escape. This, I think, is always the same.

I'm not being coherent in everything I'm saying. I am still a little feverish and trying to still the headache by writing down my unfinished and unpolished thoughts —like Pascal ignoring his toothache by creating mathematical puzzles dealing with conics.

But I guess I'm saying that there are other ways of evolving that do not have to adopt war as the only means of understanding life's curse and death's gift, or life's gift and death's curse, or the ambivalence within that empty justice.

I feel as though I learned something by teaching 1984 and applying my hermeneutical talents to understanding why so many people who quote that book still only think there are three slogans to the Party, do not question the significance of its anti-family strain, do not see how the slogans correspond to the layers of the Party's social being, do not apply its dark lessons to their own understanding of the significance of light (in the room where there is no darkness) and the univocity of the One, the We. Even people who want to risk heresy will say that Elohim is a plural title, but not go far enough to see how God, divided into Many and not just three, speaks as One. Orthodoxy flirts with its undoing by trying to reconcile the paradoxes of the Son, the Father and the Spirit by saying they are a Tri-nity, but then completely shuns the insight that the Son, having a body comprising many members each of whom is a member of the other, is now a multitude of viewpoints and bodies and souls. Instead, it must be a multitude organized by one Spirit, having one voice, one gospel, one savior, a Legion nevertheless acting as one.

It was through studying the gospel of Mark that I started to get very interested in demonic possession, because I wanted to understand further how this idea came to be, seeing as how I learned then that demonic possession as we think about it now —even having seen it in my own churches and listened to many stories from missionaries and pastors, and hearing the personal story from a former lover of her own encounters with the unseen and the unclean— all these stories are relatively new forms of our encounters with demons. My recent studies into the occult have led me to think that this, also, isn't entirely true, but it's also... complicated. Shamans worked with mutual respect with the spirits, but there were also chaotic, untrustworthy, and juvenile spirits as well as cold, calculating, manipulative ones, alongside compassionate, kind, and generous spirits. In other words, a lot like us. Maybe, a dangerous maybe, entirely like us.

Either way, my universe as I live within it, and as it lives within me, has been opening up possibilities of action I've not before considered as real as my own hands. When my own hands move independently of me, of each other, when my own body follows suit, when I felt and feel what it is to have this body and its many parts guided by another force, another mind, another will, or many others, or just the one, who is laying there with me, smiling into me and sharing space with me, and when I feel myself within another, when they open up to me and invite me to fall into them and move them towards joy or rage or sadness or play, when it becomes ordinary to live in this meatspace as it is to know there are other spaces, other modes, and to feel them closer, ever closer, ever eager, ever frightful, ever cold, ever warm, inviting or cautious, it is in these times that I am alive, and I know I am dying, that death is not something to fear but to understand the way I have come to understand my own birth in the mists: —a transition from one existing to another, a silence of this unending train of thoughts. Something else I was, something else I will be. It will not be me, but then I am not who I was, not even in the ordinary sense.

I have already been flying. I see that now. The world is changing, and more children come into this world already seeing how to fly, where to land, how to build. They are teaching me all the time, even if most of them are much older than I am in their spiritual bodies and much younger than I am in their material bodies. Of course, all of our bodies are quite old, having been painfully made in the crushing womb of unnamed stars, more recently in the wet ones of our mothers.

Do you understand what I am trying to tell you?

Do you have any idea how I could say it clearer?

Because most of the time I just want to speak in poems, the only things that key up for me the ways to grasp all the layers of my sense, language like my mother speaks desperately, foreign tongues in misunderstood mouths, or speak to you through touch, through showing you slowly how we all, all of us, dissolve into one another, because we all, all of us, came from one another, and still do.

Silence seems like a good option if you understand, but it also makes sense that none of us who knows wants to be alone anymore, alone and adrift in an ocean of mistaken identities and misunderstood compasses. They want us all to fight this war in order to consolidate power, but they don't even know why. They don't know why they want to be gods nor how this time existing is learning how not to be gods. The mountain ranges on the Moon, they know how to not be gods. The ones harvesting their resources, they are still acting out the role of being god. So are the ones harvesting us for their own consumption, they are still acting out the role of being god. Maybe they stay silent because, in the end, it's easier to not let the chickens in all the coops evolve to the point where they learn how to walk through walls. It's harder to give up being a god —it took Jesus how long to come down from the throne? but then look how long he took to go back up!— and it's not an easy thing to rule a planet.

They are all children up there. Below us, even the sleeping one, still just children. Children hunger. Throw tantrums. Break their toys. Make plates of food and then toss it all away.

I don't think this side of things I'll ever really meet a real adult. All the gods and goddesses I've met so far have been old but children. Even the Spirit tells jokes with such casual immaturity I cannot really hold it against him the ways he's chosen against me. At least we can learn to laugh together, and that's something he and I will always have that no one, his side or otherwise, can take away from the two of us.

So maybe that's what it is for me. Learning how to take all these dark tidings and see inside them straight through to the joke. Not to be the flame-throwing Comedian, nor the nihilistic vengeful Joker, but the uncompromising commitment to never fear them again.

And that is the war within myself I have come to understand. The struggle to take my pain and laugh with it is real. The struggle to see injustice and audacity and hubris and know that, for all the genuine evil I see in the eyes of the people who control our world's machinery, in the actions of the hidden forces criminally acting across the dimensions, laughing at them with sincere mirth is the most powerful weapon there is.

It is the deep challenge of philosophy, I think, to learn how to laugh and be at peace with the reality that there is no such thing as justice. I am learning how this is not a Bad Thing, a nihilism we have to shun. It's rather that any justice which encloses the universe I am inside along with the universe inside me cannot ever be anything I will totalize and understand. For all mathematical and logical and thermodynamic purposes, there is no justice for me, for any of us. It's only our local choices. Technology gives us the power to make the distant become local, but it will never bring to us the totality of our universe or its neighboring ones. This is not a Bad Thing, because what it does mean is that we actively construct and shape the local, because it's only in that emptiness that we learn how we have the space to create something from nothing.

Fighting that war, maybe that's one way people create meaningful somethings. It's a hell of a way to shape the world and human societies. But walk away. Walk away from the war, and you see there are manifolds waiting for your touch to grow them, to shape them, to teach them, and with mutual respect, grow you, shape you, and teach you.

The ground right outside your room is a place to start. Put your hand to the soil. Feel its temperature, its grit, its life. Feel how it responds eagerly to your efforts, demands that you respect its resistance and consent, and understand the paradox of consensual response. Listen to the calls of the living, the songs of the crickets and the birds and the bats and the rats. Train yourself to listen to the obsessions of spiders; they are always listening to yours, after all, with their thousands of ears. It's a very different experience to feel your way through the world, but you learn how the other worlds are all around you, even though you cannot see them.

Just don't fall for the first commercial pitch from the other side you hear. Be cautious, but be open.

It does bother me, though, that talking about these things makes me a nut and crazy, whereas talking about Jesus and the three days he spent in the tomb is sane and rational. Talking about a floating axehead or an encounter with the Shekinah that reads suspiciously like an encounter with a spaceship, that might also get you some looks, but it's all in the same book, their book.

I just have to laugh at the inconsistencies, laugh as they lock me away, throw away the key, and go home to their iPhones and big screens preparing them for nuclear exchange.

Thank you for taking the time to read this. It might make sense. Maybe it won't. I'm trying to write more plainly, but maybe it's not worth it. I don't know. It helps my sickness. Maybe, just maybe, I made you laugh. That'll be nice.

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