lord of flies

I Am more You than You Are. I Am what You Seek.

A rant in the vein of the Lord of Flies:

Oh how the little mind does love to chase its own tales, a yarn- spinning so good that even Scheherazade would curl her toes up in envy. It will eat All and Everything to preserve its own apparent being and purpose, do anything to feed off the Merciless Heropass and preserve its present place and circumference of Being. Ekkh, how so many hear the Tale of Beelzebub and fail to understand its reality, forming the complete opposite through the bobtailed perception of their given ‘mind’. ”Just another story Sir, just one more, so that I might ‘get it’, or indeed, further my understanding of ‘it’.” ”Come now, let us speak together so that we might further our own understanding and self-knowledge”. Ekkh, such muck the little mind does spread, the little devil, the lesser light and evil. The debates and discussion between those who do not know will never end, they are indeed unique propulsion systems and have unending fuel from the void, only just being equalled by the Endless Mercy and Love of The Beloved. On the other non-end of the endless stick, the debate and discussion between those who know never starts. It is not that Reality cannot be spoken, it is spoken and speaking all the time, but it will not and cannot be heard by him who is busy eating his chilli peppers. Ekkh, my Dear Boy, beware the Gurdjieffian who speaks of serving His Endlessness and attaining to real being and individuality, his Angel has lost its head due to madcap mentation, he has yet to receive his pardon and return papers from the outer realms of insanity. Egoism parading in the clothes of the humble servant, the garment of fiery youth. “There must be a reason for things that are ‘not quite right’, there must be room for my con-tribution, to make things a’right again”. “Oh why are my Horns still so few and malformed, my only wish is to serve Thee, oh Great Horn of Plenty”. “There must surely be a reason and fulfilment in Time for my present Sojourn as ‘i'”. “I must only need make of myself an image of Thee and Thy Great Labours in order to become more than I am”. Oh the sweet dreams of Humpty Dumpty and All the Kings Men, that di-vision may birth unity, that time may maketh the Man. Oh why oh why did you hand man the two ended stick of measure, only so that he may use it to divide himself and the world into means and ends, or simply drawing it through the sands enclosing himself in his own circumambulations round his hollow point. Ekkh, I blame that reason that self-perpetuates itself, the snake that eats its own tail, the kund of all buffers, the self-made story hovering in mid-air just as the Coyote before seeing his groundlessness. Who can compete with such a prize, when the wailing and gnashing of teeth has become the Holy Sermon. Ekkh, the Whole are Whole, Holy Reconciled, they have no more time for the quest of being and worthy aims, no time for right and wrong ways, they are the very Salt of the Earth, the Holy Kingdom already present. The Whole Are what they Do, and Know what they Do, The Holy Host in motion, the only Doing, the only Will. Ekkh, woe to him still seeking Soul through word and deed, not knowing the one Soul of ‘I Am’. Woe to the believer in beings who do, and doings done for separate reason, who sees naught but his own obscured reflection in the Light of the one Holy Sun. The Whole acts Wholly, beyond the horizon of divided events in the black circle of shadow time. Ekkh, dear people why must you be people, if only you weren’t then the ‘tragi-comic’ would have no room at the inn, and the moment could be made an Occasion, a ship to bear the All to the Everything and Everything to the All, a Last Supper for Idiots, rather than making an over chilli-peppered meal of the All. Ekkh, the shadows of fools rarely get along with each other, in a circle dance of corn-stepping toes. Oh come Dear Brother Christ, and bring Thy Sacred stone to hurl into the cesspool of these unfortunate’s minds, that they might taste the sweetness of their own perpetual self-excretions. Come oh ye Shepherd to the sheep caught in the spinning of its own yarn, and fleece it to make a garment of wool fit for a Woolwearer such as Thee.