Wills Writ on Waves
Psychedelic Water 15
Ram’s eyes meet the Earl’s. Rupert shakes his head as he stands more erectly and clicks his heels with martial vigour, interrupting his spiel before he can assail the woman with more salacious nostalgic reverie. “I was just preparing to pick his brains for a while – wouldst thou care to join me? I assure ye, they’re usually quite tasty - as thou must surely already know…”
Amber stares at the tripping man with a blankly steady expression as her irises expand and contract. “I’m a vegetarian,” she replies. “I prefer a melding of minds to a vampiric inquisition.” She leans into Ram’s side and stares up at the tall redhead. “Either way,” Rupert says with a slightly faltering grin, “’tis kismet that we should meet in this time and place – surely predestined and foreordained!”
Amber smiles up at the earl as music pours from the old wood and concrete of the reconstituted factory. “The past, present and future are not fixed in stone, but writ on waves,” she says. “We live in an infinite multiverse where whatever we believe to be real is what we come to experience. You are the result and source of free will.”
“Destiny isn’t density,” Ram’yana adds. He feels a stream of words divert from Amber’s pooling thoughts, to erupt through wakening channels within his semiconscious protoplasm. She nods as he continues; “Time has no beginning or end; it isn’t a line or even a circle, but a spiraling figure-eight of interweaving probabilities; a double helix of eternal transformation. Thy centre is the centre of the infinite universe… the central axis of any infinite universe…”
“An obvious point for a Centraxian to make, if I may be so bold.” Rupert inclines his head as he gets into the swing of their impromptu philosophising. “After all, there was no ‘Big Bang’ – we live in an infinite cosmos, in infinite time, with no need of creation by an external creator. We don’t live in a mythical ‘one word world’ or a univerb universe; we live at the nexus point of infinite possibilities. We are the makers of universes.” A small smile of triumph splits ginger beard from orange moustache as Rupert’s eyes twinkle at the slender golden woman.
“Make of it what thou wilt, but the proof of our godhood is here, stroking our senses with tenacious reminders that we ignore at our eternal peril. Those who remain unaware of their inherent godliness,” he says with a bow, “are subject to the whims of other immortals.” He arches a brow at the crowd gathered round the nearest fire. “We all share and create one eternal reality, but the world we create can be a confining oyster if higher consciousness remains the unattainable pearl of great price – the way out is always in, openly hidden at the centre of things. We all need to remember where we come from before we can know where we are. Well?” he says as he stares at the shaman with an expectant gleam in his eye. “Spit it out!”
Ram’s rational mind attempts to follow and preempt the flowing course of discourse; his heart swells with something akin to loving pride when Amber pushes the rolling conversation along with a characteristically brilliant display. “The past, present and future are all equally illusory, equally real and equally malleable,” she says with a Mona Lisa smile. “We live in a fluid fractal reality where the whole is greater than all of its constituents – because every reality interpenetrates and partakes of all realities.” She squeezes Ram’s fingers and Rupert gapes at her riposte as she continues her erudite elucidation.
“We are not trapped in a collective creation,” she insists. “We are all passing through each other’s interpenetrating creations. Anything and everything is possible and everyone gets to decide what’s probable – and everyone decides what actually occurs. There are no accidents and no victims; we each and all create our own interweaving realities with our inner, unarticulated and unexamined drives, hopes and fears - or focused will and conscious concentration. We all get what we want either way - even if most people do not remember what it is they have wished for.”
“I grok,” Rupert declares as a more serious expression incarnates upon his mobile face. “No object can contain something larger than itself – the ever-expanding Mandelbrot Series is ample evidence that the universe must be infinitely larger than the narrow confines imposed on it by obsolete 20th century ideas; the Mandelbrot field swiftly grow to become larger than the – ha ha - posited limits of the entire universe.” His fingers explore his pockets and a lone kookaburra cackles at the moon until the earl continues. “As you explore ever more deeply into the mathematical reality of infinitely recursive fractals you see that nothing ever really repeats, recurs or mirrors anything else exactly – and that everything is an aspect of everything else. Fair enough,” he says. “But where does it get you – or us?”
Ram’yana feels the words well up his throat and erupt from his mouth, but he has no idea of what he’s about to say until the sentences unreel from his tongue. “Reality is a fluid fractal hologram,” he agrees. “Combining the concepts of holography and fractals, primates dwelling on Earth at the dawn of this arbitrary New Millennium can barely begin to understand what it is that we’re living within.We don’t have the language to think it, let alone describe it. But we can begin to comprehend what it is to be a free-willed collective of conscious beings, dancing through an immortal mirror-maze multiverse.” He pauses for breath as Rupert lights a slim cigarette and offers another to Amber. A shooting star resolves into a bursting dandelion of incendiary coloured fragments as a loud retort fills the night, silencing the fire-lit murmurs of random conversation.
Ram’yana ignores the momentary firework display and plunges on, galloping through fluttering reams of psychedelic images and streaming encyclopaedias of endless words that flare betwixt fore and hindbrain; “We can begin to understand that all we experience is the consequence of our own thoughts, words and deeds. Our surroundings mirror our inner landscapes and our experiences play out and expand on the meanings that we’re fascinated by. We attract the events, people and places that we magnetise with the power and drives of our beliefs, our desires – and as you say, hopes and fears,” he declares, nodding an acknowledgment to Amber as he uses her words.
“Whichever drive you allow to predominate within you determines the nature and range, the flavours of your experiences – but you can decide the direction you take and the world you experience consciously, if you first examine your mind and your self, and learn to steer by observing the feedback. When you know that your body is your oldest, most intimate and truest friend - not a vehicle or a mirror, but the dreaming vessel of life and the temple of consciousness – it becomes a gateway to the entire cosmic hologram. A part,” he emphasises, “Not apart…
“All that’s needed to take the next step is to create a matrix of belief that transcends the old limitations – by dreaming and creating our lives with other brave adventurous people, who view the world through a similar spectrum of light.” Ram’yana takes a deep breath as headlights play across the earl’s cynical expression. “Pardon me,” the shaman smiles, “I’m tripping…”
Rupert leans back and shakes his head. “I think I need another joint,” he says. “The old tribal ways are behind us, I fear. Let’s take a different tack, seeing as I’m three sheets to the wind – or is it five? Anyway - if I’ve read thy ‘TimeSpace’ jottings correctly, thou sayest that ‘Particles’ are just the points where waves cross and spin the aether into vortexes. Every vortex reflects and refracts the pattern of every other vortex in every possible matrix…”
“Be here now,” Amber insists. “Be aware of your body; you are your immediate surroundings; where you are is where you want to be. ‘Reality’ is whatever we dream up – and everyone remains asleep within a composite shared dream, unless we can actually be here now, beyond the confines of the limited linguistic mind and mammalian monkey emotions – or any ideas about tiny little parts.” She rearranges her neckline as Rupert’s reddened eyes rove the length of her body.
“There is no ‘one reality’ or a single model that can clearly describe its evolving involutions. Everything has multiple meanings; no explosion or creation has a result that can be foreseeable.” She presses on as Rupert opens his mouth to interrupt. “Look, listen, feel, smell and taste where you are right now. This is the place your waking dream has led you to, within the confined perspective of a primate pack-bound tribal mentality - which you so accurately portray as an outmoded tool of primitive infants. This is where you wanted to be – before you came this far.
“Now you have only yourself to blame – and thank. Either course is equally ludicrous. You are an immortal being dwelling within your own Creation. I agree with you,” she says, and Rupert stands transfixed, staring at Amber through glazed blue eyes. “You are a god, and the world is all art. Look, listen, feel, smell and taste where you are right now. Is it good art? That’s the only real question the creator must consider. Do we dare to dream of a perfect existence? It’s more than just possible – it’s up to you, at every moment.
“And me,” she says with a smile.
Rupert leans down toward her and speaks in a conspiratorial whisper; “How long do you think all this will be allowed to last?” he asks. “I daresay the fat lady’s getting ready to sing any time now.” He straightens his spine and stares at the moon. “Feels like the band’s about to begin,” he says more loudly, shaking his shoulders to rouse himself from semi-hypnotised torpor. “I’ll go find my stash and meet thee within, and we can all continue this illuminating rave.” He bows with a flourish and strides off into the car park, humming with the music that emanates from the theatre as he departs without a backward glance.
Amber and Ram’yana step into the light. They pass clots of partygoers who weave on the spot to the reverberating sounds, passing the attractive warmth and bucolic ambience of the blazing drums. The cuddling couple follow the recorded voice of the long-dead Janis Joplin up the steps of the Bush Theatre, as the dearly departed hippy icon sings a lament about true love lost, and the double-edged sword of freedom.
“How long have you been here?” Amber asks as she takes his hand when they approach the threshold. “And why have you chosen to remain in this admittedly charming but brutally primitive little ‘timespace’?”
A true story
From Wills Writ on Waves - Psychedelic Water 15 – Be Aware! – the Prince of Centraxis site contains implicit and explicit concepts and images, intended for adults only.
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