The World Is (a) Mine

The World Is (a) Mine

Daddy Says So

Who cares what happens to the world? Many religions tell us the Earth is an easy come, easy go mud-pile that was cobbled together in less than a week. The material world is an illusion, nothing more than the fleeting dream of a sleeping Creator that will fade with the coming of a new Earth and a new Heaven.

The righteous spokesmen for our heavenly sponsor have assured us we have the right to exploit the world until there’s nothing left. We’ve been told that every living and immobile little thing has been placed in reach for our benefit - ready to be carved up and taxed on our behalf by our wise leaders, who surely are the Elect. Conmen priests and neoconmen prophets vote each other into various planes and degrees on the pyramid of power, and anoint kings, emperors and the presidential potentates of modern-day democratic monarchies - while their tied-down puppet people get on with the job of ‘making a living’ out of killing the living world.

Free will isn’t free; it arises from relentless self examination. If an insect can stay busy enough amidst the distracting buzz of the hive they never have to consider their actions or comprehend the fruits of their labours. Workers and warriors don’t overly concern themselves with causes and effects or collective responsibilities as they trudge from task to task and war to war.

Everyone has free will, yet most are led to believe they have no real say in their destinies; from a very young age we’re informed that our fate has already been determined by someone bigger, wiser and far nobler than us, connected to ancient bloodlines and secret reservoirs of knowledge that remain invisible to our short-sighted view. The child is adulterated by the adult and grows into their template, twisted or otherwise – and our species has been subjected to many kinds of interference through its long ascent to planetary tenure.

Humans are domesticated into subservience by virtue of a purpose that has been grafted onto our pack-bound collective mentality. Our lives are the crossover points of many different agendas and we bear the seeds of differing species in our dreaming plasm. Down through the millennia, individuals and tribes that stood up and rebelled against imperialist invaders were decimated or annihilated, and in many cultures and nations only a genetic rump of subservient survivors remains. It’s easy to follow the herd through the channeled passageways and careering paths toward the distant unseen slaughterhouse; all we have to do is line up on the right side, and believe that the rest that are left go down in the burning flames of perdition – when we are all the same child crying in the night.

We’ve been told we can do what we like with the living planet - it’s all right to suck the life from every other vessel of creation and spit out its husk. We can screw the ecosystem to pieces without having to worry, because it was all made for our benefit - and even if we can’t make a new one, who cares? When the omnipotent sky fuehrer feels like ordering seraphim and cherubim into another swift week of work he can whip up a brand new one in a jiffy!

When I was younger I thought humankind had little hope of managing the planet unguided. I was a bright lad, but still hoped against hope that the dumb flock of sheep all around me might actually be overseen by a good shepherd – one who had kept a semblance of order down through the ages with handy crook and decisive flail. It seemed that all the flock craved was a wise paternal figure to tell them what to do – someone who could set unquestionable limits and parameters to our unquenchable desire to wander and explore, and guide us toward fruitful fields of endeavour.

If only an omnipotent god, goddess or wise alien from outer space could arrive and tell us what to do, all would be well in the world.

But then I grew up, died, and was reborn. I found that the core which was left of me was the good lord - the insightful being who knew right from wrong and truth from falsehood; the one who could see the differences between sheep and goats and recognise the scent and spoor of rapine, vulpine predators circling the wooly-minded flock who wandered around an endless plane of time on an horizon-girt planet. They all saw or suspected the same things as I, but failed to react to dire threats or respond to the certain promise of greener pastures; they expected to be protected by virtue of my higher, more erect perspective. They trusted that I’d take them into fertile places that hadn’t yet been despoiled by mindless hordes of other hard-hoofed sheep. Their future was in my hands – along with the future of every blade of grass and leafy sapling, whose life force the flock craved with incessant greedy hunger.

What happens to the domesticated flock and the lay of the land when the shepherd walks away, and leaves them to follow the carefully ingrained nature which his work has bequeathed unto them? Is it better to continue to lead them into a folly of genetic cul-de-sacs, or to allow the willful creatures to cull themselves? What an utter fool the good shepherd sees when he looks in the mirror of the human species – thoroughly cursed and tormented by his very own orderly intent.

The tasks of true overseers cannot be entrusted to anyone who wants the job, or who craves order and control over others while allowing their own passions to remain rampantly unexamined. The only one who can really save your world is you. Is it worth saving? Are you? The only certainty is change, redeemed by the likely possibility that every caterpillar can become a butterfly. Every baby metamorphoses into something whose potential was always there – a wise parent who carries the trusting babe and guides it through the wondrous world.

The one who has died and has been reborn knows the secrets of death and immortality that are suspected by all others; you have died and been reborn – that’s how you came to be here. You are an immortal who craved a fresh start on a clean page. The divine dwells in every sheep and each blade of grass and grain of sand; it can’t be killed, and neither can your essential selfhood. You’re stuck with yourself, until you examine the core of your being and recognise who you are; until you find a way to transform the unique personality that has glued itself around your immortal perspective – the sheepish child who clings to the elder wisdom, the thirsty babe whose mouth encircles the unending well of souls while it suckles with eyes wide shut.

If your craving for religion is an intractable addiction, the only good lord you can trust is a vegetarian; no blood drinking, flesh eating cannibal cultists can be permitted to look after the true welfare of sheep, or be trusted with the care of the myriad other animal totems and sentient beings that share this planetary realm with us. No warrior cults whose followers leave waterless deserts in their heavy footprints can grasp the keys to paradise or open the inner gates to immortality. The hive has its own prerogatives and its agenda has no room for individuality. Only a single individual can be truly free. Each of us must walk the royal road to inner transformation alone; when we reach our destination we’ll find the true beloved has been waiting there all along.

The universe is made of mindstuff, woven by the three blind mice of will, thought and action - the creatively jamming juices expressed by spirit, soul and body; the flavours of mercurial soul fire mixed with a dash of the salt of the Earth. The world won’t end with a whimper or a bang, or with the regal wave of a bearded prestidigitator’s hand. The stage we’ve set won’t end until we all leave and find other places to enact our wills upon, and even then it will not end; it will have simply left us behind, to continue exploring though infinite realms of dazzling possibility.

 

Open thine eye. Thou Art Divine. What canst thou do with infinity, child of eternity? ’Tis thine – if ye canst only encompass it within the leaky colander of thy absent-minded immortality.

- R.A.

 

‘The world is god’s diaper.’

- Wonder Boy, at 8

Images – author’s  (top image - Alex Grey homage collage)

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