Want To Be (More) Immortal?
Or Blogging a Dead Horse
‘Getting old isn’t any good – but it’s better than the alternative.’
Are we the stuff that dreams are made on? Is your life a waking dream – or a fantasy, or nightmare? Is all the world imaginary, a virtual reality matrix, a mote in some fanciful god’s eye? Are you the dreamer and/or the dream? Are you responsible for everything that happens – and for the fact of your existence?
These notions can no longer be relegated to dustbins of metaphysical hogwash, renaissance fantasy or half-baked New Age claptrap. Anyone who’s been paying attention to an exciting range of recent discoveries and current reappraisals of timeworn knowledge, a whole new paradigm of space, time, life, you, yourself and I, has come into play at the dawn of this brave new millennium.
A universe is a very big place. It’s so large and complex that practitioners of our most advanced sciences can’t really conceive its extent. Infinity is a challenging concept. No-one who’s embedded in a culture that believes a giant, fundamentally psychotic invisible fiend created the world in six days can easily understand the reality of infinity. No believer who’s been brainwashed into odd old ideas of externalised humanlike gods, angelic faeries, reptilian devils and the big bang of a finite ‘creation’ has a chance of perceiving real truths. Anyone bound up in the sick, outworn idea of an externalised father-image creator enthroned in stern judgemental criticism of their creation (while torturing and ultimately killing everyone and everything it ‘loves’) is unready to face the unbounded horizon of existence as a mature, responsible being.
Times have changed. The cosmos can no longer be regarded as a finite, big bang-birthed spiral on a death trip to black hole-infested nowhere. It’s no longer definable as a physical structure bound by the gravid outworn lore of gravity’s crushing embrace. The Sun isn’t simply a big bonfire, or a crushed cloud in a state of perpetual gravitational collapse, or even some quasi-scientific fusion furnace of a nuclear reactor. There are no ‘giant black holes’ lurking at the centres of galaxies, waiting to suck everything dry (like remote representations of the black-garbed priests of Abrahamic lies).
The centres of galaxies are glowing, pulsing cores of ongoing creation and the cosmos is made of the same stuff as your mind – plasma; or if you prefer a more conceptually limiting term, electricity.
And all of it, each teeny iota and every incomprehensibly huge structure, is mirrored within the lens-like, spine-shaped droplet of water that is you. Your mind, brain and being can now be understood as holographic representations of the larger world – fractal fragments of the entire universe, containing a vision/version of the All within a refractive dewdrop form. Your brain is a transducer (or transceiver - a receiver, shaper and retransmitter) filled with plasma (“electrical charges”) whose patterns replicate and interpret everything around you.
You are the ‘force’ of nurture that gardens the field of dreams and the cosmos resides within you. The energy – not a ‘force’, but a field - that powers it all isn’t ‘nuclear’. It’s a lightning flash, a spark of light; the light bulb that glows at the crown of all inspired cartoon characters. Your mind, your world and the entire cosmos are all made from and driven by the same living life force – plasma, or ‘electrified gas’ and its less rarefied, more solidified and more familiar forms, all bathed within and shaped by the magic net of pervasive magnetic fields. 1
And all of this scintillating energy field is a cross section of denser, deeper, higher, more rarefied geometries – ‘higher’ dimensions already occupied by aspects of you, that can see the entire universal field as easily as a three dimensional being can see the extent of a flat round table top. From a certain level you can witness every sparrow’s fall and every babe’s birth, and every potential moment of your life. 2
There is no real separation between you and the ‘outside world’. Everything interpenetrates. We are all parts of the same mind field, peering through the eyes of innumerable perspectives. At the most fundamental level everyone is everyone and individual personality is a transient illusion. You, your mind, everyone else and the cosmos are made of the selfsame mindstuff – and you really do create ‘reality’, choosing its appearance and manifestation from the most probable routes this mindstuff is likely to take, branching out from the root of the present; whether your linguistically trained, thoroughly acculturated domestic primate surface personality is aware of it or not.
In this magnificent, all-encompassing, minute and magnanimous magnetic now of instantaneous existence you are literally casting the net of being to the limitless lengths of your creation, and trawling up a material representation within the apprehended skein of your weaving. Thou art god(dess), self-created and creating the world from instant to instant, beyond, above and beneath the percepts of lumpy primate language and primitive time-bound senses.
You are not limited by sludgy chemical messages and senses bound by light speed; only the chattering monkey mind is trapped in the congealing amber of time. At the very same time, you are outside the time-bound bubble and viewing its patterns through the eyes of the ape whose monkey-see, monkey-do attributes are the greatest blessing and ongoing curse of the human races.
That’s your dharma – the freedom to play the strings you’ve already woven into the fabric of timespace on an instrument shaped and tuned by the karma of previous choices. You have the freedom to apprehend true reality - at any moment you choose to surrender everything you and others perceive to be you. All the world’s a stage we pass through, yet your script isn’t written in stone. At any moment you can take your cue to rewrite your destiny. You have innumerable choices.
You decided to be born and every single day of your life you decide to keep living – or not.
Maude is panting heavily, obviously struggling for breath, unable to raise her head from the hot dry ground. It hasn’t rained for months and the grass beneath her swelling body is little more than drying bumfluff struggling up from the hard, hoof-compacted river flat. The only reason the grass is still green is the unseen subterranean extent of the nearby creek that streams beneath the sunstruck soil on which Maude lies. She pants up at an empty blue sky and a blazing Sun that slowly steams vitality from the marrow of her massive bones. At night she watches the stars and Moon wheel giddily across the dome of the sky.
Maude lies at the edge of a flattened oval of chewed vegetation. She’s been dragging her body around behind her for the past two days, eating whatever she can reach (and whatever we can feed her).
She doesn’t really want to die. Not yet.
Yesterday she was able to lift her head and drink as many buckets of water as we could provide. Each time she’d drained the bucket Wonder Boy held for her, I’d catch her head before it snapped back to smash against the bone-dry ground.
The only thing that’s actually wrong with Maude is the unfortunate fact that one of her rear legs doesn’t work. If we could raise her in a harness we could keep her alive more easily and the leg might even heal. But we don’t have a harness or any structure to suspend it from, and Maude’s head is the only part of her body that isn’t too heavy to lift. Friends have described three legged horses being flogged while towing overloaded carts in less salubrious nations (Pakistan), but Maude just can’t climb onto her hooves.
The vet’s advice is to let her die or put a bullet in her brain; the animal doctor can’t make the trip out to this remote valley for a few more days and a bullet is literally a hundred times less expensive than a medical death shot, and probably quicker in more ways than one.
Maude’s tired, but not tired of life. It’s stupidly easy to underestimate the intelligence of ‘animals’. Despite all anthropocentric babbling to the contrary – whereby insecure savants insist that only humans can be aware of the natures of life, death and time - she obviously knows what’s happening to her, and so does the rest of her herd.
Yet on one level life will never end for Maude. Will she even notice if her huge brown eyes close for the last time? Will everything finish for her right there and then, or will she continue to prance around the paddock in the unbounded sunshine of the eternal mind? Or will she be released into the fresh playful form of a newborn foal and continue prancing, dancing and munching her way through fresher fields – the same Maude, renewed?
As I stare down at her reddening nostrils and salt-stained hide the words pass through my mind; “She’s thirty-two; she’s had a good run.” It isn’t my thought; it’s a death sentence delivered to my brain by apparently compassionate programs created by thousands of generations of primates, all staring into the familiar face of untimely death and shrugging with helpless finality.
Thirty-two may seem old for a horse (it is) but there’s really very little wrong with Maude. If not for that paralysed leg she’d probably live quite a bit longer. When she was younger she was a Pony Club horse, well used to ferrying children around thoroughly tamed landscapes. She had a very gentle nature. When she was twelve the woman who believed she ‘owned’ Maude was ready to ‘put her down’ – to sell her to a pet food factory because she was half lame, and no-one believed she’d live much longer. They kept her in a yard filled with dead, rusting vehicles and were happy to sell her to me instead of taking the same money from the knackery.
When I saved her way back then, a friend who was wise to equine ways warned me - “One white hoof, I’ll buy; two white hooves I’ll try; three white hooves I’ll say goodbye; four white hooves the end is nigh”. Maude has four white hooves; not pure white, but the streaky kind derived from mismatched genes, prone to cracking and breaking and sending a horse to the knackery.
Twenty years ago I put her out to pasture with a larger, healthier, lonely wild racehorse that had been left with me by a departing neighbour. The herd grew to four semi-wild horses when another neighbour sold up and moved on a few years back. Maude’s been fine and happy ever since she was ferried here to the banks of this serpentine creek, carted in a battered old float - her teeth a little more ground down each year, her body a little more skinny each winter, but filled out and fine again every spring - until today.
“She’s had a good run.”
When my grandfather was ‘oversedated’ at eighty-eight years of age people said the same about him. My father’s that same age now. “When I was a little boy you never saw people in their eighties,” he tells me. “A seventy year-old man was really old, and frail – he could barely walk and usually had to be helped everywhere, or even carried around by his family.”
My father’s ‘had a good run’, too. Almost everyone he knew, or was related to, died when he was a teenager. Most of the rest have passed away since. Now he walks several kilometres every day, and both he and his doctor reckon that if he can keep walking a few miles each day he can stay pretty healthy.
“We’re getting old,” he tells his surviving doctor – the one he hasn’t yet outlived – and the doctor replies, “Don’t kid yourself, we are old.” And every time he thinks about his age it ages him a little more. Every time his family looks at him or thinks about him the first thing that comes to their compassionate minds is, “I hope he’s all right,” with an unstated and unrecognised undercurrent of “He can’t last much longer,” or, “He’s had a good run” - a death sentence delivered from behind a compassionate veil of denial; a death sentence, automatically delivered by the same old program that has accompanied and guided humankind for a million (re)generations.
A hospital recently asked him to help their research into aging, and he happily agreed. They wanted to know why some people age gracefully while others just cark it. They subjected him to a battery of tests, including a series that tested the strength of his joints. They cash-tested him so comprehensively that they damaged his knee in the process - and now walking causes him a great deal of pain.
He’s luckier than Maude; he has a chance to heal before he dies of starvation or thirst, or suffocates under the weight of his own supine body. He’s recovering. He’s walking.
When I was a kid and someone passed away in their sixties, people said “They had a good run.” Such a piddling little lifespan. Barely enough time to learn what’s what before shuffling off to another mortal coil and starting all over again – having to learn to move a baby’s clumsy, massive, oversized catcher’s mitt hands, to communicate in more than merely emotively charged sounds, to walk; to go to school for another dozen or score of precious years when you’re young and vital and the world should be your oyster.
And all because we create reality with our beliefs, and our beliefs are programmed to expect us to fall apart and die – to make us fall apart, and die, every time we look at someone and think, ‘they’ve had a good run’. We expect them to die. We expect our selves to die. Every time our children look at us and think, ‘I hope they’re all right,’ a death sentence is veiled behind their compassion. We’re expected to die; we expect to die, and our expectation programs the patterns of ‘reality’.
It doesn’t have to be this way.
Expect something new.
Humans (and living things in general) are anti-entropic. We’re always affecting the odds in our favour - there’s no such thing as ‘random chance’ where mind is involved. And the easiest matter to influence is the stuff that’s already moving around under its own steam.
Dr Emoto’s famous pictures of crystallised water notwithstanding, we program living things most readily of all, and the easiest living thing to effect is your self - followed by those with whom you’re most deeply involved. Every time you fear for yourself or a loved one you make that fear more likely to manifest. Every time you truly, deeply, consciously wish yourself or another well you feed energy into wellness.
Fear is the mind killer, and it kills more than your mind. Hope is the light of a bright new dawn that dispels the fear-filled illusions of darkness.
Our beliefs aren’t simply nebulous thought forms floating around in space – they are very real causes that define and drive our actions, lives and lifestyles. Domesticated primates are creatures of habit whose ingrained, entrained habit patterns definitively create their reality. Examining the ‘reason’ (or at least motive) behind your acquisition of a habit is an effective way to uncover its roots, and to alter the direction of its growth.
A lifetime of unfortunate habits based on poor choices can be turned around – retuned - at any moment, but as the Taoists say you really need to catch the tiger by the tail before the tiger turns. Healing can start at any time, yet wise practice and good intent are unlikely to resurrect a rotting corpse. The earlier one starts turning things around the better; beginning the examination of self in childhood is the ideal time and place to start. The younger you begin exploring the roots of your being the better – although doing so often makes it difficult to fit in with the more unthinking denizens of the workaday world – and it’s never too late to be young.
Hum to yourself. Send a humming vibration through your body. Feel the vibration penetrate and resound from your core to extremities and back again. Does the vibe feel like it’s flowing freely? Hum into any place you feel a blockage, absence or difference, and keep up a clear visualisation of a whole, healthy, happy system as you continue the vibration.
Breathe into any blockage; massage it with your breathing, gently touching it with your presence from within. Look deeply into any place of pain; breathe into it and nourish it back into health. All it really needs is your attention – your focused good will and nourishing intent. You are the god(ess) of your body, and your body is your best, most faithful beloved.
Everything you require is within you. Resonance will heal you, removing blockages and refilling voids with the precisely tuned energy required, created and modulated by the body that’s healing itself.
You can do the same thing in complete silence. When healing with light or ‘laying on hands’ - using systems like Reiki for instance – it’ always more effective to visualise a healthy, whole and healed system than to image you’re repairing an injury or healing an illness - a simple yet cogent example of the empowerment of positive affirmations, and of the powerlessness engendered by negative expectations. Thus, when I heal surface damage or skin cancers (the most obvious damage existence metes out in response to our errors and habituated lunacies) I visualise a healthy, smooth surface and an equally purified self beyond the surface.
Light literally pours from your brow and the palms of your hands. These days this light is known as ‘biophotons’ and the physics of biology has been utterly altered by knowledge of its existence. Biophotons – another form of plasma - will carry light and information throughout your being, resonating and healing as surely as sound. You can heal with your hands; everyone can. You just have to actually do it.
I’ve asked many, many people if they want to live forever, or at least for a very long time – and guess what? Most actually say ‘no’. Some simply feel tired and worn out and can’t see how things could get better instead of progressively worse. Some wish for a ‘clean slate’, a ‘fresh start’ (be careful what you wish for). Or; “To sleep, perchance to dream”. A very few claim it’s necessary to die in order to make room for fresh life. And many have something they’d prefer to forget and are willing to take whatever way out that’s ultimately offered them.
A vanishing few – and these are mostly relatively young and free – actually say ‘Yes’!
Changes are occurring in the outer world too. In case you haven’t noticed, humans can now be induced to regenerate. Stem cell 3 (and 3D printing 4) technologies have altered the basis of our material expectations. We can regrow organs and bodily structures in situ, without any need for transplants. The stem cells that can achieve these miracles can now be cultured from any of your cells – skin cells, for example – and this can be done fairly cheaply, right now. Longevity is knocking at your door. Are you going to get up and open it?
You can, if you wish, live for a very, very long time. Do you want to?
If you want to learn what part of ‘you’ survives death it’s an easy thing to know; just learn to stop thinking, to dissolve all the endless strings of linguistic and acculturated blurbs that incessantly pour through your head – the stuff you probably believe to be ‘your’ thoughts, that you’re actually picking up and retransmitting all the time. 5
Be out of time. Realise you’re already immortal. Ask yourself; “Do I like this ‘me’? Is there anything I’d like to change? What would I change it to?”
You are perfect as you are, but life is endlessly perfectible. Thou art god(dess); recreate the world!
Turn on. Tune in. Opt out! Real life awaits beyond the mirror maze of the human hive, where nature blossoms in eternal renewal…
- R. Ayana
'You can lead a horticulture but you can't make him think.'
For more on this topic by R. Ayana see Mortal Recoil @ http://hermetic.blog.com/2008/03/04/mortal-recoil/
For more information about trans-mortality and immortalism see http://nexusilluminati.blogspot.com/search/label/immortalism
1. See the Electric Universe @ Thunderbolts – http://nexusilluminati.blogspot.com/search/label/electric%20universe
2. See TimeSpace – http://nexusilluminati.blogspot.com/search/label/timespace
3. Stem Cells – see for instance http://nexusilluminati.blogspot.com/search/label/stem%20cells
4. 3D printing - http://nexusilluminati.blogspot.com/search/label/3d%20printing
5. Meditation - http://nexusilluminati.blogspot.com/search/label/meditation
And see ‘Human Brain, Internet, and Cosmology: Similar Laws at Work?’ @ http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2012/11/121119140545.htm
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