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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