To Infinity and Beyond
This Is the Afterlife
Turning inside out, the young shaman falls though a long swirling tunnel formed of his inverted self, his unbodied mouth and eyes agape in a primal rush toward extinction.
He accelerates
through a tightly wound vortex that shifts and bends to accommodate his
course, always centred in the swirling tube which never touches his
falling, disembodied perspective. The tunnel is made of light, and of
his own bloodstream, and of all the memories and unremembered details of
materiality and personality that made up his life – yet not merely
‘his’ life.
Every human,
fish, bird, animal, insect, cell and blood corpuscle that has ever lived
is there with him, all at once – the dying shaman can feel their bright
fear and ecstasy pouring through him as they all rush toward an unseen
destination around the curving, translucent bends of the primal vortex.
Even though every being dies alone – no matter if a multitude of
witnesses is present – the moment of death itself is one great screaming
orgasm experienced simultaneously by every one, every single
thing that has ever lived – all our eyes and mouths and ganglia agape at
the same simultaneous culmination of our material existence.
The tunnel is an
eternally vivid living record of past events and future dreams, all
memories and visions embroidered into the seamless fabric of its swirl –
and Ram’yana’s private past and the panoply of his personal memories
are displayed most prominently to him, brightly livid episodes which
emerge from the tubular walls as he passes. His strongest experiences –
the most impressive ones, that imprinted themselves most
brightly into the palimpsest of his being – leap out at him in high
relief as he turns and twists and falls and flies, a singular eye of
consciousness accelerating toward the endless end of the convoluted time
tunnel that’s leading him home.
As the world we
experience slips past us at the periphery of our sensoria, an ongoing
tunnel vision moves with us at the extremity of our perceptions, whether
dying, dead or alive. Journeying out of the physical plane, outside the
material matrix of the world, Ram’yana is beyond time and the ken of
time-bound beings; as he leaves four dimensional Timespace and approaches the speed of light everything twists into a tunnel which lengthens fore and aft.
He sees his
grandfather and grandmother, Mickey Mouse and Pluto, all the dogs and
cats and mice and goldfish that shared his boyhood years, the smells of
his houses and the flavours of his lovers. He hears the laughter of his
kindergarten friends, their bright faces visible all around him singing
‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’, while pretty little Abigail jumps over a
spinning rope twirled by Gina and Hannah, her long blonde pink-ribboned
pigtails rotating around the sides of her head.
He holds his
mother’s huge hand, grasping her finger through the wooden bars of his
bassinet while she sings to him in the sultry evening air. He witnesses
the expression of semi-resigned shock on his father’s face during the
Cuban missile crisis and again when Kennedy was shot, sees the squashed
remains of mosquitoes on the wall above his crib, watches the strange
lights moving in the sky while all the neighbours point and speculate,
sinks again with a collapsing sandbank on Bondi Beach, swept away with
hundreds of panicking faces being pulled out to the deep sea along with
him, while hundreds of man-eating sharks are driven off by the beating,
splashing oars of desperate lifesavers.
He sees his
mother’s eyes for the first time all over again and screams at the hard
slap on his bottom as he hangs before Doctor Traub’s thick-lensed
glasses in the bright, antiseptic birth theatre. His paternal
grandmother smiles at him as she leans over and obscures his view of the
magnificent giant yellow flowers of the magnolia tree while she wheels
him in his pram; he can still smell the cloying fragrance of the
flowers. His mother’s mother screams as he holds a dingo puppy up for
her inspection and she tumbles over backward in her bedroom, breaking
her hip while his eight year old eyes wash the scene away with tears
that burn through the illusory years.
The Cat in the
Hat and the Mighty Thor; the smell and Hungarian accent of alcoholic
Uncle Tony, putting him off beer for years with his first taste of
bitter ale at the age of six, and the bright laughing face of his
babysitter Wendy by the blazing wood fire; the spray of blood when he
cut his wrist falling onto a broken bottle at the age of three and the
dizzying view from the emergency surgeon’s high private balcony; the
first time he kissed a girl and the first time he dreamed of kissing a
girl, all bound up together; flying through the sky in a
propeller-driven passenger plane, watching circular rainbows following
him in the clouds below.
White
sulphur-crested cockatoos and sparrows circle his yard while kookaburras
laugh in the gum trees; the first terrifying time his father holds him
up high in the air to place him in the fork of a tree; his first night
after he ran away from home, reclining on a beanbag in a Kings Cross
commune reading Philip Jose Farmer’s pertinent To Your Scattered Bodies Go
– everything is there, each scene and sensation embedded within and
revealing a multitude of others. Everything. His dying mind seeks out
everything he’s ever experienced, seeking a way back into the womb of
living as he falls through something else entirely, riding a
rollercoaster beyond the imagination of the most topologically tormented
tycoon.
As Ram’yana falls he flashes before the eyes of his whole life – as others fall with him, many others, all others,
sharing the time tunnel with his self-judging awareness. In the
eternity of the Fall everything hidden or repressed is exposed in the
Divine Light of clear sight and each being is their own Judge, emerging
from the blindfold of their material existence to weigh their own soul
on the ineradicable scales of justice and mercy. Conscience is the soul and the soul is immortally, inescapably honest with itself when released from the fetters of self-deceit and delusion.
Beyond time, at
the singular moment of the great primal rush that is the birth and death
canal leading from one world to the next, everyone experiences the same
thingat the same time. We all come and go together in a
mind-blowing orgasm; dreaming or screaming, laughing or crying, all
emotion quails and pales before the rush of unstoppable motion that dwarfs any and every trivial concern.
No thought of
gods or devils, life or death in the primal scream toward the Light at
the end of the tunnel – the only thing that matters is holding onto your
headless hat and the wordless regrets felt toward all the people,
animals and conscious entities you ever knew deeply, or ever loved – and
still love, deeply, tenderly, with a perspective of forgiveness,
understanding and compassion never vouchsafed to your flesh-bound,
in-coiled, emotion-embroiled mortal personality.
Ram is every
human who ever lived and died, every fish ever caught in a current to
swirl down into lightless depths beyond its control, every bird caught
in a whirlwind that flings it to flinders, every animal diving for cover
into cloaking vegetation from an inescapable predator, every individual
blood corpuscle flinging itself on the way to the crushing pressure at
the heart of its warm, pulsating cosmos. As he pours through the end of
the world the tunnel twists and whirls, always hiding the point of it
all, the point of no return, the heart of the matter, the source of
every thing and being – and his mind expands to simultaneously see his
spiraling course as a single thread in a vast interwoven image.
The tunnel is one
thread among myriad drab and colourful strands in a great uncharitable
tapestry, an inextricable part of its intricate pattern. The dying
shaman follows the course of his life along its undulating strand and
sees that his thread rises and falls above and beneath uncountable other
interlocking threads, a spectrum of hues and textures in the enormously
unfathomable tapestry. As his thread rises above another he is
‘conscious’, while the thread it occludes is ‘dreaming’; where his
strand is covered by another thread, his mortal body sleeps and dreams
while the other strand lives their waking life. Everyone and everything
is there, all at once, simultaneously, lain out and displayed before him
with no need for the flow of time to elucidate the infinite
multiplicity of being.
Turn the tapestry around.
The thought comes unbidden and the cloth reverses itself around him in a
loopy topological twist; the implicately shared complementary nature of
consciousness becomes apparent to his blown mind as he sees himself
dreaming the lives of others, and others dreaming through his waking
eyes and flesh. The intermingling pathways wind around the curving
delineaments of their divine co-creation, which turns into itself like a
Moebius strip until the beginning of one thread seamlessly winds into
the end of another. The falcon is the hunter is the arrow is the feather
is the truth. All is alive and whole; nothing is partial or frayed.
The tapestry is
vast, but he’s able to follow his individuated thread through the
colourful patterns and sees that the enormous conglomeration of dreams
and lives is incomplete – not completed by the path of the single thread
that is his experience of existence, rising from the tapestry to enter
him as him. At the same timeless moment, Ram’yana approaches
the plexus of light that is the destiny of all nations, women and men –
the future and past of all that are born to fall along with him, minds
blown in the blinding light of the immortal portal.
An immaculate
blazing white-hot sun glows at the end of the tunnel. He can see it ever
more clearly through the transparing walls of the vortex, thinning and
fading in the face of the overwhelmingly brilliant source and core of
existence. Ram sees the arcs of a trans-finite net spreading outward
from the source, sees an infinitude of other vortices approaching its
plexus from more angles than he can wrap his bodiless head around. They
pass through each other in ways that defy and tease his mortal
three-dimensionally entrained mind – but the arrangement makes subtle
sense to a higher form of his being, trembling on the edge of an
unchartable metamorphosis into something so much greater as to be
intrinsically unimaginable. Simultaneously, on another level, the
individual personality of the shaman approaches its ultimate rebirth and
transformation in his flight toward the blinding light of the central
sun.
The source of all
is the hot, bright core and central axis of the centreless multiverse,
the eternal end of every tunnel; the maw of a transdimensional creature
about to swallow him up, the Infinite Light of God and his own silent
heart gently glowing in timeless repose. He flies around a final bend in
the dissolving tunnel, surging toward the arcane net that veils the
core – which flares into him as the tunnel widens, opening into the
final straight.
Ram’yana flashes
toward the weave that’s flung to the ends of the cosmos, spreading
himself to embrace the Light – and as he reaches it, he encounters the
safety net. A web-like sieve is strung across the open maw of All, and
as Ram’yana passes though it a great, resounding BOUMMB fills the
boundless universe – the sound of one heartbeat, as loud as the boom
that eternally creates the unborn, ever-living universe; the sound of
Shiva’s eye opening and of one hand clapping.
Before your time, he hears and feels, not ready, not yet – unfinished – and
he feels himself shrinking toward an infinitesimally small spot in the
multitude of multiverses – back into the weave, where plan net X marks
the spot where all things meet in his current-bound primate life.
Boumb… Boom…. Boom!
That’s why I’m here, writing this to you ‘now’ – the same ‘now’ that
you are reading it in, really. I and eye remember it all vividly, not
as something to slowly forget or avoid in the unfocused mind’s eye, but
as an ongoing experience that is with me now, always, dynamically
imprinted. It is with me as it is with you, when you close your eyes and
open your memory to see truly through the waters of forgetfulness, to
the infinite waters of eternal life.
Life and death,
sensory wakefulness and supersensory dreaming are the same thing,
appearing as the warp and weft of the reversible tapestry of existence.
And everyone, each of us, is the whole tapestry, inextricably
interwoven – everyone is everyone, and that’s about as close as this
constraining corsetry of early third millennium Inglesh needs to get at
this point in infinite time – xcept, perhaps, for the most important
thing of all -
Every one you
truly touch and are touched by, in every way, leaves the deepest and
most prominent engravings in your heart, mind and soul. What we do unto
others is what we do to ourselves – and other living beings are more
than mere memory mirrors or handy usable tools. That’s what draws us
back for more, and more again – the need to do better by our selves – over and over, until we do it right. Then we get another choice – or another chance to ride the carousel Wheel of Fortune again, if we so choose.
The multiple
layers of ascendant consciousness are a self-filtering system of
co-evolution – a system of slowly developing focus and perspective that
leads our awareness to other dimensions, already inextricably interwoven
with the relatively ‘familiar’ bounds of our largely unknown but
ever-present reality. There’s no dim-witted hierarchy of order-givers or
sword-wielding guardians barring the doors of higher perception – the
gateway to Heaven on Earth. There’s just you – and me, and all of us,
together. We all have our time to shine, and that time is always now.
Yet Death is not
Dying. In the Bardo spaces between thy flowering carnations of
existence, all the bright religious hopes and turgid superstitious
terrors await the untrained monkey mind in its ongoing fall toward
dissolution or reintegration. The Bardo Realms are entire worlds or
pocket universes as apparently solid as the full-blown reality ye
imagine around thee, right where thou art sitting, right now. How do ye know thou art alive, not dreaming this experience, right here and now? Do ye think that’s air you’re breathing?
A true story
By R. Ayana
From Shaman of Centraxis 4 @ http://centraxis.blogspot.com.au/2008/03/to-infinity-and-beyond.html
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yum
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