THERE ARE NO COINCIDENCES, SOMETIMES THE PATTERN IS MORE OBVIOUS

This is always the riddle: can you guess who I AM?

And this is always the answer: I AM.

To many of us it seems all too startlingly clear that we are all one consciousness, fundamentally entwined on a quantum level. As we grow in number a shift in human consciousness is occurring, a shift from The Cult of The Individual to the culture of the collective.

This is not an intellectual theory, for each of us it is arrived at through observations made on our personal and collective spiritual journeys, and - while we share a noumenous core – each of our paths are as different and as individual as we are.

What do I, in particular, have to add to the sum total of mankind’s assembled philosophical musings? My thoughts on spirituality are captured with more subtlety and sublime poetry in the ancient ‘Upanishads’ and ‘Tao Te Ching’, and more recently posited with greatest clarity in the twentieth century by Krishnamurti. My feelings on the problem with dogmatic religion were expounded with greater grace two centuries ago by William Blake, while Tom Hodgkinson has already articulated my politics with a languorous charm that I can only aspire to. Nor are my views on the relationship between physics, mysticism and psychology entirely original, having found their ideal advocates in the voices of David Bohm and Capra. My opinions on a return more natural means of food production and living have been more carefully and eloquently expounded in 'The one Straw Revolution'.

I stated before that ‘each of our paths our paths are as different and as individual as we are’. Perhaps, then, for the most part, it is my personal journey that is my own to express. And what use is my personal story? It is entertaining. It is ‘impossible’.

Most of this writing just poured out of me. When this began happening in earnest I posited there to be an external other, that I was ‘channelling’, but after a week with ‘the initiator of Sufis with no living master’ I realised my unity with this ‘voice’ and this sense has never left me: I AM that which I AM.

Remove the fact that I had the subjective experience of channelling a collective will? One is left with a series of didactic, unsubstantiated and sometimes obscure musings - though my work does make hermetic sense and fit into a tradition of prophetic Free Spirit writers, this would leave me with a very esoteric and rather over-serious audience. Yes, entirely remove the context, namely my experiences, and the content is lessened – because, perhaps, the most significant thing I can add to the accumulated musings of mankind are the evidences I can posit regarding the existence of a single all-pervading consciousness that exists outside of our conception of time.

These evidences include the massed coincidences in what I was involuntarily compelled to write with the works of writers that I had not read - notably Blake, Crowley and Krishnamurti - though the list is growing. In a very real sense these countless instances have led me to perceive that our consciousnesses are inter-connected in a way that contemporary science has yet to acknowledge - but that when it does will be as large a leap forward for the synthesis of human knowledge as relativity was for the realm of Physics. These evidences also include ‘glitches in the matrix’, events that occur in the everyday world that appear to defy conventional rational explanation. This makes my what is effectively a fictionalisation of my life a rahter fantastical story, the half-finshed novel 'Kevin and The End of Time'.

I imagine those reading this will fall into two groups – those who loosely share my weltenschaung, and have no problems with my conception of the nature of consciousness, and those who are have dogmatically closed themselves off to these ideas and will regard this book as simply a collection ‘mad ramblings’ – readers of this disposition could find my work just as interesting, regarding it as a case-study into the nature of insanity.

As I write this, today, I am still battling with this paradox, and am still battling with how to organise my work.

I am not affiliated with any organisation that shares these ideas, though I support any individual or organisation that does promote them, or put them into practice, provided they are not run exploitively or carelessly. I have retrospectively used quotation throughout, to demonstrate how this work fits into the tradition of Free Spirit writers such as William Blake and Aleister Crowley, but this is not predominantly an intellectual commentary on their work – indeed, I had not read their work when I wrote most of the material in this book (for example I do not recall having read the ‘the unveiling of the company of heaven – every man and woman is a star’ by Crowley when I wrote ‘And who is THE STAR? YOU are THE STAR’ – though there is a slim possibility - I will analyse the relevance of this later in this chapter).

However, since my attention was drawn to the extremely close parallels between what I was writing and these authors works, I have read them quite extensively - thus where I offer expositions of how their thought fits into the collective dialogue of The Free Spirit - this is an informed intellectual perspective.

As a further clarification of my autonomy, I would also like to point out that I was completely unaware of the concept of Indigo Children until the end of 2008. While the ideas in this book fit perfectly with these ideas, they were arrived at in parallel and completely independently. I have not read any books on the subject, partly because I did not want to confuse the paradigm at such a late date in the project’s development, but mainly because I have to confess to possessing an aesthetic that finds ‘new-age’ stuff off-putting, it is all a bit cheese with no onion for my taste.

However, that which I have seen on the internet, regarding the ostensibly daft prophecy of Indigo Children, corresponds directly to everything that I have been expressing in my art and writing throughout my life. Oh, cruel fate, that I should ever be the laughing stock of more serious-minded men! – allied, by very fate itself, with the most hippy-dippy idea of all - I know God is reputed to move in mysterious ways, but this really is too much. I can assure you that if I felt there was any reasonable doubt about it - you would not be reading this.

I wrote fiction and drew comics, which I regarded as entirely fictional, and while I had the noumenous sensation that the revelations in my meta-physical poetry were accurate, I regarded them as ultimately hypothetical, taking into account the variable subjectivity of human experience, particularly in the context of my predilection for the ingestion of psychedelic drugs. In a very real way this is still my perspective – that all words are merely patterns that play upon the surface of The Absolute.

For those of you who are not familiar with the idea of Indigo Children, apparently they are in their ‘late twenties to early thirties’ and ‘lead with a machete, cutting down anything that lacks integrity’. They say (at - ugh! - starchild.co.za), ‘the first thing most people notice about Crystal Children is their eyes, large, penetrating, and wise beyond their years. ...they undergo a spiritual and physical transformation that awakens their "Christ" or "Crystal" consciousness... they function as a group consciousness rather than as individuals.” This is part of a novel I started writing when I was sixteen or seventeen, it seems to cover all these points, blow-by-blow:

My name is Louise. I am a man, but my name is Louise. Yet I am not a man. People I have never met come to me and say

“Why do you stare so deeply into my eyes”

Or they say

“I feel like I know you, why have you come into my life so suddenly?”

Yet I never stare and no-one knows me but myself.

One day my name will be Louise Christ, but I do not know this yet. I will be my own disciple and my own doubter, and the doubter is not only the seeds of doubt but doubt itself. I will walk along the riverbank with a disciple and with a doubter. The doubter will ask me to perform a miracle and the disciple with defend me by citing an example, but this will happen in a dream, showing that both disciple and the sceptic are aspects of myself. Both will implore me in their own way, and I will follow the disciple as he is my follower and is therefore going in the same direction as me.

One day I will fall in love with Charlotte, but I do not know this yet.

“My name is Charlotte, I am warm, I am pure, I am a guiding light. In the folds of my dress, Louise, you will see your mother, Mother Earth, Mother Mary, and all women you thought you knew. And then you will find me.

I am unsure if you are a part of me, or if I am part of you, I do not dwell on these things. But whichever I am - I am already, it is just that you have yet to find me, as you are just a child, and will be until you die.”

You, Charlotte, are pure, but unholy. You are the doubter, you are human, you are sex, as well as all the things you claim. I want you Charlotte, but you are not right for this way. Get your desire out of my head. Jester, 1991

Or this, from 1998:

I no longer perceive this irrepressible force as being subterranean, instead it is in the air; not this air, but another air behind the one we breathe. I see this force as a lattice-work of laser thin beams of light connecting everything. It is The Oneness and its facets are The Many.

I can no longer dismiss these ideas as fantasy, I can only believe. Normal consciousness speaks to me, whispers that it alone can represent truth - that I am mad, hallucinating. But the fittest survive and the idea is strong, stronger than I am, stronger than my sanity.

I suppose this means I’m Jesus. I correct myself. I feel like Jesus. The distinction rings hollow.

I think I can hear a woman crying. I am still again, on Casapropria Avenue. The elephant is singing. I open the door.

They are both naked. The wistful and beautiful ringing note combines without edges with the ecstatic cries of The Goddess Maggie. The man wears a painted elephant mask, I cannot see his lips, his song seems to be coming from the air. The Singing Elephant and the Goddess are entwined upon a few plain cushions. There is no other furniture in the circular, white room, save for an elegant fountain in the centre.

The sound gets progressively louder and more intricate, the harmonies, between the males and female cries, ever more elaborate. Long periods of excruciating dissonance appear in the song, though they are always balanced with passages of serenity or bliss. The forms of the loves merge together like colours in a ball of plasticine. As soon as it becomes clear who is entering which orifice another interpretation seems more likely. The climax is close to unbearably loud, I have to bear it, because it is so beautiful. It is perhaps the sound of the beginning and the end of the universe.

Silence. The lovers walk hand in hand to the fountain. They wash each other’s genitals, then kiss. The singing starts up again, quietly and consistently. The Goddess reclines back into the bed of cushions, her partner sits beside her and squeezes her hand.

Her womb begins to swell, until it is as large as she is, a great ugly lump of flesh dangling from her body. She has to lie on her side to avoid being crushed by it. She throws up. The masked man takes a dagger from the fountain and slices her open. I have opened my eyes for the first time, again, they are full of blood.

I can see through two sets of eyes. I am curled up, blinded with blood beside my dead mother. I am at the door watching this all take place. The elephant man looks at me standing by the door, I think it is the first time he has noticed me. He slits my throat and my body collapse to the floor. I scream through two mouths.

He comes to me and carries me to the fountain. He washes the blood from my body, then kisses me on both cheeks. He takes off the mask, his face is generous and knowing, familiar, but not recognisable. A tear rolls down his cheek and he smiles. He places the mask over my head then drives the dagger into his own heart.

I had certainly not heard of ‘unity consciousness’ when I drew the map on the page preceding this prologue, aged 12, in 1986, nor had I taken any drugs. This phenomenon has been over-commercialised, but I don’t have any problem with people bringing up their children up to believe that they are pacifist Angels, who don’t believe in leaders, and believe that all religions are one - whether or not they have ADHD hardly seems relevant.

Obviously I am not stating that all my stories are pure prophecy and literally true – indeed from my perspective it seems fairly obvious that on one level no words are ‘true’. They may indicate what we wish to convey to a greater or lesser extent, but they are always indicators. Words could only be literally true if they were what they indicated – which, of course, they never can be. Except when what they describe is themselves – which of course they always do! This is the sense in which all words are ‘true’ – the sense in which they are existent forms that govern our belief-sets and value systems. I do not consider them to be the primary organising principle governing our collective memes, as the universal archetypal stories, being universal, transcend language - or, rather, they underlie it. Perhaps an appropriate metaphor would be to imagine the archetypes as an invisible loom which we illuminate with words – without the specific threads of words we weave we cannot see the looms at all, but our choice of colours and stitch are merely transient decorations, patterns that play upon the surface of that which I AM.

Words Are...

All words are metaphors

Except for “word” itself,

Exactly what it says it is on the tin,

The only honest word ever invented

And this is why we have wars?

1998

Returning to the idea of Indigo Children – whether or not they have ADHD, the revolutionary potential of such an idea means that, with proper promotion, it could be a self-fulfilling prophecy - but my instinct and my vision tell me it is something more. While my rationalist core is reluctant to admit it - my subjective experience is that we ARE spirit, and that we are beginning to collectively realise this.

I am quite notorious for having an opinion on 2012, and I would like to clarify that this has nothing to do with any existing school of thought.

The first mention of 2012 in my writing was from when I was15, in a piece of stream of consciousness humour called 'The Horrible and Harrowing Fading in and Out of The Helter-Skelter Hedonist':

"He was really, really boring. Almost as boring as me. Bet he fancied himself for the "Mr Boring 2012 award". Well, he's got no chance now! It's mine, mine, mine! Me, me, me! I want it, I want it, I want it! ...

Blow us up! Humans are total irresponsible! Blow us up...KAPOOM.. end of life as we know it ...

PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT: Heaven is being closed due to overcrowding, will all tenants report to Limbo to be relocated in HELL. "Oh, Great! Hells much more fun than stuffy old 'pray to god' Heaven!".

And everyone went and burnt in Hell and had a cool time with all the enormous aardvarks and boobies and willies, and there was lots of money and everyone got the vote and went down on the helter-skelter."

The second was in this comic, two years later, 'The Death of Reason, Pt.1, All The Mysteries of The World Have Changed'. Johann and Faye emerge from a shelter '5 years after the bomb' - the big hand on the alarm clock is pointing to 2017.

click to enlarge

I mention no other dates in my work, did not believe in the end of the world, and was unaware that my mother's religion predicted end of world.. in the year 2000. Cue diabolical laugh, roll twilight zone end credits etc.

It’s not been a smooth nor conventionally Holy path for me, I might generously be described as ‘a shaman’. Before I left home my Mother warned me off practicing magic on drugs, so I deliberately avoided the magical half of that equation - which is why I never read any Crowley - but I ended up an ‘accidental alchemist’ nevertheless. I did not have to read this for it to apply to me:

“I am the Snake that giveth Knowledge & Delight and bright glory, and stir the hearts of men with drunkenness. To worship me take wine and strange drugs whereof I will tell my prophet, & be drunk thereof! They shall not harm ye at all. It is a lie, this folly against self. The exposure of innocence is a lie. Be strong, o man! lust, enjoy all things of sense and rapture: fear not that any God shall deny thee for this.” Aleister Crowley, ‘The Book of The Law’

What is my point? I think my point is that the ‘collective consciousness’ of which I speak is not theoretical - from my perspective it is obviously very, very real. There are literally thousands of examples of my having written things, often without any intellectual effort, that directly corresponded to things that I simply didn’t know. Even if each and every instance was directly related to a forgotten unconscious impression (which seems far-fetched from my perspective, but negates the need for discussion as to the existence, or otherwise, of telepathy) it is very odd that I should suddenly, and with revolutionary zeal, place such particular emphasis on these precise obscure bits of information, contrary to my rationalist instincts. I have already begun speaking in terms of ‘memes’, an explanation is probably necessary at this point.

A meme is a postulated unit or element of cultural ideas, symbols or practices, transmitted from one mind to another through speech, gestures, rituals, or other imitable phenomena. Supporters of the concept regard memes as cultural analogues to genes, in that they self-replicate and respond to selective pressures. Wikipedia, ‘Meme’

My subjective experience is that memes are additionally transmitted via something akin to ‘Morphic Resonance’.

The hypothesis says that a particular form belonging to a certain group which has already established its (collective) morphic field, will tune into that morphic field. The particular form will read the collective information through the process of morphic resonance, using it to guide its own development. This development of the particular form will then provide, again through morphic resonance, a feedback to the morphic field of that group, thus strengthening it with its own experience resulting in new information being added (i.e. stored in the database). Wikipedia, Morphic Resonance, will find a better quote soon!

Whether or not you accept the reality of Morphic Fields - I think that memes clearly behave in a fashion approximating the above description. It is not essential to what I am saying here, specifically, whether ‘speech, gestures and rituals’ are the only means by which this kind of dialogue occurs in ‘the collective unconscious’, only that this dialogue is occurring.

ONION-PEELINGS

The Universe is the Practical Joke of the General at the Expense of the Particular, quoth FRATER PERDURABO, and laughed.

But those disciples nearest to him wept, seeing the Universal Sorrow.

Those next to them laughed, seeing the Universal Joke.

Below these certain disciples wept.

Then certain laughed.

Others next wept.

Others next laughed.

Next others wept.

Next others laughed.

Last came those that wept because they could not see the Joke, and those that laughed lest they should be thought not to see the Joke, and thought it safe to act like FRATER PERDURABO.

But though FRATER PERDURABO laughed openly, He also at the same time wept secretly; and in Himself He neither laughed nor wept.

Nor did He mean what He said. Aleister Crowley, ‘The Book of Lies’

It really does not matter what words you use to describe the truth at the heart of that which we have the subjective experience of knowing to be the truth. The following beautiful, noumenous meditation on the undifferentiated source of all things (‘The Cheese’) and its relation to the differentiated forms that emerge from it (‘The Onion’) demonstrates this beautifully -

Part 1: Cheese makes me feel special.

The cheese is the foundation of Realty. It is directly connected to Reality, serving to animate consciousness. You can think of it as a river of energy flowing through Reality, into our mental Realty, and returning again. Cheese's connection to consciousness is the reason we are able to spork and renew the vitality of our imaginations. Hallucinations are a swim up one of the tributaries to this cheesy river. I guess that makes LSD “white-water rafting.”

Everything concerning consciousness and awareness is connected by the River of Cheese and its cheesy tributaries, which means some days it looks more like a lake.

Most Psychotics acknowledge some sort of “Onion Side” to their Realty. We're not sure why. Generally, what is Cheesy is comical; it makes you happy. What is to be considered Oniony is scary or overly dramatic.

Part 2: Spork is a verb?

Sporking is when you tap into your Inner cheese to affect your state of mind/being. Sporking is a mode of thought, a swim in the river, that produces natural chemicals within your brain and body and can leave you feeling really cheesy or really oniony. It is referred to by many names, some of which are: prayer, foreplay, meditation, fantasy, conversation, (channel/internet) surfing, and recreational thought use. Chuff, ‘Apotheosis Psycho-erotica’

A friend recently reminded me that, 20yrs before I read the above, we used to convert people to ‘The Church of Cheese’ and ‘The Holy Bibble’, whilst on our paper-round – we were only joking, of course. Am I joking now? I AM.

It seems to me that this ‘cheesy’, irreverent attitude to spirituality is obviously a far more appropriate response to the cosmic joke than any amount of worshipping, penitence or slaughter. Particularly slaughter. Onions make one cry. But I do believe it’s true –

My tears are the most high part of me. Leo

If it were not for this consideration I may have adopted the lexicon of Lord Chuff, The God of Cheese. I do love cheese, but without the onion – what is left?

Road rage.

Without road,

Without anger-

What is left?

Eye strain.

Without eyes,

Without effort-

What is left?

The Jester, 1998

Yes, ‘that-which-is-the-whole’ makes ‘that-which-is-differentiated-from-the-whole’ feel special. Cheese makes me feel special. But it is ‘that-which-is-differentiated-from-the-whole’ which makes ‘that-which-is-the-whole’ feel special. Onion makes that which I AM feel special.

The Many is as adorable to the One as the One is to the Many. This is the Love of These; creation- parturition is the Bliss of the One; coition-dissolution is the Bliss of the Many. The All, thus interwoven of These, is Bliss. Naught is beyond Bliss. Aleister Crowley, ‘The Book of Lies’

I think the point is that while I am not affiliated with any of these organisations or individuals directly, my subjective experience is that I am a servant of God, and that there is only one God with many names, so I am affiliated with them all by association. I have either always been completely crazy, or always been an agent of The Sephiroth.

I saw no God, nor heard any, in a finite organical perception; but my senses discover'd the infinite in everything, and as I was then persuaded, and remain confirm'd, that the voice of honest indignation is the voice of God, I cared not for consequences, but wrote. William Blake, ‘The Marriage of Heaven and Hell’

Trust me, I’m fictional. Kevin

I’m not mad, I’m a Timelord. Mr K.

Civilisation is on the brink of collapse, within twenty years we will know the future. The Jester, aged 14, 1988

Now everyone knows: yes, for a moment, I was mad, but I came back.

If I was still mad this is what I would now say to you:

“I have never believed in selling the things that these hands crafted, they were never mine to sell, I could no more sell my hands themselves.

Like my hands, themselves, the things that these hands have crafted are gifts that come from everywhere and nowhere. Yes, I joyfully catch them! It is with the greatest pleasure that I interpret them. And throughout my life I have always, and will always, strive, against all odds, to score them for ‘reality’.

I was dreaming before I was born, and from that moment I knew I had to build a dreamcatcher. And now that, against all odds, I am finally become the semblance of The Dreamcatcher that I wished that I could build?

Then it is, alas, time to set about the ‘proper’ sharing - iceberg-tip-like - of my dream and vision.

My dreams and visions - I must learn to let each one of you go, to fend for yourself – cast adrift into a world that only waits, a swarm of looming vultures perched, to tear you to shreds and consume you.

We live in a world foretold by the seers as an age when the seers would be told ‘see no more visions’, an age prophesised by the prophets as an age where prophets would be told ‘give us no more visions of what is right! Tell us pleasant things, prophecy illusions’.

My dreams, ready to leave the nest, goodbye and good riddance, it was only proper that you should remain hidden from public view while you were getting changed into your ball-dress: you can come out now. We have the apparatus necessary to make the unseen seen. Come out, please do come out, yes, people will laugh and look away – but that is the point - you are THE joke.

In all honesty, Truth, though you look so very perfect now, in your tattered gown – you are, I confess, not what I would chosen to have dreamed at all. But then you can no more chose your children’s path than your fathers.

Indeed - before I could properly see the proper way to build a dreamcatcher - it was necessary, first, to chose my fathers’ path. This is the manner in which I began planning for the past, an operation that I fortuitously completed just half an hour before I began - meaning it was not necessary to stay insane very long to achieve the desired effect.

SALE OF THE CENTURY. Yes, indeed, I do actually have an unbelievable urge just to give it all away. Unfortunately, having offered a free service for 34 years, I now find myself in dire financial trouble. I am called to sell all I have and all I have are these dreams.

You are welcome to take first pick of this amazing never-seen-before windfall, this endless feast, namely the joy and fear of music. The first take is always the best – because the first take is the actuality, it IS the being of the thing itself, and everything else is just echoes. Let us commune joyfully in anything we share.

Now everyone knows: yes, for a moment, I was mad, but I came back.

Now, friendly-welfare-state-I-paid-for, allow this dreamseller enough time to set up his stall. Please! I am going to start playing your game. It is not my game, forgive me my trepidation, I find no joy in soiling my wares with your filthy money. Deal me in, Mr Bush, Mr Brown, I can play, see me selling people things that are already theirs? Have I learnt well? Do I get the job? I already got a job.

jesTer x

"There are no coincidences, just sometimes the pattern is more obvious"

Bonzon Dog Band