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Anarchy of Spirit: an epistle for ridiculous times

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Epistle for ridiculous times.



Jack Haas



"If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the beat which he hears, however measured or far away."

Henry David Thoreau


"I remember that just as I was about to cross the border they asked me what I had to declare and, like an idiot, I answered "I want to declare that I am a traitor to the human race."

Henry Miller


"Life shrinks or expands, according to one's courage."

Anais Nin








“To be "unhistorical" is the Promethean sin, and in this sense modern man lives in sin. ...He must be proficient in the highest degree, for unless he can atone by creative ability for his break with tradition, he is merely disloyal to the past.” “

Carl Jung




I am a child of god, an outcast, a fugitive, a free one.

I hail from the Tribe of Benjamin, Land of the Living Void, Clan of Nescience, House of the Eagle, Church of the Philadelphians, Bridegroom to Lillith, Guardian of the lower Trinity, Servant to no man.

I have been on this earth for what seems an eternity now, and though I am weary and worn, still I must complete the greater will, and do nothing but, and never stop, for when the fullness of our cosmic complexity falls helplessly into your lap, there is little to do but rise up stoically and follow it.

I followed, like a blind puppy, nursed on the milk of the ether. What I found in the substratum of our dreams was everything we needed, and nothing which we had. The lies of our ancestors had lead us to death, the cries of our souls sprang from god's choked breath.

It was the spiritless fears of society which led to our current destruction. That is why we live in little boxes which block out the light and silence the wind. That is why we live with blind eyes that can hardly see, and with hearts that suffer from feeling. That is what they have done to us.

But when that profundity of our sick and separate lives finally became fully apparent to me, that is when I became ruthless. Ruthless to any who would stand in my way. Ruthless to the mean and pointless vulgarity of the day. Ruthless to the torture, the noise, and the desecration of the soul. I grew instantly upward in my hatred for all lies below.


My primary duty- as it has been explained to me time and time again, by countless, cryptic voices- so as to serve my vision onto this myopic earth- is to be myself, my true self, and only that, completely, and at every moment. Sounds easy, doesn't it? Well, it ain't. Not when you have realized that everything is a lie, and that ...you are a lie. Then the rules have absolutely changed. And man when they change you better change with them, or ...no, I need not tell you what will become of you if you don't, for that would only crush your already atrophying volition too completely.

I, who recover the Rose, time after time, from the tortured depths of the black, strangling hell of Hades- I, who link the archetypical with the actual- I eat only an unknown fruit caught falling naturally from the Tree of Life, and drink only early morning dew found settling in the navels of androgynous, sleeping angels.

My true home is an opulent marble castle by the great waterless sea, wherein, anyone who belongs is given a great house of beauty all their own. For, as it is said, our Father's home has many mansions.

My sword is of quicksilver, my armor of air.

When I breathe the Great Mother inhales me, when I sleep the Great Father dreams on. Strange that. Very strange.


Like many of you I have also had my insides ripped out, hacked to pieces, molded into nothing recognizable, and stuffed back into my groaning hollow. Loss and sadness are nothing new to my eternal being.

I too am in this world, this life, this voice behind the mind. I am speaking slowly, through the misty night of our old losses, hoarse in the brooding depths of fatigued untruth. I pause often, sigh, and continue. Hear my hollow metronome, charmed of the meter's dark whimper.

I thought of never touching down, of never saying who I was, where I had been, or what I did when I got there.

I thought of never writing a syllable from this broken mold of unwhole timelessness, because it seemed that I had attained nothing: no happiness, no truth, no love, no answer. I had no path to salvation, no idea on how to redeem. I had nothing to give to others but myself, and my wild, euphoric imaginings.

But life brings its own tasks, and I am not one to argue- not, at least, with the One who yet knows me. Thus, under the coercion of the tender, tickling Muse do I spill forth my own imperfect visions into the heartless land of men. Unto unhearing ears does the Word, be it alive and living, emit from my diffident pen.

And if I share with you what I can share, it is not so as to impose a matrix upon our infinite lives, but only that I might give myself away completely, in a blind attempt to join with you completely.

Perhaps I am only a hoarse voice in the chaotic chorus of the Great Song, but ...I am a voice.

What I have to say, is only what I have seen. I have sought the labours of a hero; a paradigm of consciousness is my maiden in distress. I have sought to transform our spirits with symbols; to heal the world with words, to drown all of life in a apocalypse of love and gratitude- to bleed the voice of sorrow from the stone.


But am I simply a lame busker, crooning stale requiems at the honored gates, to all those gathered impatiently about, waiting to be denied entry? Am I but the phlegmatic sexton of an abandoned, crumbling, obsolete temenos? A bell-ringer without a church? A hanged man, ejaculating life back at his dead executioners?

Am I not also am caught in the inexorable, powerful grip of life? Yes indeed, and yet ...I am that grip; that grip squeezed in upon itself like a tortured, empty fist, unable to break free of its clench until it punches something harder. But I do not punch. I only grip more arduously into myself, because only exhaustion will undo my hold upon my task, my world, my self. I am the grip of life, but I do not punch, I sing.


Between the profane and the divine lives the psychic, intermediary realm of myth and symbol. Here all opposites meet, intermingle, and go to war together. Here is where the non-existent forces of Good and Evil actually exist. Here is where the individual is most effected, and has the most effect. Here is where my people are trapped, laughing and weeping, and running about.

Here it is also where one, seeking to rise up from the profane to the divine, can get caught forever in the middle ground- between the tug and pull of the two waters, so to speak- without knowledge or hope of a further redemption. Only the individual who holds firmly to his or her unknowable 'I', despite events both inward and out, will make it through unscathed.

We will all walk this path eventually. We will all be born of virgins, we will all long for a better world, we will all be tempted in the desert of our souls, all seek to save others, all be denied and betrayed by a kiss, all be baptized in water and spirit, we will all carry our own cross and die by crucifixion between two thieves, on the lonely mountain of the world's pain, and all be resurrected into the sacred heart and true life.

And when we are brought back, as we are all brought back, we will refuse to die again for others, and we will begin to live Life itself for the very first time.

To that end I say, while the dead are burying the dead, let the living exhume their lives.

I offer to you my benedection, my observations, my song.





When I initially fell to this other world, I did not die but was badly maimed. Broken and lost I remained just another fallen angel, wrecked and unable to fly back to god. I was a reality, but I was not real.

And I realized instantly that I did not belong, that I would never belong, and that ...I was not supposed to belong. For if I belonged, how indeed could I see through the lie, the folly, and the futility of our so called lives. I did not belong, but I belonged for that very reason. It was one hell of a cruel joke, believe me.

I saw quickly then what I was in for- that the stupidities here had gone too far, that lovelessness was the rule of the day, and that even God, weakened from the years of lawlessness, was all but helpless.

You see, as soon as I was spat forth unto this makeshift prison of woe and poison, they got a hold of me, and the inevitable corruption began.

It was in the blood-thirsty land- the land of Cain- into which I was deposited without weapons, knowledge, or crime. Or so it did seem at the start.

Nothing happened but idiocy, let me tell you, it is all a blessed tale idiocy- a great celestial fiasco; as the full moon itself gave light to the rainbow, and the sun cast darkness upon the land, the stars themselves shone mystic anguish in retaliation to the night. There was Sol versus Luna, Luna versus Sol, but never a solution.

The whole desperate mess- of being- was like seeing something obscurely reflected in a rippling sea. But somehow everything was upside down- the sea was on top, and the clarity was hidden below. Above were the ethereal images, below was reality and the all. But that's life- always reflected, always upside down, and always fluid and moving.

It was in this mercurial, amniotic flow that I fell away from everything true. In perilous adhesion to the concupiscence of the day did I swim in the dark and godless depths. Manifold points of separateness deluded me into becoming, and I drowned gleefully in the habit of being, gasping wantonly with lungs which forgot how to effortlessly breathe.

My inward gaze was not yet strong enough to balance the show of the outer (and, take it from me, there is one hell of a show going on out there).

Caught in the movement, and swept fruitlessly into the vast organic sea of human misery, I was in endless pain, the pain of one who belongs nowhere, because the plague of mankind was everywhere, and spreading, piling up shit upon shit, until there was no where to walk without being soiled, nowhere to run without being chased, and nowhere to sing without being caged.

Everything I had ever learned from others was a malicious lie, or, at best, a cowardly negligence burying the miracle of life with every word, burying the spirit and soul with cowardly pith and bile.

I forgive others their blindness, but I curse them for having no strength, no love, no humility. Only inertia and death.


It was in this play that is playless in which I lost all surprise. No joy could redeem me, no heaven could heal. I was trapped like all others who claimed not to feel.

Mine was a life, artificial and real; as if throughout it all a glass wall separated me from myself; as if I reached out for what could be seen, but could not be touched. Oh, in that maddening regression we have deceitfully called life, we get only visitor's rights to see ourselves- that we might come nearer and nearer, only to not come near enough. Only to witness and weep.

I know now of hell- where the living spirit dies in the tomb of our misunderstandings. For the living spirit alone is what connects us to each other, for it is life, and everything else is hollow, separate, and dead.

I was always undead, always apart, always me- that mis-shapen conduit of unearthly desires- and crazed through the pain of our thoughtless false confines.

No, none of it was me; there was only the great Spirit, the great Soul, and the unbridgeable gap in between.

Oh, let me tell you, indeed you must either give yourself great distance from the Source, or struggle to find the embrace, but do not allow the unbearable vision of eternal absence, of a longing which grasps desperately for that which it has seen, and yet cannot latch hold. No, never bring yourself into sight of eternity without joining on. Such is the loss of losses, because we are born at that wall of vision which can rarely be got through, and then our own tortured breath and tears become the cloud of fog which takes even that away; it is our suffering which melts away the sight of what we are and yet cannot be. Yea, we are laminated to the infinite, and sorrow is the membrane in between.

Proximity is what destroys anyone who knows how much love is lost. And even to find where it lies hidden is not to then necessarily possess it. Because I, for one, did return to these dark depths to retrieve love. But like a man digging for buried treasure so deep that the mine collapses upon him, I was trapped, it seemed, so close, and yet life remained forever out of reach. That is hell. Better, I thought at the time, it would have been to die once and for all, than to endure the grief I found living.

For anyone whose memory goes back before the ruthless withdrawal of cosmic Love, life will be little more perhaps than drudgery and loss, though still, in the end, it is worth it- to live through the joy and hurt of being, to stare it in the face, and to find the heart of the matter in matter.

For, you see, it's as if I could see not only the misery but the miracle of life as well. Everywhere I looked were the opposites of pain and wonder, stretched in differing directions, but emerging from the same confusion. Indeed I saw the beauty and magic which is always and all around us, and yet how thoroughly we suffer the endless pains of their absence; in fact, if truth be known, we live in heaven even now, but that heaven itself is in hell; life is both horrid and beautiful, and thus we dwell in such exhaustion and dreaming.

Were life suffering and nothing but, we could easily lie down and never seek to get up. And yet we can do not but rise. Rise and fall, rise and fall, forever grasping through the thorns for the roses.

That there are roses in this painful life, and that we try, but can rarely grasp them, that is our torture and folly. If you don't believe me see it for yourself. For god's sake see it all for yourself. Look deeply into your fellow's eyes someday, look through them, and you will see that hollow core of lonely agony of which I speak, and then you will never see life the same again.


It seemed to me that somewhere long ago a horrible separation had indeed occurred- a division of what was not intended to be divided, caused by our own folly and greed, and by God's thoughtless transgressions. We were alone, separate, dying, and damned.

To remember the Fall is to remember when we could fly. To taste freedom just makes unfreedom that much more punishing. Life is a torture for anyone who has the remembrance of heaven, however subtle or obscure. If others only knew what we have lost, they would not grovel and fight over what pathetically little remains.

Why we lose ourselves at every moment to the lie, and do not flow in laughing rhythm to the eternal tune cascading through all of life and all of time is not a mystery to me anymore. If we would only open up to feel it, we would feel it. But that is not the way of mankind. I have seen clearly what the brotherhood of men have wasted in their useless, spiritless, and abject pursuits. I have seen without distortion how ninety-nine percent of life is but a tragic interruption from the moments of ecstasy and freedom which are our birthrights, our privilege, our true life.


And so I staggered about aimlessly for years, lost and alone and mad from the treason of it all; because, among the futility, folly, and losses of the day, love and truth as I thought I knew them were no where to be found, and god himself had seemingly, benevolently betrayed me. There was no reason, no need, no meaning. To take a step forward of backward, to sit, to eat, to talk, to weep- none of it mattered.

No one could solve for me the type of estrangement I found, because to exist haphazardly upon this earth, brave in the falseness of hope, is to hide without shelter, and flee without foes.

In the pit of life's blinding aporia, I could do little but sit hunched over, gripping my head in my hands, and wondering how I would make it through to the next minute, because even if I did make it, there would be another to follow, and then another, and from that I saw the hours and days of waiting and strain piled up upon themselves, and all I could do was to sit hunched over with my head buried in my hands. That's all I could do.


Oh indeed, the gentle rhythm of the spirit is all but wholly extinguished in these days of unnatural lives and petty actions, and I cared for none of it. Think of what it is to be natural, and you will understand how far astray mankind has gone. Nothing here but clothing, clocks, fences, signs, pavement, television, telephones, engines, racket, school, fire, weapons, banks, business, bureaucracy, politics, borders, rules, passports, paper, condoms, surgery, pills, walls, wire, forks, knives, cans, haircuts, makeup, shoes, sports, shovels, stores, diplomas, titles, careers, money, rent, hospitals, hotels, holidays, furniture, wheels, churches, names, dams, factories, fools, failures, fanatics, and so on. The whole mess of it one great, terrible lie. A pandemonium of pernicious delusion. All of it. Everything we have created we have done at our own peril. We have walked away from the beauty, and joy, and the miracle of living. We have made heaven into hell. And there is no way most people will change until God lines them up and puts a bullet through the back of their heads. And who can wait for that? The only thing is to steal as much of heaven back as possible; to work little, need little, spend little, to live and dance and hold your brothers and sisters in your arms with one eye pointed to heaven and one eye keeping a watch on this hell, and never to deny your heart its inmost yearning.

And though it is easy to accuse the world of the spiritless and miserable conditions of the day- for certainly therein lies no innocence, and I will never forget the perpetual atrocities committed by mankind which succeed only to further lead the individual away from their true self- in the end it was not the world which bound me into the prison of the false life, but my own trespasses therein, and eventually I recognized that it is up to each of us to stay or to leave, forgive or hate, to doubt or to believe, and until you come humbly to that arduous understanding, all your little games of emancipation will merely build more solid walls.

Originally, you see, I had found an entrance and mistook it for my home; I confused the doorway with the castle, and lived wretchedly in the foyer of mankind’s interpretations. Then one day- by grace it was- I found a hammer, lifted it with my tired arms, and went forth savagely into the pain, the lies, and the folly, and I have not yet stopped from smashing. Wherever there is a wall, there is open space behind it.

The only way to break through is to learn to feel. The only way to feel is to kill the mind; to weep, to laugh, to scream, to punch, whatever it takes. If the mind holds the reins the battle is over.

When finally my heart opened up I realized why it had been closed for so long, and why we are taught to keep it that way- because when your heart opens up honestly and to everything, and you can really feel what there is to feel, that is when you will know you're in hell. Not just you, but everyone. And suddenly life is much harder. And that, my friend, is why the heart lies dormant in our lives, and in the world.

It is as if I tapped into God's own anguish. And when that happens it takes you under, it takes you way down, and wrecks you on the bottom. And even if you can rise up from that, and make it back to the surface, a little piece of you will be left in the depths of agony forever.

And so you see, given these understandings, I could no longer hide my pain from the world. And my pain was the world’s pain. And so I could no longer hide the world from itself. And when that happens, let me tell you, the world will take up arms against you, because you did not, or could not, lie its lie, and you have exposed its worst repressions to itself, and that means you are a monster, or worse... a man.





Life offers torturous blessings at times. I came to understand this eventually, as I always have, in every life that I have lived, when I was alone in the middle of nowhere, for reasons I cannot remember, drunk or sober, up, down, sideways, or what have you, no matter, but all the useless misery I had witnessed throughout the years came thundering down again upon me, and I lay there between great gobs of tears, begging god to do something, anything, to fix it, by whatever means, because hell was all about me, and I could do nothing. And there I lay broken open to the heavens, growling out beseechment to the sky, for I had, throughout the frantic course of my merciless chastening, seen all I needed to see, thought everything I needed to think, and sacrificed all that I had. And you know what ...God heard me. And you know what else- God could do nothing.

So that what that, and I could not imagine how we would make it through. For there and then, without delay, I came instantly to conviction; I was a convict, trapped in the prison of being like all the rest. And to be quite honest (as if there were another option) I wanted only to lie still until it was all over. I did not want to move an inch. For in the somber realization of what I had seen, I felt that there was no way out, that escape was impossible.

I stood there, frozen in the drama, unable to alter the play, and yet somehow fully a player, and the whole complexity came hurling back at me, and suspended as such between disbelief and horror, I could not move. And then I moved.


You see, I could do not but rise. And man I rose up like a phoenix scared out of its wings. I rose up, bold and mad from the challenge, the need, the impossibility of it all, and went forth into the dark and the terrible, with nothing but hunger and breath to carry me through.

I rose up not because I wanted to, nor because I knew where I was going, but because there and then, beyond my wildest imaginings, I saw the next, still more horrible vision- I saw that nothing would change unless ...unless I changed it. It was up to me. No one could save me but myself. Indeed it was, as I said, horrible.

I had now realized what I had fought so hard to not realize- that I could depend on no one but myself. And even further, that I was weakened by mere association; that if I, of my own accord and volition, did not step out of the tide of mankind's folly, if I did not look hard inside and find out who I was, and why I was born onto this earth, if I did not with all my might seize this improbable miracle, I was doomed to never be nor know what was intended for me, and I would live and die like I saw other men live and die- in grief and stupidity.

The only one who could save me was myself, and for that a gigantic, relentless effort was needed. I saw this fully. I breathed in, swallowed hard, and quivered only for the briefest of moments at this burdening realization; a single instant of masochistic acceptance and all equivocation vanished; invigorated by the impossibility of our tangled predicament, I grew warm, turned my eyes irrevocably into myself, and without courage or fear fixed hard that stare which would never again blink, nor weary, nor die. Then it was, as my vision focused and my blood grew warm, that for the first time ever in my life ...I took a step forward, for I had chosen to hold and make my own ground, to find and be myself in the hurricane of our ubiquitous confusion. I was on my way.





Thus in the formative days which followed my inaugural, immanent plunge, in order to live upon this earth, I did not so much as even look in the direction of the bold, glorious norm, but struck out instead within myself, and haunted down lost passageways, makeshift as if all my own. As if to suddenly stare through infinity, onto this glazed incongruous known, was suddenly mine, and mine alone. I neither acquiesced, nor adhered to the fake conclusions driven hard upon us by the godless hordes about; which is to say, in order to live upon this earth as a refugee from both heaven and hell, I had to wriggle my way out of my false self, and become what never was me.


And so as the journey went on I did not begin to live truly until after many years of the most lonely and painful uphill battle- fighting my way through the false self, false perspectives, and false purpose, all of which had been inculcated into my formative being by the magnanimous elders of our times- from which, as I said, finally, in the quagmire of lostness, I found something I cared for more than comfort, honor (if that is possible in their world), and money. And that something was ...me. And I will never play in their prison again.

It was a temperate dismemberment within the world's malice and errors which had left me slow to wallow. I had been trapped and languid in the horrible pathos of the day. I had no composite tendencies, replete or inviting, which might have gathered me full into a fury. I suffocated in the torpor of lies because I had no anger, not even for myself. And without anger there is no way out of this lovelessness. The only way out is to punch your way out, with a wrathful love as murderous as a mother has for her child in danger.

Love, violent love- that merciless, uncompromising mandate; you must love your own soul with a suicidal madness bent on nothing but freedom, or you will die softly in this world of courteous lies.

It took me many bewildering years of painful confusion and struggle to finally understand and overcome the useless fears that others had driven endlessly into my innocent life from day one. The endless, justified, irrational, irrevocable, cultural fears: fear of being lost in the world, of being different, of believing in nothing but yourself, of having no job (let alone a career), of having little or no money, no home, of living illegally wherever you chose to squat. Fear of existing in squalor amongst the pimps, and prostitutes, the heroin addicts, thieves, drunks, mutants and beggars, fear of being dirty, of wiping your ass with your own hand, of neither caring for, nor needing anything created by mankind, fear of owning nothing, of thinking your own thoughts, of dreaming your own dreams, of being idle, of being nobody. Fear of death, fear of life, fear of disappointing your friends and family, of being disowned or of disowning, of admitting that everyone around you is an idiot, of insulting or offending them irreparably. Fear of being absolutely alone, fear of standing your own ground while the cyclone of madness spins relentlessly about you, fear of believing in and following your own reality, fear of being wrong, of never finding truth. Fear of the wildlands, of bears, and snakes, of cold and rain, of darkness and discomfort, of where you'd lay your head that night, of what you'd eat tomorrow, of where you'd wash, and what you'd do when you woke in the sun with nothing to do but sit in the sun. Fear, fear, fear, and more fear, all ensconcing, all pervasive, encumbering, deceiving, disfiguring fear. All of it.

Many people talked as if they understood life and knew how to properly live it, but once you sat down and got inside of them, once they opened up the can of worms contained within and came forth with candor to expose themselves truly, it was always the same thing- uncertainty, hesitation, disquiet, boredom, anger, worry, envy, hate, disease, corruption, and panic. There it was, in all and everyone, lying buried just beneath the shining veneer of their own private lie, which itself was haplessly buried deep inside the greater lie- the lie into which they were born and because they had no imagination, no intent, and no energy to extricate themselves, it was the same lie into which they would eventually grow sick, and old, and die.

They would die in fear when they could instead have lived in faith. In faith- not in a dogmatic, religious form- but faith in nothing knowable- faith for faith's sake, because it was the only way out of fear and death and sorrow.

But they had no faith; no faith in life, no faith in death, no faith in themselves, in God, in Creation, in Destruction, in Godlessness. No faith, only fear. As simple and difficult as that.





Why did this whole crazy show come about? I do not know. I only know that it came about.

It was as if I lived a manic descent from unbeing into being; I did not understand, nor choose, nor control my harrowing plunge. But when I landed, I hit with a thud that would have killed me if I wasn't an undying thing. That is how I was able to get back up and walk onward, wiped clean-through by the flames of my agonizing re-entry. And when that happens- when the kenosis has come full circle, and you're alive and dead, alien and belonging, strong and yet broken- that is when the real work begins. That is when you bring the fire back to earth- acquired for the men who will misunderstand and inevitably hate you, stolen from the powers who will curse even your good. So be it.

No one knows me now. No one. What seeks to contain me is death, what seeks to define me is blind.

I have not so much of a further story to tell, but a lie to untell.

I do not recognize myself in context, I only operate within it. I have come from the region of exasperation, and have found life devoid of my call.

There is no truth, no reality, no lesson issued from mankind that I consider worthy or even necessary now. I adhere to nothing. There are only deceits, delusions, cowardices and failures in every form, under every guise, all glued together with the fetid paste of inertia and guilt, and formed into a splendid mass of decay called society. It is all worse than useless, because it is thoroughly misleading, and no one can convince me otherwise.

It was a wild and unconventional path I walked learning that every decision was left to me, and to me alone; to spit in the face of absurdity, to live completely in the freedom of the day, to find my own true name. For in the end there was one Law, and one Law only to which I was bound, and that Law was... to be Myself.

It had been a splendid metaphysical intoxication which had hemmed me earlier into being, an unharnessable freedom which roamed about my cage. And then finally, through that dynamic haze ensconcing every moment, I found myself dancing- yes dancing- in wild, blind ecstasy, through the mad and drunken night, to the rhythm which I alone heard, and which no other heard above their own.

Dancing the dance called life. The beat and love rushed through me, the flesh gushed pain and joy from the memory of the untameable soul.

It was a thundering chaos of beauty and anguish, and the squirming of love's loss in between. I was filled beyond repair, and emptied for the heart to heal despair. The rules had been erased, the truth was long deceased, now it was my turn to fuel the fire of madness and release. I was already returning to the land of rapture and awe, lifted out of life, away from the term of our exile, by the very force which sent me there. I was going home.









"...once you rise to a level of God consciousness you will understand that you are not responsible for any other human soul, and that while it is commendable to wish every soul to live in comfort, each soul must choose- is choosing- its own destiny this instant. ...

You call a life of complete freedom 'spiritual anarchy'. I call it God's great promise.

It is only within the context of this promise that God's great plan can be completed....

If there were such a thing as sin, this would be it: to allow yourself to become what you are because of the experience of others."

God (Conversations with God)





When you fall, as we all have fallen, you are instantly captured, judged, incarcerated, whipped, starved, indoctrinated, degraded and isolated. It's as if you are dropped into the sea, dragged helplessly under until you run out of breath, and only then do you thrash with enough wild frenzy to break free. But even if you do break away, you still have to swim an incredible distance back to the surface with nothing left in you but exhaustion and pain. It is desperate, let me tell you, to rise up from the bottom of hell, without a breath to relieve you, nor a strong hand to tug you along. Such is the trial of freedom. So you see the predicament we're in then. They get you quickly, and the relentless horrors multiply unceasingly.

This makes it much harder to fulfill your mission. And yet fulfill it you must, for you have been sent to this forgotten, lawless, absurd place for a specific reason, which is yours and yours alone to fulfill. And you must wake up, remember who you are, where you came from, and what odd and singular purpose that you came to complete in this mutant land of madness.

Intent will lead you through the forest to the Garden. But you must have intent. Sedulous, uncompromising, and pure. You must have it like an arrow whistling unstoppably towards its mark. If you falter or step aside for just an instant, you are lost and damned again, and only mercy shall see you through the night. You are your only hope of getting out alive. No one wanders endlessly in the darkness searching for you. If you do not seek with all your might for yourself, or truth, or love, or God, by whatever name you would call it, your life is but a slow decline to death. To death, as the self falls away from its anchor, and the spirit flies from its ground, so shall you wither without desire to fight, to dream, and to fly.

Indeed, you may look exactly like them, you may talk like them, eat like them, suffer like them, laugh like them, and die like them, but you are not like them- know that for a certainty. No matter what they say- and they will say a lot of things, because they do not want you to know that you are different, very different- this land is not your land, this home is not your home, this world is not your world.

If you get tangled in their cares, if you fall victim to their pleasures and desires, you will certainly fail your mission.

As you would drive a foreign car, on foreign streets, in a foreign country, so must you inhabit this foreign body, in this foreign world. But you are neither the body nor the car, only an invisible driver, stealthily making their way through the roadblocks, alleys, and highways of this planet called earth.

Our greatest war is against inertia. It is a constant battle; if you let up for a single moment you lose ground, and when you lose ground you get frustrated, and when you get frustrated you have lost the war.

The world will do everything it can to stand in your way, everything it can to hold you back, to convince you out of your passion, out of yourself, out of life, and so you can depend on nothing and nobody. You must believe only in yourself. It is up to you. Your sole, unbending intent must be to return to God- to find you own Godself- for without such intent the world will only distract, derail, dissuade, and destroy you.

If you blame others for your station, you give away your power. If you seek others for your salvation, you give away your spirit. If you need others to cure your sorrow, you give away your force. It is your life, and it is nobody else's.

If you deny yourself for another, your spirit will not grow, and if your spirit does not grow you will be incapable of completing your destiny and you will be forced to return again and again as a lowly worm to this pile of festering stool. You will not be able to assist others to grow and you will do a greater disservice to them than if you had hurt, offended, or forsaken them. By all means offend them, I say. Let them writhe. Let their petty little egos crumble out beneath them. Let them fall down weeping and broken, or storm off in rage and indignation. Make a game of it if you must. Laugh yourself silly; better it is for them to have the lie ripped ruthlessly from their breast than to let it grow and devour them.

Vigilance. No word is more pertinent to the struggle against the gravity of the mind. We are like baby birds which must break out of the shell not once, but always. The conveyor-belt of humanity runs in the wrong direction, against the stream of life, and we lose ground by just standing still, or sleeping, or looking away for the briefest of moments. A single thoughtless moment of distraction and you wake up years later, a long, long way back, and there are no shortcuts by which to return, no backdoors, no jet airplanes. You have to walk the same trail again, past the same markers, through the same barrierss, carrying the same burdens, in order to return simply to where you already have been. Only vigilance will keep you from backsliding. Only uncompromising intent.

The moment another stands in your way, it is because they are terribly lost from their own path. Nothing to do then but walk around or right through them, but for God's sake stop for nothing and no man, or you will die there along with them, right where they stagnate and stand.


To be free you must be freedom itself. You must be nothing and everything, and much more than you could ever imagine. The moment you categorize, identify, create, or possess yourself, that self is no longer free.

The moment you inhabit yourself you inhibit yourself. The moment you talk yourself into or out of something, the moment you balk from fear, or shame, or conclusions- the moment you know yourself you begin dying. Strange that it must be that way- the beginning of decay- but it is. It only takes one wall to make a box out of you. One anchor, one need, one step in any direction described by mankind, and you are finished. You spend your whole life walking around that wall. And the wall never ends, and freedom lies inches away, and you never find it, and you die as dead as you lived. Your only chance is to burst through it. And the only way to do that is to lose what you sought to gain. And that is why it is almost impossible.

To be sure, all the gentle morons will do anything just to get in the way. Guilt, and fear, and shame are the weapons of their lies. All of it just a corrupt, demented effort to get you to betray your true nature.

They- the great they- and all others like them, will teach you how to feel inadequate- they call it being different- so that you should forever feel needy, and insufficient of spirit, and quiver at the thought of aloneness, absolute aloneness. Better to belong to a lie, they say, than belong nowhere. But all you need to do is have one good look at their lives- their terrified, neurotic, guilt-ridden lives- and that one look is enough to never have such need again.

They- the great they- for whom there is neither sin nor rapture, to them I turn aside.

Everything is futile, and if not futile, useless. Everyone is in pain, and if not in pain, they are numb. Numb from the struggle, from the loss, from the complexity, and the mad impossibility of it all.

They- the great they- are all far off the mark, and have strayed irreconcilably from the directionless way. No matter what they tell you, and man they will tell you a heap of things- like how there must be a job suited to you, and how you must bend and torture your soul into position to do that job, and if there are none that suit you, regardless, still you must work. You must keep working, for yourself, the future, the world. Set the clock and be ready to destroy yourself every morning. Come on, you are needed, just one more corpse upon the stack, and we'll have a proper pile! They will never be finished wheezing our their pusillanimous yarns, and artless fables.

They will say- this is what life is, and this is how you must live it, for there is no other way. And let me tell you, if you tolerate their false realities they will destroy you. They will keep you confused with useless information, and you will be punished for seeing right through. And if they succeed to confuse you, and you live full in the delirium of identity, only then will you have died.

It is now the height of self-denial, hypocrisy, useless learning, false paradigms, mutation, and madness- the whole flippin' bungle is converged relentlessly upon all and everyone in a rapturous choral Ode to Kaliyug.


But the lie of the world will only hold you in hell if you allow it to hold you, because to leave hell you must leave alone, the world cannot come with you, because the world loves hell, and the world is hell.

You must break free. Free from the masses- for they are the mass, the weight which will slow you down, the demons welcoming you to hell- or you will drown smiling upon their depthless surface, in the tepid, ensconcing dreamless sleep of meaning, in the spiritual squalor of their useless creations, in the gravity of their disease, in the wrecked and irredeemable conclusions of their minds.

Others will try to make you believe that you exist as they say you do. And they will try to make you need things. And they will try to make you live improperly. They will trap you in the Form, and further in the Content, and then in the shackles of reason.

But you will stop listening to others when you realize they are tired, and wrong, and confused by their own useless noise. And when the fury of your heart recognizes their malevolent guise, the innocence of your eyes will condemn the idolatry of their minds.

Yea, you will not be able to love the world's beauty until you have hated all its lies. And that hate is love itself, the love of emancipation, the chick thrashing feverishly for the fuller life outside.

No longer do we grow peacefully upward like sublime lotuses, gently rising above the mud. Now is the day we must push our way up through mankind’s hardened cement, and learn to blossom like mountain roses, with their glorious, soft beauty protected by their sharpened, merciless thorns.


Go wild then in the early afternoon amongst those who would seek to contain you.

Do not tame your wonderful wildness, let your wildness untame you. Dance in the cosmic song with the rapture of the lilies.

In the anemic ignorance of their tortured smiles others will cast paltry horrors onto your tenuous life. They will caress and adore you and then grin as you swallow the lie.

Be not seduced. Give them nothing to bind, and they cannot bind you.

Look here then, spirit- stare passionately into it now, or close your eyes forever. You are the lone taxpayer, in a land of ruthless, profligate kings. Pleasure is the mask of pain in this loveless hell.

Comfort and monotony will put you to sleep. The world will make you to turn away from beauty, and you will turn. Petty pursuits will unfill your infinite hollow. You will call it happiness when events conspire to distract you from the anguish of not knowing yourself. Image will kill imagination, sight will blot the sky, thought will bind the heart, and you will live not laughing, and die without shedding tears.

Yet, eclipsed beyond those crippling rays, you can bring to the night the light of day, and midnight will be the noon hour, and Luna will be Sol for a day.

To fly free from the inertia will take everything you have. The degradations shall not end until you end. In a secret rapture to shame the gods you will walk life's empty streets as the loneliest person alive. Lost and hungry you will fall in a cold rain weeping. The vultures of spirit will pick you clean of meat. Innocently you will come, defeated you will go. You will exist without knowledge or gleam. You will be gentle and mad. The world will crush you completely. And you will live forever.





Trying to find a place in this world where I belonged was like trying to eat through my asshole, and shit through my mouth. And though the world has invented suppositories and emetics, that leads only sodomy and false purge.

I neither ingested, nor digested, I bled.

I bled from the bosh and distractions of the day. My belly was full of their poisons, and yet a great hunger still swallowed me whole, so I did the only thing I could do- I began to puke. And I have not yet stopped barfing, and I shall not stop, and to hell with their schools and teachings. It cannot be digested, none of it. Quit eating you idiots. Quit eating!

When the lies the world has served up, and rammed down your gullet, fail to fulfill and appease any of your needs, that is when you turn about and head the other way.

I realized quickly that the only thing I longingly gravitated toward was the innocent wondering of our unknowable Creator; to sit and stare at nothing and infinity, that is all I wanted. The freedom to slow down, to stop, to exalt; I loved life too much to be busy.

Loneliness is the only power I had over the world.

I did not wince, nor bobble, nor swoon in the silent requiem of the darkening night. I did not falter, but only wept a bit.

To be lost is the closest thing I knew to freedom, everything else was a trap.

There was, in the end, no solution except to tough it out. To sit with it, to feel it, to accept it, and to throw up my arms in agony, resignation, and hallelujah.

It was only in ghostly solitude, only when I was alone, only when I was lonely (conceptually lonely), could I dispute the dubious finitude that was myself. Did I just say conceptually lonely? Yes, it was there, as the mystery engulfed itself in a breathless utopia of intimate strangeness, that the tickling communion of light and grace would trickle down through my innocent nothingness. The methodology was easy- I simply forgot what I was told to remember.

This is the death I came to die, this is the life I lost by living.

It truly is a death to lose all need for the world; to do nothing, to think nothing, to be nothing. Yet a single moment of honest apathy is worth a thousand years of wreckless striving.

Thus, as if the verdant and bloody field of Kurukshetra itself were laid out beneath me, I fought without fighting and did battle without battling; all this by holding firmly onto apathy- my aegis ...my shield against the tolerable.

Which is to say: a miraculous privilege happened to me one day- boredom; I had tasted life, and found it bitter.

Nothing is more dangerous than to have ideas about what is, and what should be. Pity them who have real lives. Screw it all- their doom and glory, passion and false play.

At times you must leave it all behind, all of it, for you can only free others by first freeing yourself. So you must free yourself from others. Better to shiver in the brittle chill of an arctic soul, than be coddled comfortably by the tepid minds of men.

That is when you fall in step- when you stop walking in the maelstrom of the mind's apologies, you spit for the last time on the ground, halt short in your tracks, forget the reason you were moving, forget where you were headed, why you were going there, where you are now, and who you are. The earthquake of your life ends softly, and that is when you realize nothing of what you were is you. The mad movements are merely over, the interference has cleared, and the blessed congress of perverse redemption forces you out of the storm. The clouds blow away. The birds begin to sing again. The children come out to play. But nothing really changes. The clarity of your absence negates nothing. You still sleep, and shit, and fuck, and wait like before. And yet...and yet, something has changed. Everything has changed. And that war is over.

I myself came eventually to the point where I had narrowed my focus away from the world; I closed my eyes and kept moving, until the only thing I could sense was myself stumbling blindly. Then one time, but only once I tell you, I looked up and saw a boisterous crowd, excited and chattering, headed the other way. I wondered what was their joyous destination. Then I didn't wonder. I did not run to view what caused exuberance in the masses. I kept on going towards where I happily ...had no idea.





Let me tell you, existence brings you everything you need, as long as you are earnest enough to need it. If you need nothing, nothing will come. But if you give a damn, if you are crazy with life and wonder, and possessed by the miracle of being, ardently digging it up, uncovering the immensity of this unbelievable creation, sedulously seeking to find and be what it truly is ...to be, then life will hand itself over to you, it can do no other. That is life. That is what it demands, and what it gives. To float along, comfortable in the tepid roles of man, is to never uncover yourself, to never know who or why it is you are, and that is the greatest sin, and the greatest crime an individual can ever commit.

If I pursued what the world considered impossible, if I desired what the world proclaimed could not be had, if I required what mankind could not offer, and demanded that which no one could give, it was because if I knew one thing, and that is that you must go for it with everything you have.

You can avoid it as long as you choose, and most will avoid it their whole lives. But somewhere buried deep inside you know full well that the world is an absolute lie, and that almost every step you take toward it is an act of lying. And so you must take with force what others will not give you, which is to say ...yourself.

The trick is to know all the agony, to feel all the sorrow, the separation and loneliness, the loss and confusion, and …to not let it take you down.

That is what must be done, if our spirit is to exist in the world ...without being trapped by it.

You have to take your failures, doubts, and discouragements, and either cut them loose or carry them on your back up the hill.

When you walk away, you just walk away. That is easy. But where then to go? God knows? Just away. You leave no markings by which to find your way back, for you are never returning. You forge ahead without thought of right or wrong.

If god must strike you dead for some unavoidable error, so be it. That is god's need. You must move forward. You must live completely, without cowering in the cold recesses of harsh divine abandonment. The further you go, the further you have to go.

You must look ahead without any memory or regret.

The flesh is certainly part of the route to the soul. You have to walk it’s bumpy road.

When nothing works, plug ahead anyways. Other darknesses, other fires.

The best thing is to forget everything you ever were told, to start again, and to never look back from that road. Better, I say, to be lost and then found again, than never to have been lost.

Swallow it, or spit it out, but for god's sake take another bite.

Your life is your path. Take it as it comes, leave it as it goes. Plod on through that hollow centre.

The point of no return is the starting point; if you can go back ...you have not yet begun.

Everything falls apart, keep going and going anyways, spirit, cause once you come down... you're dead.

You must push on.





I speak of the years of departure; the times when I left my place of welcome, to wander lonely in the void without another- to lift up and stay there, to float on the splendid confusion of disorientation, far above the thorns of context; these are the chapters of life when the soul sets out on an uncharted course, perhaps never again to remain itself- when the spirit finds again that lost fluidity, unbound nor gathered in a name, and the hard parts crumble from the eternal stream sprung free now within you. That is when the spirit relearns its passion dance, and never again to tangle in the game.

And so I existed for a great duration like a gypsy of the mind; within the infinite, boundlessness of being did I wander aimlessly from one inhospitable region to the next, never finding my home without nor within me. For the limitless Self is a strange, atopic land, seemingly indifferent to our changing whereabouts.

I sought myself so far without and within that I held no sincere hope of ever returning.

Like a camel did I drink insatiably of life before leaving, but I went too far; on the desert journey of becoming I consumed a vast portion of my rations in order to get away, but I could see no welcoming oasis. I ran blindly and without direction, charging recklessly into lostness.

Nothing, nothing, nothing, so much of nothing. To walk and walk, down empty streets, past empty houses, amongst empty people, while nothing matters except to keep walking, because to stop means to succumb to the madness, futility, and conventions which are the deaths raised under every roof where everyone hides and no one belongs but out of boredom, fear, weakness, or shame.

I became accustomed to losing everything, to dying in life, as they say, and to having no function, no responsibility, no place, nor role in life. This was the loam upon which the seed of my spirit had sprouted and taken root. There was no turning back, I had already come to that dreadful conclusion. I was outside of life, a foreigner to all that is.

There is the point when you have come undone; when eventually whatever you thought mattered no longer matters; a point when you are allowed neither god nor the world. There is a point when you are outside forever, where you are not coming back, when you can't get back.


At these times I beheld consciousness in the grip of the hallucination which invented it. I fought like a Titan wrestling with his own powerless shadow. I drank up an ocean, and pissed out a world. The planets swarmed to knock me down. The winds howled to defeat me. The moon cast thunder down upon me. The sun went dark. But I kept on going, moving on, or something, to somewhere. I was walking. I was going. Didn't know where. No one came with me. Still I kept going. On and on I say. I kept going on, on and on. Lonely as the wind, strong as the tree which withstands it. I kept going and going, on.

It's as if from the outset I was set adrift and my whole life was a journey back home, a home which did not exist because ...I was supposed to be adrift. And it was this alienship to all being which was in fact my true birthright, my inheritance, my blessed freedom from all that dies.

These were the caustic baths of purification, the baptisms by fire, the parched and deserted lands we're left to eternally roam.

I had to go on ...because I could only go on; because once you have gone a certain distance, even if it be digression (or perhaps especially if it be digression) you cannot return from such remoteness, you cannot find your way back, ever; you have scurried about in the labyrinth's dark expanse an irreconcilable distance. Once you are away, you just keep going. To look back is to go back.


And then along the way, somewhere amongst the confused trials of my erratic re-ascent, I met again the snake who also had taken me down, and again I bit into the apple given. But this time I took the bite only ...so as to spit it back into his disbelieving face. And then I said goodbye, good luck, left him in his wily hell, and I walked back into the Garden to feed evermore upon naught but mystery, love, and the Tree of Life.

If only I had always known how easy it was to pry apart those bars of separativeness. To walk through, to breath, to grin, to walk away.

Oh, if only I would have kept playing in the play of the soul and nothing more- to be wrapped, in the rapt, welcoming, fabulous stream.

I come now to offer aid to you who blunder on obliviously. I shall wash the mote out of your eye, so that with love you might weep the plank out of mine.

I have seen another possibility, another chance for freedom, as it were. And I will not go down without a fight. I have found the new garden in which grows no Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, but only the Tree of Life.

When finally you become tired of the world and its criminal misconceptions, perhaps only then you will seek to flee along with me. I stand in earnest welcome for your tired eyes.

There are different answers these days. Just live. Be kind and ruthless to yourself. Destroy the thoughts they gave you. Abandon every idea of right and wrong. Forget yourself at every moment. Give yourself away. Arrive at where you came from. Love without finishing.

You must simply leap without descending, and climb without holding on.

Come into this new garden, come in, gather it all up, eat your fill. Here you shall find no exile.





When everything begins to go right and wrong simultaneously, and you lose the ability to tell the difference, for there is no difference, and either way you don't really give a damn, because life has flopped up and down on you so many times that, like a person on a crazy ride at the country fair, you lose the intensity, the fear, and the joy of the event, and instead sink carelessly back into yourself; when you have become psychologically gimballed, unable to lose your sense of equilibrium, you can bet you're almost finished.

When pain is no longer painful, joy no longer a thrill, life no longer a teeter-totter between estranged opposites, then the leveling-off is well under way. That is when you become dangerous and necessary to the world, because you are outside of its struggles; you become a random particle, divorced from the chains and rules of life, and so you are both needed and distrusted, admired and despised, and praised and blamed, because other's troubles are no longer your troubles, their taboos no longer your taboos, their sorrows are no longer painful, and their euphorias mere bagatelles. You are beyond their sufferings, trifles, and desires, and therefore all powerful and yet powerless amongst them.


The day I decided it was time to leave hell, is the day the doors began unlocking ...of their own accord. For there is only one way out of hell, and that is the wish to leave it, and that is all. As you will it to be, so shall it be. But if you don't have that wish in you, nor the wherewithal to fulfill its demands, you are dead and at best tortured. The flowers and birds will not come marching to your door and ask you to come out and play. You must yourself break open internally, and walk out of your life bawling. Bawling for the injustice, for the agony, for the horrors of the day. You yourself must go to the flowers. It is up to you.

If right and wrong invade your being you are done for. You might as well pack it in, and beg for forgiveness while there's still time. Because time will end, let me tell you. You're no help further in the darkness. Only light can help us here. And for that the wax must melt beneath the flame.


It's all about what you've got inside yourself- what hunger, and longing, and rage built up from centuries of agony and separation- what impossible passion you have to drive you through the wall of false understandings, irrelevant lives, useless facts, rules, and fears, all of which the world wields mercilessly against you from day one.

In the absence of love, truth, and help you must rise up every morning out of the ashes you became in the lonely night before. You must rise up like a ghost from the death of unlove, into the impoverished world of men, and forge on another yard, or foot, or inch, whatever you've got left in you. But you must, for your own sake and no other's. When the spirit has departed and the flesh remains intact, that is when the true work begins.

You've got to find it yourself. No one will give it to you. No man, no woman, no saint or god. They don't have it. You've got to find it yourself, in yourself, because IT is you. The power and love of all creation. You alone shall redeem or bring destruction to mankind. You alone.

There is no god nor devil but in ourselves. We are the ones responsible. We are the ones who have sown sorrow upon this earth. And we are the ones who shall change or reap it.

With the force that you judge you shall be judged, with the force that you seek you shall be found, with the power that you hate you shall be hated, and with the strength that you love you shall be loved.

If you toss about in your head long enough you'll forget why you came here. You came to be you. All of you. Body, spirit, heart, and mind. Without any one of these the whole collapses.

We all start at the centre, and we either explode or fizzle out. If we think or care too much we are finished.

If only it were different. But it ain't. It's all up to you, my friend. Rise up then, onward, into the darkness!


Like I said, the first step, in leaving hell- in returning to paradise- is simply the wish to go back. In fact that is really the only step, for, given one's intention- which must be pure and committed in order to even consider such an undertaking- everything else which follows is merely protocol- a 'putting on of one's finest' so to speak, as preparations one would gladly undertake to attend the royal ball. In fact the invitations have already been sent out. The King and Queen shall both be there. And the theme of this year's party is 'Come As You Are.' Cocktails served before dinner. Dancing and music will go until dawn. Come as you are.








"He is not Almighty, that he might cross his hands and thus await his certain victory. His salvation depends upon us. And only if he is saved may we be saved"

Nikos Kazantzakis





We were born to be naked, and dancing, and kissing each other. We were born to be changeless and changing, mortal and immortal, formed and yet free. We were born to be the stillness inside the fabulous change.

Never try to be something that you're not. Never try to not be something which you are. Never do less than the most you can do. Never imagine that life is limited- that you cannot find your true soul mate, your true self, the Great Spirit of Being, Christ, Mary, your siblings on the Tree of Life, the Source, the Finish, Satan, God, and much, much more in this great and unpredictable existence we are in and which we are. It is all there, and it is waiting. You are the only wall between finitude and infinity, and you are that infinity also.

Let the self be a perpetual baptism, wherein one moves, and moves, and never stops moving; the relentless, uncatchable, spectacular, dynamic of the soul that demands to be free.

We each belong to that energy of the moment. In the wildness beyond anarchy, where the individual, rampant from the mean, will accept no compromise, no help, no advice, no method, no limit- that is the point where the spirit breaks free of its mold, flies beyond itself, and dwells in the infinite expanse of the unimagninable, untethered new. To soar where no archetype can follow, that is to be new, and to be true.

Anyone who breaks free of the imposed structure, who lives life for life itself, with no worry or expectation of reward or praise, develops their own individual force, unknown to the greater part of mankind. We all have it, but most of us give it away to convention, or careers, or cowardice.

We were not born to follow others, to learn what they say you should learn, to go where others wander, nor to deny the smallest part of our own force for comfort or acceptance. We are not alive to toil, to lie, to impress people, or to suffer. We are alive to be life- to be the great mystery endlessly awakening to itself. We are all God becoming infinitely godlike. And each of us must live it through. Alone.

God sits in a different seat in each person's auditorium.

If we rely on anyone but ourselves, we are doomed; every time we deny the reality that we alone can come upon, we deny reality.

And so it is the harsh but essential cosmic law that one who has no acceptance of their own vision ...shall see nothing.

Ah, to be sure, before you can blend into the One, you must stand out conspicuously, as that precarious, uncamouflaged happening so visibly bent, blotched, or broken. For in order to be chosen, you must at first become a choice.

Yea indeed, we must enter infinity through naught but our true selves; within the suffocating alienship of being we must begin the long and forgotten route through strangeness towards home, and we are our own gates, our own judges, our own redeemers, and redeemed. We must see through our own eyes.

We are destinations, pioneers of ourselves; the pilgrim is the pilgrimage.

Indeed we must- all of us and every one- alone hack out our own cramped, ponderous tunnel, towards or away from god knows what, for no imaginable reason.

The way piles up in fragments behind us, and as endless walls ahead, while we flail and and flail and perhaps find nothing but the hollow ring of movement through the moldless form of unknowable truth. So be it. The bearings may be on the outside, but the compass lies within.

Ground yourself in the conquest of new dominions.

A spiritual anarchy of biblical proportions is now thoroughly under way. Each person must sedulously mine their own dark, alien life. You are a door. Walk through it.

Praise the god inside of you and bow to no other.

Yea, the self is a vast, unconquered territory, to which even if you are given a map, it is still only a map of your own two feet. So, really, you can go ...nowhere.

When you have pursued the depth of your being with unflappable intent, benevolent guidance, and irrevocable folly, and all you have found is but a perilous mishmash of rubbish and lies; when the teachers and leaders have betrayed you completely, and when the masters and madmen have delivered to you their flightless swan songs, and you're on your own again, as you always have been, that is when, in the stillness of your honest heart- that is when you begin again to listen.

When you have dreamed alone, thought alone, walked alone, and wept alone, then you are through with the others. Through with their concern, their trumped-up solicitude, their condescension, and guidance. Better to cast your own light into your own darkness, for then you'll be certain of what you can't see, and when you can't see you stand dead still and ...you listen.

You listen because all their pointless words and actions went right through you, and nothing remained but the permanent hollow. You listen to the hollow of your being, because that is the only place left which has not been desecrated. You listen, and in that eternal void alone do you hear the echo of your own Great Dream.


I ask not that you sanction what I have said.

Who am I?- you ask. I AM! How much more author-ity does one need? The way I see it is merely the way I see it. You see, the fact that no one else corroborates my reality guarantees that it is true. Each man, his own messiah.

And so I say, there is no wisdom on this earth for a man like me. I am myself. That is wisdom.

I'm not asking you to agree. I'm not expecting you to understand. I have only my own life, and my own answers, but, at least they are answers ...for me. A man must stand up for the god inside of him, especially if he is the only one that can possibly know it. What is true for me must be true for me alone, or what am I calling me? I have no reason, no need, no desire to embrace another person's truths, for mine are much truer for me, than any other's ever could be.

Which is to say, I alone have sought what was mine alone to seek; these are my truths, not yours.

Get your own.





I no longer sympathize with mankind. I no longer care what others do, what others have, what others know. The laws of this purgatorial stasis no longer apply to me. The lateral rules, reason, and rhythm of the godless are just as so much dross.

I have no interest in the concerns nor lives of the majority of my fellow man; I write only for those who see the madness and stupidities for what they are; who suffer like aliens lost on an unknown world, for unknown reasons; who yearn to live truly that life which has been beaten out of mankind over the centuries of denial, distortion, and deceit; those persons who are willing to have nothing, to starve, to weep themself blind, to cuss, to scream, to wander, to forget, or to hide away in the wilderness, to be lonelier than Christ on Golgotha, to do whatever it takes to preserve the life of their soul.

I write for those individuals, and those alone, who in their lives seek no advantage over another, who desire love and emancipation for all, and yet who accept with the truth of their hearts that such a possibility can only come about through the free expression of each individual's being, undistorted by guilt, fear, or delusion, and that only upon the attainment of one's own true nature and the fulfillment of one's own highest destiny, is the greatest service towards mankind accomplished.

And so, I say, I have done what I came to do: to live as a free spirit amidst the prison of men; to find the truth buried in their endless lies; to love in a world of lovelessness; to live amongst the dead, to weep at their laughter, to laugh at their tears; and to return to God while in the torrent of the Godless.

In the end I sought liberation only for myself, not because I did not care to liberate others- on the contrary, I cared too much, and that caring is what bound us both, for they did not want to be liberated. They couldn’t keep up, and I couldn’t slow down. And so I came to seek freedom for myself because I wanted to be free, and because no one else wanted to be free enough so as to become free. But me, I needed to be free more than anything else, and I ...I went for it.

But then I found the interesting paradox- that in the tangle of our oneness, no matter what you do or how you do it, the higher you go the higher you lift others with you. To remain behind for them is to turn back for Eurydice and to lose her in that turning.

I found that the higher you rise the more you take with you. And that there is no sense in getting bound in other’s prisons simply because they are prisoners; that to free yourself is to set all free.


I have no guilt, no remorse, no regrets. I paid back what I owed, did my penance in return- or was forgiven when it was beyond my ability to repair- and was purchased out of the prison of context. I finished with my earthly debts and left others to pay back their own.

Listen to me friends- I have not lived inside your tortured context, and I shall not die in that prison either. I was only loosely bound to the vain glory of impotent consternation, and I have lived too perilously long within the hypocrisy of discernment. I do not excel before the altar of coherence. I will not suffocate in the vapors of life's ambush. I have died that death already.

Though neither have I bled endlessly through the wound of consciousness for nothing; if I have only stuck my earnest spirit out from the warm abyss for long enough to spill forth my bile and laughter then, as now, while the roaring blade hastens whistling towards its mark, I shall miss not a beat, not a word, not a jingle, but calmly wail out my true song, my vision, my life.


Let me tell you, in my frantic peregrinations throughout the civilizations and wild lands of this earth, I found our famed Mercurius, the fair Nefertiti, the wild Poseidon, and the perishing Pan. I met and drank with the worn apostle Paul, and was kissed by the new and ever gentler Assisi. I knew those who could converse with animals, and others who saw the Living Light in day. I walked with Christ, was assumed up to heaven, met saints and angels in the ether, was kissed by the Mary, coddled by the Mother Earth, and beaten horribly by the heavens. I found angels dying everywhere (angels die because they don't believe in themselves, that's all, but that's plenty.).

I found my evolving anima twice in this life, loved her both times, and flew away higher in the end- light and laughing I was lifted off to nowhere. And my true soul mate- even her I loved in the flesh become spirit in our day.

Yea indeed you must find the mirrors of your own soul in the flesh, or you shall never yourself get truly out alive. It's like the first few pieces of this infinite, confused puzzle, finally coming together- then the whole broken picture has a focal point from which to grow back to One.

I also became wise to the ways of Mara, or Maya, or the Second Mary, as you will. My temptress, my illusion, my lover. And I met the sublime, sensuous soul within us all, and we fell in love. She told me what to do. I tried to follow. I call her Will. She is the one who drags me away from myself. And to her I sometimes go willingly, but only so as to drag her back out.

I roamed wild in the tempest of the archetypes, and held audience with the Myths and Muses. I sought wholeness and mercy for all, spoke with men of god, and god himself on occasion, and let me tell you, life was still all crazy and insane.


I had taken good run at the great divide I had to cross and lept with all my desperate might, but even then I was lucky for the unpredictable stepping stones along the way, and even with them I eventually had to swim in the river warmly meandering nowhere. Oh, let me say this, as the Mercies swelled to meet my sin and anguish, I fell short of the mark and yet was still gently lifted over the line. That alone is why I made it out to sea- not because I could leap well, but ...because I was willing to flounder.

I remain on this earth now, as myself, dodging life's false responsibilities, listening for the as yet unwritten Word, that I might write it, hovering weightlessly between the gravities of two opposing forces, and wondering if you have also come to your own true vision, and if you have the playful wherewithal to carry it through.

I continue to survive this hemorrhage of false meanings- a bloodletting of the knowable- forging on to diffidently blaze a precipitous trail through the hazy, hallowed regions, of revolutionary exasperation.

And if I appear brave upon the turbulent waters, it is because I found that I cannot drown; because I learned to breathe below the surface of life, to sink into the mud like a frog in winter, and inhale osmotically through the pores of my numinous membrane. I learned how to die and be to reborn every day, and so to remain strong in the battle. I learned how to retreat when I am out of bullets, and how to attack with a loaded gun, how to yield and hide, burst forth and conquer, how to flex when the force would break me, and to hold firm when a hill can be won. I learned how to stop caring when things became futile, and how to care when life was prepared to grow in the sun.

What happens in the re-ascent to our immortal selves is that fear becomes loneliness, loneliness becomes acceptance, and acceptance turns into faith. Confusion becomes revulsion, revulsion becomes indifference, and indifference turns into wonder. Reaction turns into action, action turns into inaction, and that ...that is when you become God.





If you are thoughtful enough, when you have walked through the point in life where you realize that all the dreams, and plans, and knowledge, and purposes the world has thrust upon you are nothing but pitiful rubbish, all of it, that the dead have led you to your own plot, have handed you a shovel, and have taught you nothing but how to dig your own grave- that is the point when you either crumble or grow. To crumble- to see the lie and yet continue to live it- it is to die into the life that men give you. To grow is to find that force inside of you which of its own accord thrills at the miraculous, privileged event of being, needs nothing from the world of the dead, and reaches infinitely upwards, and just as far downwards, through the limitlessness of the self, through the living I, into the Source, into Life, and lives from and for that spot alone.

And so, in the act of choosing yourself, you choose God, and thus unseparate the division between you. By living from your own centre, and not as a reaction to another's realities, you develop a gravity- you become a celestial force- and that way you draw all other celestial bodies to you.


The moment I accepted myself, I accepted the God within myself. And in that liberating, destructive instant everything joined sublimely together to become the One and Living Spirit, and my God from otherness into me ...and I was saved.

Ah, blessed be Thy entanglements which complete me.

Indeed I was eventually lifted from the earth by a force which I could not fathom, except that the earth and flesh made it possible, somehow, for the void ran right through me, and the hole that was not-me, was god, right inside me. Strange how these things happen. But they do.

Oh, it is not so much that we must transcend above being, but that we must descend into it. We are already above, the only thing left is to dive. Were the kite not tethered to the ground, it would not play so freely in the air; yes, the parachute upon which you fall to earth shall itself rise back up to carry you away.

The lost and abandoned soul wanders about on earth, never really touching down, never really belonging, never completely joining in, and therefore never assimilates its earth self, until it happens upon its homeless home, finds familiar wanderers, marries into all life for one brief moment, and then rises back out more complete and fulfilled than if it had spent its whole life in the air.

Thus we come down only so as to go up higher. We descend only so as to transcend. We fall only that we may learn how to eternally fly.

Let me tell you my friends, the only way to learn how to fly, is to leap to the darkness below. Climb as high as you can, but you won't get your wings until you fall without crashing.

Fall spirit, fall. It's the only way to learn how to fly.

For it is only through this world that we may come to grow above it; what does not put down roots, shall never climb towards the sun. No seed grows toward the sky without first germinating in the dark and perilous tribulations it will eventually no longer call hell.

And like seeds which first must leave the loving light, we suffer as we descend into the darkness- we struggle to blossom in the mire. Oh, there is no vision in the black soil; the seed buried beneath the cold earth shudders at the darkness as it begins to grow out of itself. It knows yet nothing of the sun, and even less of the heliotropic self ...it cannot help but naturally become.


Yea, we have not come to die, but to live, to be born into Life. So we must only die from this death, while yet we are living, then alone shall we live and not die.

It is only because we are at first born into death that we must be resurrected to life, and then we must live in that life inside death. There is no death to die, there is only birth to be born. Time it is for us to live again and die no more; to live in this House of Life, though it looks out onto the City of Death.

Anti-life creeps into Life- creeps in and denies life, doubts life, fears life, strangles and rigidifies life. Anti-life damns the flow; it is the damned who fall from the free-flow of life into the inert stasis of Death, which kills Life with fear, and doubt, and shame, and pain.

Kill Death I say. Kill Death by living Life. Kill Death within you. Kill your Death with your Life.

Love Life, live Life, kill Death, and you shall never die.

Live on, you, who are life. Live on.

Flesh is now holy ground.


It's all about disentangling the self from its fetters, about returning to your true nature, to the Source, to god, and then how to get others there. God is not dead, merely buried alive. What a mess. Things are different now than they were; it is not up to god to save us, it is up to us to save god; to awaken our Divinity from its profane slumber.

You see, we are in the flesh so as to redeem the flesh- to absorb pain back into the Great Love. And we must remain in the grave called this world until the death it has died knows that we cared, and by this it comes back to life.

We are here to be in the flesh completely, to exalt life, not hide from it. If we do not return willingly from the deep absence, who will?

We were sent from the light, so we must needs pour ourselves. If we do not, stretched across those anguished distances, bridge the untellable into the told, who will?

Ah, to redeem another without incurring trespass; to witness non-division with humility; to meet them in the dark of their own separate hell; to die and let them be born within you, each and every one; to live and to die as them, that they might live, and to know this is not sacrifice; to stand amongst them in your emptiness; to receive their truth, and reflect back their lie; to look them in the eyes without yourself, so that their God within can awaken and spill forth everywhere.

The tempest and the calm will continue to dance passionately on the membrane of the mean. Nothing but beasts and ghosts running about this purgatorial land. Stand your ground in the manifest, and forge on defiantly. We are only tragically manifest in the furthest, hardened reaches of the light.

Through the pathlessness and mayhem, everything will lead you back to yourself, if only you are willing to follow.

We are siblings in the Light. Never doubt that.

Believe in the living spirit, not in the lies of men.

Call the Father down, raise the Mother up.

We must learn again to speak with God. We must learn again to listen.

It is the bricks which build the castle, not the castle which builds the bricks.

And we ...we are but cracks in the sidewalk, making the Way divided ...and complete.





Many things I will never understand nor be capable of explaining. Why we are the way we are, why life is the way it is, when it all began and where it is all headed, of these I have not a clue. I know only that I have come here for important reasons, as have you, and if anyone tells you otherwise you can bet they have missed their cue.

There were many mythical and sublime events, experiences, and hallmarks throughout my journey, none of which were expected, none of which has occurred before, and many of which would be thought of as fable to the mass of people who live with their noses caught in the world. That is not for me to worry about. There are underlying realities within realities which must be lived in order to be real, there is no other way around it.

The messages will come in many sublime ways, in many unexpected forms, as many untold truths. You must see differently, hear differently, understand differently, if you are to follow the clues meant for you, and you alone.

Let them say what they will, but if you take up the task of living Life, Life shall take you up as well. To surrender yourself is to receive yourself. If you make the Spirit your calling, by the Spirit you shall be called.

Understand this and you will understand when I declare that somewhere in the middle of my turmoil I was visited by a fierce, benevolent force which entirely devalued my original existence. As such I was killed and resurrected through pain and mercy, and the most tender of love in the gnashing. There was a merciless killer within me, and he was killing only lies, and his name, if you must know, was Christ, and I was made naught but of lies. So you see what sort of relationship we had then.

Mine was a practiced, exacting crucifixion (crucial-fiction?).

Oh how I laugh now at the gentle Christ of our sleepy churchgoers. What a romantic heap of stool. The warm, cuddly Lamb of God ...my ass! Christ is like a wild and mad wolf at your heals. He is a murderer, and you are his victim. He will kill the lie inside of you with merciless love. The truth will set you free, but first it must destroy you.

There is no soothing balm but only the scalding flame itself, and you are the kindling. The chastening will not end but in your own death’s death. Thus perhaps it is that this violence comes out of love, but let me tell you- it is violence, make no mistake about it.


That cup had already been swallowed, but I took as my own the hemlock and Calvary rite.

When the Man comes for you, it is the most torturous blessing you might ever receive.

To be blessed is to be given what you have not the ability to take. To be blessed is to be shown the way, and yet be too afraid to follow. To be blessed is to rage against the merciful benevolence which sustains you, and to have bestowed upon you what you are not capable of accepting. To be blessed is to be humbled because you have what you did not ask for- the burden of a privilege you cannot imagine how to use.

To be baptized is to be shown who you are. To know who you are is to be who you are, and when you know who you are, even if the whole world were to rise up with judgement against you it would feel as if naught but a light breeze rustling through the trees.





No matter what I have written here, nor how I have explained it, nor come to understand it, throughout it all I was nothing, and did nothing, for it was the great mystery of life which did it all. And when you come to the point of that recognition there is very little left to do. You are finished.

You see, the self which we are is nowhere and everywhere, it is everything and none; it is found in the 'there' which is 'here', and the 'here' which is 'nowhere'. To come to it we must simply die in life, live in death, surrender in the battle, battle in the flight, lift and drop, climb and fall, hope and deny, forget and remember, empty and fill, build and dismantle, release and yet care.

Understanding this, you eventually learn one of the most important lessons of all- how to give yourself completely to a situation, and how to let it go. You learn to invest your whole being, at every moment, into whatever lies before you, and you learn how to know when the shift is complete, to divest yourself, to kiss the ones you've loved goodbye, and move on to other fertile ground. You learn to die only because it leads to more life. You learn to let go only so that you can further receive. You learn to say goodbye, because only then will you be able to say hello.

You learn to leave each to their own loneliness and sorrow- it is their lesson, their way, and their only chance of return. We must bandage no bloodletting, or the worm shall never be gone

Indeed, you learn to stop trying to relieve misery from people’s lives when you realize it is God-given pain.

And so, if you have cleaned yourself out, opened yourself up, and broken down the walls which separated you from the rest of the world, you will find there comes a time when you must cease on letting others in, when you must cease taking on their sin, and must block their vexings from devouring you within. For once you have found your own light, others will seek to take it from you. Once you have shed your skin, others will try to crawl within. Once you have come to peace and stillness, others will do anything in their power to destroy you. That is when you take your white wings off, and put your black armor on. That is when your love turns from a feather into a sword. There is no other way.

Now is the time we must learn to die in Hell, to be re-born in Hell, to live in Hell, and to not be in Hell.


So it was as such that I became life in death. Born I was out of death- the death I was witnessing and calling life, but which was not life. Yet I would not know that until I was born for the first time into Life, and not, as had previously happened- into Death. And so I found the one thing worth finding- my own eternal Spirit.

Along the way I roared because I had to roar. I danced because I had to dance. And I wept because I had to weep. Because I was caught in being also, and I hated it, loved it, wondered at it, and suffered it to the fullest completion of my soul. I dove into the deepest darkness I could bare, and flew to the highest summit on which I could stand.

I had to destroy, to disorganize, to go mad, for there was no other way to complete the necessity of my being within the claustrophobic structure avowed to our life.

Oh, let me tell you, without a hint of arrogance, that I became what it is only possible to become when the opposites of contempt and mercy, thought and feeling, and anger and succour come to exist with equal intensity and so fuse into one; when you come to fully disdain life, and yet praise it as glory, without ever contradicting the One. Which is to say I became ...a man. And I became such for no special reason but that I began to care ...with ruthless love.

And a man knows how to stand alone in the midst of a lie. A man knows how to laugh when others are weeping, and to weep when others are laughing. A man knows how to believe in no one but himself, and so to believe in all people. A man knows how to forgive himself and others and so to be capable of forgiving ...God.

A man knows how to accept and reject, how to affirm and deny, how to be different and indifferent, how to fight and how to surrender, how to dive to the deepest depths to retreive a retreivable soul, and how to let another drown.

And a man knows how ...to be a woman; to be whole; to descend into, occupy, inhabit, and become the rose of his own life and flesh. To be and to not-be, and thus to be two in one and finally free. To let the receptive, concavity of his being unvex the sublime pleroma, and only to bring forth His convexity in order to protect Her.

Most souls never become men- they remain boys all their life. To become a man is not a function of time, nor gender even, but can happen at any instant, when you become open enough to feel another's pain or sorrow completely; a man is born from the womb of empathy. Thus there are men who are but seven years old, and boys who are seventy, for maturity lies in the heart, not in the calendar.

And so, if one day you have come, as we all must come, to weep scalding tears for the loneliness and misery of the whole world- if you can take the entire suffering and lostness of mankind into you, hold it, comfort it, and then release it- then the trial of the heart is over, and you can go on your way.

Once you have passed on the chain which holds Heaven and Earth together, then you are free.

In the end I grew beyond the troubles of separative being. After the years of rebellion, condemnation, struggle, and turmoil, I finished with the process by which I would finally melt away like a dwindling chunk of ice which had been smashed about down the river after the break-up, to then merge peacefully into the gentle flow, becoming the calm and yet resolute river myself, sweeping all things along on the voyage to the endless sea.

I came to live, and I became ...Life.

And when you become Life, you understand that no one comes into this plane of being to toil, furrow, build, write, emancipate, guide, entertain suffer, nor possess things, but only to learn how to live, which is to say- to be Life.

For to live is ...to love- to love life, to be love itself.

And this miracle is only possible when you recognize that ...we are all one flowing, evolving soul. One soul. All of us. Until the timeless tide ebbs again in our favor, we are dreamed of inside the same Dream. We are fragmented, yet we are One.

Anyone who sees this completely will never hate again, but only love. Indeed, anyone who has love inside of them has few lessons more to learn in life- for they are Life itself.

Love is the absence of separation. Love is that bond which redeems the flesh. Love has no motive. Love has no object. Love has no need. Love cannot be given, because it cannot be owned. Love possesses nothing. Love is the absence of want. Love never doubts itself. Why would it? After all, it is love. Love shatters the vessel, and lets the spirit flow. And Love is the medium one then comes to live, and be, and exist within.

It is a lesson that is the hardest, and easiest thing in the world- to be life, to be love- because we can only be love by being ...ourselves. For by being our true selves, with no lie, cunning, denial, separation, or guilt within us, nothing is left to prevent the love called God from descending into and becoming us. Nothing.

Yea, and again Yea, when you are finished with the rest of it, you suddenly realize what love is, and how and why it is the only thing that matters, and the only thing that is real, and the only thing that will save you. The only thing that will save you. And so you stop caring for anything else, and you begin to love, and your walls come down.

And you are saved.



"Go, love without the help of anything on earth."

William Blake


by Jack Haas




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