Ranger Dave and the Shroomed Lunatics

We’ve fallen down and over the other side.  Rats to who sees us now.

He stumbles upon our camping ground (which is no certified, family-friendly place, but a cleared patch in a fine, untouched clearing), un-phased at first and expecting routine communications with a group of perhaps rowdy, perhaps antisocial, perhaps petty-law-breaking strangers; but what he finds is something a little bit more than all this.  Poor Dave, a sheltered, country type, innocently going about his routine duties, encounters a group of people who, to him at least, appear to be completely out of their minds—moonfolk, if you will.

He is immediately intimidated, acutely perplexed.

Hiding behind some waist length shrub, he removes his cliché rangers’ hat and peers over into the strangers’ hearth, and observes.

What they say seems incoherent, barely consistent (mostly inconsistent) and often completely disjointed; they shuffle about like confused cavemen, muttering and performing actions which seem to have no reason at all; they scream and yell and make strange jokes, jokes which Dave would not even recognise as jokes if it weren’t for the group’s ecstatic laughter following whatever was just said—a veritable bush circus, composed of alien beings from the watery orb in the sky, disoriented and out of control…

How does Dave even begin to address this? What reaction could possibly counter this savage display?

He flees.  Figuratively and literally.

These creatures are effeminate, degenerate; they’re acting out of etiquette.

The words chorus from some collective pit in his mind, more like a chant than his own words; but he knows them to be true, there is vehemence behind them and a thoughtless passion—faith, perhaps.  Considerations even enter Dave’s mind, to alert some sort of psychological authority; to have the pack rounded up and put into the back of a van like stray dogs, sent away to be cured of their myriad manic maladies, or at least to be placed out of sight if said illnesses prove incurable.

Which emergency number to ring for lunatics?  NASA?

It is all too much for Dave, too unfathomable and too strange; there is no order here, no sense, no logical sequence of occurrences.  And so he dawdles home in a strange delirium, dumbfounded by this group of cackling neo-savages, whose mental states seem to have taken a willing waltz into the endless sky.  He goes home to his wife and as he gets into bed, unintentionally waking her, tells her a yarn, “Honey, I’ve just seen the darndest thing…”—because by telling it as a story it becomes detached, loosened as dirt away from the solid earth on which it occurred.  Mrs Ranger Dave opens her drowsy eyes and listens intently to her husband’s yarn, takes in the story and agrees whole-heartedly with Ranger Dave’s vague sentiments regarding the strange group.  The two think a few minutes about these, the strangest strangers, before lulling off into a dreamless sleep, the account falling away into vagueness.

The world is normal again; everything is fine; the sun always rises, will always rise—tomorrow is another day.

Back at the crater (camp) it is common knowledge that tomorrow never comes.  Tomorrow never does come.  All that exists is the dynamic, thunderbolt flow of chaotic interaction, the mirroring of the external and the internal, an omni-pervasive pull into what is there and then and always going, incessantly arising and inter-arising and reflecting and engaging.  Moments of emphatic purity as trees sing and chant primal rhythms to the moods of the humans, minions of nature, nature itself, jumping about in a newfound freedom of detachment and green uniformity—all this, just as waves lap.

Had Ranger Dave interrupted the ritual, two worlds might have violently clashed, but (perhaps) only one would reign over the other.  Which would be the victor is most interesting to speculate upon but, ironically, it was the authoritarian figure of Ranger Dave who fled from the freedom-mongers (hypothetically, anyway), unable to place them in good conscience into his rigid, fixed, occluded worldview—and not the other way around.  Only one party doubled back, baffled, saw sin.  And it wasn’t the happy campers.

Only one party was/is unaware that there are not two parties, but one—perhaps that’s why they didn’t notice Dave, who stood, explicit in the moonlight, a few metres away from the burning glow, the centre.  The light did reach him, but his attention was elsewhere.

These were degenerates, right here; people of the moon with lunar tics creeping and crawling from head to toe, unable to see the ways of propriety, good manners, decent behaviour—creatures rather than Men.  And so here, the night ran on, the streams of the great Stream rippling and splashing and dancing in the moon and fire-light, nothing else existing but they and their surroundings—and the network of Everything which extends from this.

Dave sleeps dreamlessly, while the travelers dance.

An () –ing

Fused to the ground with new blood running through my veins, I finally felt (at least a touch of) what had whetted my curiosity for so long: a presence manifested within and without, connecting in some unbreakable way with my mind or, indeed, from my mind.  It was as though it had answered a call; my call, which was bolder than I knew.  I had pushed and pushed, slightly further and then slightly further again and now here it was, looming in front of my eyes and all over my world in the form of elaborate patterns, streaming, slithering, serpentine shapes, colours and figures all dancing together as one, intertwined and pulsating as a visual, auditory as well as supra-sensory life-form.  But what I saw and felt were beyond passive psychedelic visual hallucinations.  They were present and active—there was something there, and it had me firmly within its grasp.  There was no longer any choice in the matter.

I had never experienced this before.

Tripping with others always creates an amazing exposure of what I like to call “Pure Dynamic”: the unadulterated interplay of personalities—personalities stripped of their conformities and cultural drapes, allowed momentarily to run and play over the limiting structures of everyday reality—all interacting as one and bouncing off one another in a profoundly unusual and excitingly novel way.  It’s often as though all superficial boundaries are left behind and what remains is a field, a net of being, coalescing and exploding into a new world.  A world devoid of a rather large aspect of regular cultural being, though the latter I cannot easily name.  It comes close to language, but words are still used (they are just used in a completely unconventional and retarded way in the context of society and culture).  So much is implied rather than said; and so much is tacit, rather than explicit or even implicit.  The field is exposed for what it always-already was, but it is stark and fresh—no one yet knows quite how to feel their way around (and this could be interpreted as pertaining to myself and my friends, or perhaps to any experimenters involving themselves in this renascence of what is truly an ancient practice; unlike, say, the ancient tribal shaman, however, we have no education or lore which can teach and direct us in these activities).  Civilised people, I venture to assume, would all experience this new, disorienting bearing.  Many layers, it seems, have been dumped over our organic streams of consciousness; but they continue to flow, nonetheless—even if unbeknownst to the beholder.  Somewhere behind the outer, more evident dynamic runs something much more fundamental, far deeper than the everyday being we can observe, assess, categorise and what not.

When enough is ingested, one can be pulled right in irrespective of who is around.  Maybe I’ve been in this situation; I’ve certainly seen it once or twice.  I think I may have been pulled in at the beginning of this trip.  I had no choice but to experience the force that confronted me.  I had wanted it, though I knew not what it was that I wanted; and of course, I still don’t know.  An inkling urged me to take enough to find this something which had always been there, which had for so many people, over so many years, become subterranean, clandestine, or completely ignored.  Many words can contribute to the description of whatever has happened to modern people; and many have, implying the complexity of the matter.  All I have found, thus far, is that there is something else to this thing we are being; we have thrown it aside and treated it as an inefficacious paradigm, or a failed approach to explaining the cosmos.  So few realise that science, philosophy, theology, or what have you—all these are mythologies, in a sense, too.  None of them are empty and neither are any of them full: these characteristics are limit-inducing and thus have no connection to mythologies, which are in essence ways of explaining the world.  They are lenses, just like the microscope or telescope, through which different people through the ages have assessed their surroundings and their situations.

And so I was briefly grabbed by a much bigger thing, pinned to the ground and forced to see.  Something.  So much movement, so many patterns and interdependencies manifested as an endless whole.  I remember an auditory drone, emitting from a mysterious life force.  It is strange, almost as though the noise was not really there, but symbolically present, the visuals and the sound not really separate.  It seemed to be, at least upon trying to recall it, the sound of the manifesting patterns, like I could hear them moving through my mind’s eye.  Perhaps I saw the profile of a gigantic human form, the size of a great mountain in the clearing, facing sideways, displayed within the entirety of the dots and lines and colours.  And when I opened my eyes I found that I could not avoid it: it pervaded not only my inner world, but the outside too; it was not a dual being, but breached both realms indiscriminately.  Imagine a giant, snatching you from its ground and holding you to a mountain, your line of vision so small that you have no choice but to look into the huge being’s massive eyes.  The gasps and groans my human body made were symbolic of some holy awe at experiencing this thing.  I felt fear, was overwhelmed and completely taken aback, stripped as I was of (presumably) a large chunk of my superficial, everyday ego.  And yet, despite a certain intrigued brand of fear, my fire is now fueled even more.  I want to see it again, to figure out how to handle this state and how to interact with its otherworldly flow.

There is no monotheistic God in these descriptions.  It was “wholly other” because it cannot fall within the bounds of this place, our tentative notions of an enduring “I”, our languages, our signs, symbols or stories: these merely hint at it, some better than others.  Experiencing it is a step up from such hints, because it is looking you in the face and reflecting your own being.  You’re a part of it because it manifests you to you from you but is a force that is constituted by all external elements also.  I am yet to become familiar with this; I sense my words as weak, even being, admittedly, conscious attempts to word what cannot yet, or perhaps ever, be adequately worded (as far as the use of words can go…).  This is stage one in the impossible naming process, though I have come to see this striving as a form of creative achievement in itself, in a sense.  The destination is the journey, the fruit cannot be without the roots; and life cannot flourish without its mysterious counterpart, death.

I managed to wrestle free from this experience, which I now doubt I was ready to have.  I could not face it at the time; and it seemed to be inherently temporary, as though it knew that the first taste would burn the tongue (like Nietzsche’s Ubermensch, it would not be what it was without being initially received as completely unpalatable; this is, of course, how great ideas originate…).  And so I got up and flew away and into a cooler breeze, a comedic flow of characters and leitmotifs, all in jest and with of course the greatest hilarity; everyone their own eccentric dynamic, as well as being part of a fascinating larger dynamic (which of course is, in turn, a part of a much larger one, and so forth ad infinitum…).  Amazing things happened, as they do, but this was of course a slightly more familiar manifestation—not to say that it wasn’t completely unique.  Mysteries were still occurring, because the power of humour is far underestimated.  Nothing is just a laugh; all is working away at something, somehow.  Nothing occurs independently.  All interacts and goes onwards—there is no exception to this.

Quieter words ensue.

Our Lost Native Land (The Room Difficult to Enter)

We, the living example of our own words, drift along in front of others, learn from others: we learn from each other, as well as my myriad evanescent selves—none being static, but all essentially being.  We create a community in the stars, for us each and All to pass through, vivid imaginings plaguing as well as compelling.

This masterpiece takes place at night, in the nearby empty park, where the scowls of more-infested civilisation cannot reach; for the heavens, we know, are a sacred place, and there cannot be overtness of freedom in a subterranean land. 

Only here, within an established society, is such implicit ostracism so readily accepted—even encouraged.  The Kingdom is, apparently, elsewhere.

What is spoken of is not of my own making; nothing is, because there is no “my”; no ownership.  This, right now, right here, is the world—happening.  You are presently it, too.  The world happening (the World Happening) has brought it all to right now; but this does not dismiss human freedom.  Human freedom is the world happening.  The two are One in the same.  I am you, and now that I know this, we can soar together.  If you like.

My friend utters, solemnly: “This…is God.”

Our words create fun games to play and extend only so far.  This does not deem them useless, nor the world a pointless place; there is much to be done, and much will be done.  What follows is creation, a symbiotic force between two mutual intentions.  The result is what happens, both chosen and determined; and in a strange way, neither.

Paradox flows gently, as the leaves of a notepad are turned by a midnight sea breeze.

Stories flow freely in this place.  There are no limitations: if this is possible, surely anything is.  But it is difficult to accept, after all this time; and yet it is perhaps time which has disappeared, left us wanting, craving what we’ve always had and leaving us unable to drift back into the Old World from the New World with any sense of ease.  What would out parents think? Could they handle this place, or should the generations take hold of what was not meant for dissimilar minds?  This question is akin to great sadness, for the thoughts of the ageing and the thoughts of the young can rarely be more than even partially reconciled; this trip, it seems, with all its intensity and consequence for existence, seems an idea so counterintuitive to the modern person’s elders that most of them, surely, will simply never even consider buying the ticket, let alone taking the ride.

This ecstatic theme park, it seems, is too far out of town.  There are no established amenities here.

Some re-discovered the stream, a while back; but most of them fell back down, or were perhaps defeated.  Even further back, many did—but they were destroyed, reconfigured or raped of their way of life.  Few elder minds provide wise counsel in the present day, for we are no longer tribes, but now form societies.  There is little magic here, as it is.  The witches have all been burned and the wizards are all professional actors.  Mystery is largely confined to screens and pages and to a lesser extent within the relatively few minds that dare run their fingertips along its steel gates.  Or it is deemed fiction by the monotonous voices assigned to rigorous scientific truth—the ones whose research is often read about in small rectangular articles in daily newspapers and accept as unequivocal by the drooling herd.

All we seem to want to know now is how the magic trick is done.

Stepping into the clouds is the only way to share these feelings and streams of being with other people.  The attempt that is sober discourse on the topic tends to baffle, provoke incredulity and leave listeners or readers curious but critical—the curiosity, however, is perhaps what draws one in.  How could such a lack of verbal evidence—or outrageously abstract, presumably unintelligible evidence—really mean anything?  But it all makes sense, somehow; the experiencer’s word, despite its reputation, is final here.  Perhaps it never stopped being this way.

Some streams flow underground and only the few natives extant know how to get to the water beneath.  Some say these people are a dying breed, which is strange seeing as they’re the only ones who drink straight from the earth.  It is surely not hydration they are dying of…

The world, happening, brought us here.  But it is not forgotten that we are in control, as manifestations of God-that-is-Earth, of God-that-is-all-things-occurring.  Our compass is broken; there are too many knots in the rope and our hands are blistering more than they need to.  We cannot climb into the sky this way.  There is too much emphasis on where we are climbing to, what is “at the top”, and why we climb.  We are anywhere but climbing into the sky.  Minds are elsewhere and the sky is seen as vacant, empty and impenetrable.  Forgive generalisations; they are too frequently, now, evidence of what is.  The latter is to be avoided at all costs.

The simplistic but convincing understandings imparted in this other (stranger) place, from each other, ourselves and the skies and horizons above and all around, betray an uncharacteristic complexity at times.  I often find myself stepping back after spewing beautiful streams of words from my mouth and retrospectively questioning it all, as I once would have done and part of me does again; for one cannot just leave it all behind.  I am convinced that these two worlds are in fact one world, because my “intoxicated” mind tells me that it could not be any other way.  I believe this mind, because I find it stronger and wiser than my practical, everyday self, the self who has been taught so very much.  The latter is more statistically stable, conventionally speaking; and the latter cannot be dismissed, because it is encompassed in the whole, which I find myself describing in necessarily poetic ramblings concerning the contrast between the Old World and the New.  They are One World, simply with many changing/changeable aspects.  Worlds within World, constituting the world and catalysing the metamorphosis of both World and worlds.  If these words seem like gibberish, or more specifically, like subterfuge, you can rest assured: I am not arguing a point.  All said is in dialogue with itself.

The transcendental place spoken of is perhaps the dark room at the top left corner of a large house.  We all live in this house, but the little room is ill-maintained.  Not many climb the stairs, let alone search for the key to the door.  Very few find it, and even then they are faced only with darkness and soft moonlight from a small window.  Too much has been covered up to make this easy; it is a challenge requiring courage, at very least detachment from all or most that one ever knew, and the acceptance of a battle that will run for all of time and existence: learning what one is and how things exist.  Ontology, epistemology, metaphysics—all rolled into a not-so-neat bundle.  The task is denied often through fear of the Unknown; but more often, I venture to assume, those who take the fatal step meet death in themselves, while smiling happily to friends because they know that God exists, somehow, some way, and that certain ultimate mysteries of this world are not for human voices, human hands—not for human discourse at all.  It is what drives some of us onwards, this not-knowing.  It is what makes us smile knowingly at one another, content that we cannot grasp these ultimate unknowns, but that regardless of this, there is still much to be done here.  And much mystery that can be experienced, too.  The awe-ful lands we reach do not inspire a lack of motivation for action.  The hero or heroine returns with the boon, bestows it upon the people in whichever way he or she can.  We are all heroes and heroines, unknowingly; and thus we all have journeys to embark upon and unique gifts to bestow.  There is no Empire, only perpetual destruction and construction, coming and going—no king was ever immortal, in human form.

But these kinds of thoughts and similar sentiments are largely frowned upon or restricted through fear.  Little is discussed of these places, these teachings and worlds and as such few are taught of their potential benefits.  I will not be heard in the marketplace; still, certain words are not to be received by the masses.  These people have been blindfolded and furthermore, they have been trained to retie their own blindfolds whenever they become loose.  This inspires even more disgust when one has realised, perhaps even sensed the tiniest taste of, a divine force merging worlds within and worlds without; macrocosmic microcosms, finding the universe within themselves.  Why should the dead be left behind?  This is not my taste, not our taste—so why should we be the only ones tasting it?  The food was placed here for all, but some-ones have thieved hunger from the masses and fed their minds with dirt.  We are all treated as lowest common denominators and many tears run from this injustice to human independence, free thought and free choice.

Do not take these words to be conclusive; it remains true that much remains, and little has been said, after this walk into the woods.  It is, after all, just a single walk among many before and many to come.  But there is much to be taught there, in that darkness.  There is pain and paranoia, fear and all things overwhelming, unfathomable, incomprehensible, wordless…but it is all our own and to run is to run from oneself and from the universe confronting, and inherent in, oneself.  This room is full of us; even when we escape to the next room, we await us.  There is nowhere, really, to run.  You’re already there.

Imbalance ensues from being frightened of the creatures within the woods; from not visiting the woods as often as one might visit a friendly, sun-lit park; from marginalising fearful aspects in place of industrially generated, now abundant, “harmless” ones.  This kind of comfort is a spear in each eye; a stitching shut of the hidden third.

We all know our own choices more intimately than any other.  When you run, you know you have run.  Do not let this pass by without knowing that, in time, you will have to face it again.  Running is merely deference.  Evading death deems one imaginatively distinct from the universe; such a one is isolated in life, and will die very lonely and in great pain, without ever knowing that they never were distinct from the rest.

Quieter words ensue.