When you're trapped on a planet that's spiraling down towards a flooded field full of ethanol corn like a Boeing 797 in a hailstorm, it's nice to know you have some nice things to look at in the seat pocket in front of you.  The ground may still be a ways down there, miles even, but my, aren't those tiny dots starting to look less like ants and more like........................................giant ants?

Yikes!  Maybe not..........but there are lots of scary things down there, namely people.  And we've been getting bigger for a while.........  The most dangerous animal in the jungle, dammit. 

But heck, we mean well, and who's to judge anything but judgment itself?

Trapped as I feel in this plane, descending, I look around- most of the other passengers are snoozing, but mostly staring into the digital void.  Some are freaking out, trying to get the pilot's attention-

Sorry lady, by there ain't no pilot.  We are the gods and goddesses we pray for- but we still can't land this giant, groaning 797.   A long shot at best.

Fuck. 

But, it's o.k.  Read this, and be comforted, if like me, you're a bit freaked.  If you're not freaked, well, put down In Flight magazine and start screaming!  Biggest amusement park in the solar system, this is, the Drama Queen of planetary spheres...........

Anyway, from what I can gather from many years skeptical inquiry, it's basically right on, clothed as it were as a classic:

Here in this world our bodies are dual; physical, which we can see and touch; etheric, which we cannot sense with our physical organs. These two bodies interpenetrate each other, but the etheric is the permanent, enduring one, the etheric mind being the abode of our memory, personality, and all those qualities which make up our character. Those qualities pertain to the etheric. The mind never grows old, only the brain -- the mind's instrument -- which becomes impaired as the physical body grows old. Nothing we have learned, no intellectual wealth acquired, is ever lost.

 

Here we lose, in time, the power of expression; but this is due to the physical instrument ceasing to function with its aforetime precision. When, after the death change, the worn-out garment is laid aside, we stand, clothed in an etheric body, in our new abode. Freed from the limitations of the physical, our faculties are clear and movements more rapid. In the change we lose nothing of value; we are still ourselves in form and feature, in thought and action. Those who have lost arms or legs will have them again, as it was only the physical which was lost, and the same with all the other bodily disabilities. [Findlay's footnote: The individual mind in the etheric world obtains in time such control over the etheric body that bodily deformations can be removed and cured by thought.] The physical is but the covering; it is continually wasting away and being renewed by the blood, which is another proof that there is a permanent structure to which physical matter is attached.

 

The child who leaves this earth as such grows to manhood or womanhood, and when this stage is reached remains a fully-grown developed man or woman. Old age pertains to the physical, but it is unknown in the etheric. Children in the etheric world are carefully cared for and educated; there they have their schools and colleges; in fact the desire for knowledge is the outstanding desire of all who seek for progress, be they children or adults. And what of the old who die? Do they who live long enough to die with all the disabilities of old age retain those throughout eternity? If we could only comprehend that the etheric body never grows old, but only the physical body, this question would not be asked. When the old and tottering body is cast aside the etheric duplicate stands erect, freed from its outward physical handicap.

 

The old die old only in the physical sense, but enter the next life young. Age there is not measured in years, as time there differs from ours ....

 

The man and woman of average intelligence perceives the new environment without much delay, some almost immediately, on the passing of their etheric bodies out of the physical covering, though with others it may take days or weeks, as we measure time.

 

Our etheric body is in every respect a duplicate of our physical body. This may seem strange at first, and I found it difficult to grasp until I understood the fact that the etheric is the real body on earth, and that from the moment of conception it has gathered round it physical matter, slowing vibration. Otherwise it could not have functioned in the physical world owing to its finer and more rapid vibrations.

 

The physical body is only a protective covering for the etheric during its passage through the earth life. In reality, our real hands here are etheric hands clothed with a glove of physical matter, and so with all the other parts of the body. Our real brain is the etheric brain, through which the mind functions, and it acts through this whether we are in this world or the next. The mind acts on the etheric brain, and the etheric brain on the material covering which we call the physical brain ....

 

We are really much greater than we think we are, very much so; our mind as expressed through the physical brain is very limited, and only when freed from the physical do we comprehend its greatness. Our earthly mind we call conscious mind, but it, and what we term the subconscious or subliminal mind, form a complete mind. Our conscious mind directs our activities in this world, but our greater mind functions in the next. We obtain only glimpses of this greater mind in the occasionally observed phenomena of telepathy, clairvoyance, clairaudience and prevision, and on these occasions the subliminal over-rides the conscious for a limited time and then withdraws.

 

Some day, as man develops, the subliminal may become more and more a dominating factor, but at this stage of our development its intrusion is sporadic and confined to the few. When we pass on, our earth memories pass with us, but slowly they fade and we are guided and governed by this greater mind which has been with us all our lives building up our bodies, performing its inward functions, and making us what we are, though we know it not.

Excerpt from Chapter 15, "Facts We Ought to Know"; On the Edge of the Etheric, by Arthur Findlay (66th British edition; 1970)

Here's a video by a guy named Matt- you've perhaps seen this one- that is pretty damned watchable.  This guy goes around the world and dances his goofy dances on every angle of the Earth,  cornering the market on global dancing, round and round. 


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zlfKdbWwruY

And I've been playing the stranger snap-shot game- whizzing past a car, take a good snapshot of the person inside, mentally and energetically.  Then, as they pass, take that image and play with it, contemplate it, like a sip of chardonnay.  I mean, in a car we're just sitting there, in a comfortable chair, rolling around on the surface of a planet while it rolls around the sun- and that one glimpse of a stranger has more information and just plain human existential here-ness..............than you can shake a shifter at.

Or, for an even more intimate glimpse, try it walking by someone on the street.  Just pay attention, and feel how much information there is that we almost always ignore.  It's wild, but I can do it fully rarely.  Sometimes it feels somehow wrong, as in breaking a social contract that goes unstated, i.e. 'let's all ignore each other!'.  But we don't, really- it's just the river of soul we force underground.  Tapping that could be a geyser or a flood, and a wild ride on the stream of open secrets, all around us, all the time.

Yeah, this kind of thing can be tricky- the question I have to ask myself is how much do I really want to see?  And how much do I really want to tune it out?  'Coz,  once the cat's out of the bag so to speak, you aint' gettin it back in there.............

Well, more blogging on life and death and stuff I suppose.............

'Coz the rest is just rusty nails and asthmatic snails.  What I'm getting at here is my deep attachment, yes, call it addiction if you will- go on, pathologize it- I do- to the Big Picture.   For me, the devil is indeed the details.  Defiance of details soars above entrails- that's the theory, but ground and gravity will conspire.  Oh yeah. 

Those little bastards.

But, I should have gratitude that death and loss are gaining ground, always- because they're our friends, tracking us down like rabid dogs- if, by us, we mean basic, every day 'means well'  vanity, scattered clusterfuckthoughts in candy colored clowns they call the sand-men.

Yeah, those guys. The ones yelling 'Me Me Me' at, uh, me.   And  I want them to stop!

But, they won't- and sooner or later love will warm them into lovely golden aromatic butter, Divine willing, and served up on buckwheat hotcakes with plenty of maple syrup.  Until then, my fears of minutia pale and wither into even smaller minutia, which freak me out even more........

............But then, I remember that home is never far away, if you can feel the gentlest feeling you can let yourself feel, wanting all good things for you, always. 

Last year, when I was coming out as bigendered transexual, I had a vision for a community, the "Mudskippers".  This was to be a small group- blending spirituality, art, and nature.  The idea was to 'follow the energy', which sounds vague and wooly headed, unless you're actually able to feel your own heart and intuition.  I'm getting there.......on a good day.  And, like any community, one weak link can bust the chain-  people have got to be trained, and capable.  No idealistic bullshit- and you'd better know your own brand of shadow, but good.  This 'circle of mirrors' intensifies shadow like anything, and  woe to the community that forms top-down, from some idealism.  Much better bottom up- organically through good and very deep karmic connections, as a base, and thus established, a few strangers at a time might click. 

So, small organic communities- 3 to 10 maybe, and links from there.  Nothing Utopian, please.  Anytime one's out to fix reality, or make it better, run for the hills. 

And a map is nice- fuck this post-modern collection of so-called 'equals'.  Bring back hierarchy- but natural hierarchy, post-post modern hierarchy, not 'oppressor' hierarchy (many post-moderns think this is the only kind of hierarchy, to their confusion).  Natural hierarchy is as simple as the adult driving the car, not the kids.  A teacher leads a class, not a student.

I like the maps- as far as they go- presented by Don Beck, called Spiral Dynamics. 
Here's a link. 

http://www.phong.com/chunks/chunkshow-single.php?chunk=from.2002-10-19-1222-0.txt

And here's a link to what I see as the best map ever made, by my fave philosopher, Ken Wilber.

http://www.formlessmountain.com/quads.htm

Okee Dokey.  Enjoy the summer- oh God Almighty!  What glories have thou gotten into!

Spent some time at the beach, Virginia Beach to be exact, not long ago.  Had a time share condo nuzzled right up to the breakers, 10th floor, and although I grew up a block and a half from the ocean there, I'd never perched so, overlooking.  At night the F-18s come back to base from the carriers off the coast, under the rim, out of sight,  a rising torch exploding into thunder, one after the other, exactly two minutes apart.  At dawn the pelicans surf the rising spray just off the crest of the wave, wingtip scraping, as it collapses down into foam.  Ospreys dive.  Dolphins nose about for the silver fishes that group back and forth in the gathering swell.

Went to see Dad.  93 years the man has walked this earth, or rolled- his new 2000$ chair stops on a dime- literally at times.  Yeah, he's that tight. 

But he's a good man, waiting for one big wave to come and take him out, take him home.  Sitting, sitting, memories sweeping in and out, a sea to themselves.  Not quite here, still not there, like most of us, but sharpened down, close to the eraser, feeling the nub of this life, rubbing rough.

An analogy is like....................uh.........................I don't know.  The sea, the sky.  On the beach all the elements glow, pristine- sun, ocean, sand, breeze and big space................

And here we are, all of us together. 

Time does fly, and times do die- entire worlds kick the bullet and bite the bucket.  But, death is much over hyped- all there is- the changeless, changing.  Re-arranging.  Every Now, and that's a lot- but what else is there to do?

Well, change!  O.K.- that word has been beaten to death.  But man, is it needed, the good kind- the best kind.  Less materialism, more of the Big Picture.

And here's my contribution:  Start believing in spirits. 

Yup.  Start believing in spirits.  You know, here in America you're written off as a New Age wing-nut the minute you say such a thing- even if you might hold such tenets, contemplating them, let alone acting on them- why contemplate the Dead? 

Well, first reason:  dead? maybe not so much.  And they haunt our lives, ready and willing to help- not so much with logistics, as encouragement, solace, inspiration.  The mature ones anyway.

In many cultures, these non-incarnate entities are taken for granted-  the dear grandmother who made you animal pancakes and loved you, loved you, loved you is not just alive 'in the memories' of those that live on-' as Secularists tend to hold.  She's actually still around, very possible helping you out where she can- and loving you still............

Lately I've been studying a bunch on this topic- and thinking very critically, or at least I hope so-  watching a show on cable that typifies some of the Whaaaaaa? factor of curious minds on this subject..........my critical mind shorts out watching it- so help me out here People.  You probably haven't seen the show.........

.............O.K.  So, here's a British medium (Lisa Williams, 'My Life Among the Dead') who takes us out of her house, and her adorable family,  to walk the streets giving readings to strangers, or in her office.  She's utterly sweet, pleasingly plump, sort of like Princess Diana with some of the snappy, fun persona of Liza Minelli.  She walks up to someone,  or sits down with them, and proceeds to give them info on a 'passed over' loved one, speaking with spirits in real time- spouting specifics that click so firmly, the person is usually weeping within seconds,

How?  How could anyone pull this off?

A couple ways;

- cold reading

-confederates

- research

-uncanny weirdness.

Let's take them one at a time.

Cold reading.  This is where you lead the gullible with the general.  For instance, making educated guesses based on dress, manner, etc, and following responses.  "I feel you want love/happiness but haven't had as much as you'd like in life.............." etc.  This explanation won't fly with Lisa- she's way too detailed without any prelude or feeling her way along.

Confederates.  So all these folks bursting into tears are actors.  Frauds.  If this is true, then Meryl Streep is a lightweight.  Robert DeNiro is a hack.  No,  gotta throw this one out.

Research.  In this scenario, Lisa has a crew of detectives, delving into the depths of personal info of her victims, such as what Granny called you as a girl, or the private things like what one's dead husband or wife told you behind closed doors.  How hard would this be?  Quite.  And, you'd have to squeeze these facts from a very small circle of intimates indeed,  if you could find them anywhere-  who would rarely choose to be part of such a deception.............

So, I'm left with two alternatives.  Lisa is reading their minds, on the spot, or she's really, really, in touch with Dead People............anyway, if you ever get a chance to see her show, (2 seasons aired already), do so.  She's radiant and amazing.

Yeah, I'm really interested in this topic these days, and will continue to throw up evidence as I see fit here on Eyes in the Pine.

I haven't been blogging much, and some of you might recall my rather radical forays into the Unknown last year- well, suffice to say I'm much more sort-of normal and grounded, if a bit less creative..........for now!

Change.  Get used to it!

Yeah, been quite a drought here at Eyes in the Pine............here's an icebreaker, and 10 new pics on the photo page!

This moto was taken a mile from the Mexican Border in Californian desert.

Pennies counted, colas founted
All the timely minds of men
will only count to ten
And beginning over once again.

Yet Seven sisters
Straight above your crown!
so lovely in their darkened crystal found-

But this is true, and plain in solar view:
Count every single tiny grain
That lies on bedrock dusty plain
within God's reach
-feeling every time-drenched beach-
Yes, count them all, then, passing thrall,
Look up again-
And multiply the relaxing eye
(know them all up in that sky)

By one to ten.

Now:  finding body deep in bed
Follow where the Soul hath fled-
And counting back from ten to one,
Take one more breath and counting's done.

Trusting the breeze
That takes in the trees
Covers the lake
On wings they do take

Leaving the wood:
Oh that but it could
For every high place
Looks up to Love's face

So sing all your songs
As far as it longs
To settle in air
On a seat high and fair

And longing no longer
To touch the green grasses:
Wind makes the trees
Each autumn that passes

Blown on the wind-
And are we all flying!
Learning to stand
Through birth, and through dying.


TS 

 

Where is the way
More wend and then wind-
Looks like the long cut
Black metal conveys
Thick bodied snake
poison sleek glands
Looks like the long cut-
Time on our hands.

I'll gladly keep walking
To leads and fro-
Looks like the long cut
Racing to leeward
Rain floods and tears
Looks like the long cut
Pacing our fears.

Rhythms and masters
Matter and matters-
Looks like the long cut
Poems lay in tatters
Hoisting a rail
Bright joy of a sail-
Looks like the long cut
The telling of tale.


TSDoyle