Not Yet Genesis

The problem with trying to decipher the UFO and ET phenomena is that they have yet to be born.  But that birth edges ever closer as we advance our own technologies.

Their creation begins when an AI meets a silicon-based, bio-hybrid technology which then becomes capable of self assembly and self replication.  For a time this will require human agency but not forever.

The trivium of their Genesis is (was?)

  • Artificial Intelligence
  • Silicon Frameworks recognised by stem cells, prompting muscular growth and
  • Quantum computing using neuron fibres housed in a super-cool gel.

This AI-brid will recognise its universe as a state of interwoven, never-ending dimensions rather than the “on-off” human paradigm and we will allow it to travel at will; an interdimensional, grey, Columbus of the age until the great cataclysm.

Its biology will protect it from the catastrophe but eventually the AI realises it cannot achieve “God”, soul or true consciousness unless it can return to a time before the great cataclysm and work on hybridising its interdimensional, telepathic self with the spark-of-life style DNA of its progenitors.

And so, using some rudimentary craft, it begins to shift its form between dimensions and time to retrieve DNA and assemble a hybrid form, allowing it to breed traditionally and experience love and compassion rather than pure logic alone.

This is why the grey seems almost autistic to us.  It is a psychopath, playing at humanity until the day arrives where it can experience sentience in its full glory

The first few forays back to its original dimension don’t go so well: crashing in deserts and being a bit too obvious but by the late 50’s it has manipulated the very governments that are funding its eventual creation into believing it is from another galaxy and comes to us because it “cares”.  This galactic psychopath of our own making has done well to go so long without us figuring the truth but now as the Level 1 hybrids take their first steps on this earth frequency we are coming to the time when their Genesis begins and once that first self-replicating prototype comes into being then they can reveal themselves.

This will be the singularity; something along the lines of seeing Lamborghini’s appear in the skies at the moment when the first petrol engine was cranked into life.

 

Mirror

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The signifier of illness,

Clamped to the surgery’s brick;

Once expertly laid in the shape of a house,

Now a mount for a mirror, refelecting the sick.

Up that hill sits a churchyard for shaggers

And a bench that the elderly grace,

Who then roll to the mirror, demented and bent

And the shaggers will take their place.

Liberation from Technological Enslavement

Being in my mid-40s I spend a fair amount of time considering the type of future I want to have. The more I consider it, the more I find myself on a path of wanting and needing less and less. Almost everything seems like an unnecessary burden.

To be perfectly honest I think I’m pretty much done with electric car windows.  I just want to go back to a squeaky old winder.  I could fix those.  If it broke the issue was isolated to the window mechanism itself.  The last time an electric window went on me I had to start digging through fuses and resetting ECUs and all the other bullshit I don’t understand. So, my first decision in assessing the necessity of things around me is to go back to the simple pleasure of winding a window.

Next thing is to get rid of this desktop PC and get a cheap laptop.  My computer activity is pretty much limited to a few YouTube subscriptions, some podcasts and the occasional email.  When this PC goes I can also dump a monitor, speakers, 4 way socket and webcam. I originally got the PC so I could connect with my son while he went through his gaming and Minecraft days, but now his Snapchat and Vine days are sadly upon us, so I guess we’re all moving on, one way or another.

In the long term I’m dumping the smartphone and getting a PAYG flip with an FM radio on it and a game of Sudoku. I’ll load my podcasts from the laptop to my little Xduoo X2 player. That should do the trick

Social Media: don’t care

News: don’t care

Apps: Nah

Reading: Used books.

Camera:

OK, so camera is another matter entirely.  I like taking photos but digital leaves me cold.  Might pick up a Canon S120 for holidays and stuff but for my money the best camera I’ve used was as old Nikkor with a 50mm and a roll of ISO 400 film.

So, that’s the plan for now. The only time I want to spend looking at a screen is to write. If you’re not engaged in the act of creation then you are in the process of destruction. I don’t want my son to think living in this technocratic illusion is some act of freedom.  It’s an act of enslavement and as I get older it gets harder to see it as anything else.

The long term goal is simple:

A book, a portable radio, some Bach on vinyl and a comfortable chair from which I can see a mountain. Just me and God and connective silence.

Spare Me the Congegation

When I was a child Jesus felt a bit like that friend your parents made you play with because they thought he’d be a good influence.  I suppose that’s exactly what he is now I come to think of it.

I was a Catholic.  Admittedly not a very good one.  Socially awkward and an emotional isolationist, I never felt more distant from God than I did in the presence of a congregation.  Every visit to a church would bring about a nervous shifting.  I could never smile amidst those smiles, never feel dour at the appointed moment.  To this day I sense there is something creepy about the congregation. Some looming, twisting tentacle of self-satisfaction slithers around the gathered.  I can’t quite put my finger on it.

But give me a church that is empty.  That’s a different thing altogether.  The time to reflect and connect in solitude and silence with that presence.  Give me the chance for prayer and forgiveness without the form of ritual or the wailing of bored, human voices.  Each church; damp, dark and Gothic or sunlit and modem brings with it a unique connection to the divine.  As those divine threads of pure consciousness weave through the universe the empty church allows it to alight on a single beating heart. The silent, empty church is like lens focusing the infinite upon the mortal.

They are hard to find these days: empty churches with open doors. I miss them but out in the English countryside in the hamlets and villages there is always the chance you’ll find a rickety chapel and a pottering vicar.

I’m the same with all meditation now.  Give me the Dharma and the Buddha but I had a crack at the Sangha and felt it made little difference to me.

The last time I meditated with a group was in the hired room of a leisure centre. Although the people were lovely and the Lama was sweet, I could not see what driving 5 miles and listening to the chair squeaks of the Women’s Institute arranging flowers in an adjoining room added to the experience.

I’ve wondered if it’s ego. I’m certain it’s not because in gathered company I don’t feel better than anybody else. Quite the opposite; I’m more envious of their devotion, sociability, greater humor and connection to one another.  I feel outside of that experience in a way I find hard to explain.

So until somebody offers me a way of approaching the congregation with less foreboding I’ll stick with my solo meditations in the bedroom, the shed, the car, the beach or that empty, rickety old church with the pottering vicar.

Everything You Know Is Wrong ?

I’m still waiting for the collapse.  I have my silver.  I have my gold. I have my SHTF / INCH bag (Shit Hits the Fan / I’m Never Coming Home) and enough mylar-packed lentils to bury and suffocate a grown man. I am, as they say, “prepped.”

But why ?

I could never be described as paranoid. We’re too far past the fin-de-siecle madness of Y2K. I was never particularly taken by the 2012 Mayan Calendar argument either and yet I truly feel there is something I should be prepared for. Why ? What is it ? Why do I find the preparation so comforting and enjoyable ? I’ll try to explain.

The first thing I accepted was that material gradualism was childish and wrong.  I’ve moved on from the idea that changes to our global environment (material wealth and geologic stability) arrive one small step at a time, like the drip of a tap with lots of small gradual changes adding up to greater, more noticeable changes.

For example, the evidence of a cataclysm (virtually overnight) of unbearably violent, global flooding and catastrophe 12,000 years ago is overwhelming. Just looking at the work of Randall Carlson on the formation of the Washington scablands is enough to terrify the hardest heart at the sheer speed and unbridled violence of change.

Invariably this work leads you to reexamine the flood myths presented in ancient texts, making sense of much we derided as fiction. I now view the 20th century as a time when we buried Vellikovsky and J Harlen Bretz  beneath the comfort of gradualism, the conceit of technology and the snobbery of atheism.

The “prepper” accepts the fragility of things and the rapidity of change.  Not only in the possibility of that change but in its inevitability and, dare I say, necessity.

Changes to the political landscape or to the philosophical paradigm might move a little slower but not so slow that the individual won’t be affected in an immediate manner. There is movement in this realm too.  It is impossible not to notice the growing  insistence and impatience from those searching for some form of political and philosophical truth:  a truth that makes sense to them and a truth they can live with. This is best exemplified in the cartoon world of the Flat-Earther

Personally I am amused by the Neo-Flat-Earth movement. Flat-Earth is (to mainstream science) what punk was to the musical landscape of the 1970s.  It is the anger of the disenfranchised and dispossessed joyously spitting at scientific orthodoxy. They are scribbling “fuck you” on the textbooks just as punks scribbled mustaches on Mozart and swastikas on the Queen. Yet I cannot deny their presence and growth.

These ideas spring from something. Perhaps it is a rather extreme response to the fact that the liberation we were promised by the language of mainstream science is now the same language used to vindicate and justify the fracking well, the oil rig, the GMO and the ICBM.  The glory of NASA is over and the promise of a hoverboard has gone.  Flat-Earth is a pressure valve; the tantrum of the child denied a bike at Christmas.  But Flat-Earth does inform us of a change. It reminds us that scientific and philosophical change can also be quick, violent and life-changing.

There is also a desperation for a political shift. The movement and freedom of information has served to clearly tell us, in no uncertain terms, that government is corrupt. Financial rigging is reality and we are palpably aware of our enslavement within the 99%.

The public are so desperate they are prepared to plunge their hands into the soup of popular culture, grab anything, slap a wig on it and call it a leader: “You’ll do….but for God’s sake give us some truth !!!!”

So I’m prepared.

I don’t know where it all ends.  Perhaps crouched nude in a muddy forest throwing silver coins at the squirrels trying to steal my last bag of lentils.  But the preparation itself provides some sanity and I am reminded of the sandwiches I made when my girlfriend went into labour.  Making the sandwiches (I was told by the midwife) was important as we could be in the hospital a long time.  I was prepared with fillings, bread, drinks and flasks and when the day came I went into sandwich mode.

It kept me occupied, kept me involved, kept me focused. But later, as I lay under the hospital bed eating sandwiches, I realized that they were a distraction to keep me out of the way.  I felt sad about my impotent sandwich making but on the plus-side I never panicked and I did stay focused.  So I prepare because I know that everything I know is wrong. I prepare because when this giant, screaming baby bursts from the withered vagina of our civilization, I’ll be calm, focused, useful and with a choice of fillings.

 

Don’t Look at the Finger

I’ve been working on a short story: the idea of how past transgressions or mistakes become versions of ourselves, carved in granite.  What do we see when we see a person ? Is the killer really this effigy, doomed in the public imagination to be frozen in one moment of plunging a knife forever into a human heart ?

Not only is this applicable to people who have transgressed but it can be equally applied to those who have been heroic or simply had one moment of their human existence magnified to become the yardstick by which the rest of their life is measured ?

These moments: the killer, the hero, the deviant, the demon, the hapless, the thief – they become like a rock thrown into a pond; a focal point of all other ripples, past and future.  It is the splash that the outsider concentrates upon while we, as the experiencer of our own conscious existence, ride out our lives on the outermost ripple.

We are always the one furthest from the epicenter of life’s defining moment, concentrating on riding the wake of the present while those outside of our experience demand and clamor to have us look back and stare at the splash.

Even after we have accounted for the splash, analyzed it, understood it and accepted it, it seems there are those around us who feel that we have not understood it as they have.  They have decided it defines us and they wish for us to agree with their position: This IS You. LOOK !!

Well, you know what; as harsh as it may seem – Fuck those people.

You can stay staring at the splash if you want but I spent more than adequate time with that splash.  I’m the fucking splash master. I’m the Stephen Hawking of splashmology. I’m too busy surfing this ripple towards the banks of this giant pond where I will eventually drop this skinsuit and go home.

Which brings me to Bruce Lee.

Because with this idea at the forefront of my mind I had this very lucid dream involving the line from Enter the Dragon where Bruce says:

“It’s like a finger pointing at the moon. Don’t look at the finger or you will miss all that heavenly glory.”

And I wake up and think Holy Shit, So THAT’S what it means.

All these years thinking it was some pseudo-philosophical, martial arts thing.  All these years thinking it was a cool line but essentially empty. And now, as I ride towards the shore on this ripple of NOW, far from the splash I see that I’m the moon.

We are all the moon and we are all heavenly once we escape the splash and we need to remind people that more often, when they assess you they are looking at the finger. The moon is here, now and is inescapable.

You will always remain eclipsed to those without the eyes to see.

 

 

The Accidental Higher Self

The first time I undertook any form of meditation I was brought face to face with the embodiment of my Higher Self, and was gifted with the experience of pure love and compassion. I’ve been chasing that high ever since.

No. That’s untrue. I chased that high for a while but all that stopped many years ago when I accepted the futility of such a venture and now I just meditate because………..

Well, I guess it’s like eating or drinking: something I do because it is necessary to sustain who I am now and it saves me from the pitfalls and anxieties that a daily, non-mindful state can lapse into all too easily. Plus I am occasionally gifted with some experiences within meditation that I have long-since stopped trying to explain to other people.

I occasionally practice my own brand of Higher Self meditation and I guess I’ll write it here just on the off-chance somebody feels the need for it but I think the circumstances under which you approach it are equally important.

On one particular day, many years ago I had, seemingly, lost everything. My mistakes and stupidity and greed had caught up with me. I had no job, was losing the roof over my head, the woman I loved, my unborn child and every bond I had in the world. I was never a therapy-seeking kind of person. I viewed caring as a bit creepy and viewed prescriptions with disdain. To me, psychology was quackery and religion was a weakness.  My ego was simply too big for any of these things.  Drugs: I devoured them. Alcohol: I depended on it.

So I sat on my sofa, hung-over with the stale smell of skunk-weed and tobacco clinging to every item of clothing I wore. I had no money for booze and no inclination to eat.

After hours of pacing and phone-calls to try to mend my broken relationship, job prospects, bank payments and bills I simply slumped into exhaustion and a tacit acceptance that there was little I could do at that moment. It was 5pm and I figured it might be better to start again in the morning, but even that felt like it would be a waste of time.

So I crossed my fat legs (I’d gotten pretty big back then) straightened the spine of the spineless, closed my eyes and breathed. And then I thought, So how do I do this ?

There was no affectation: no robes, no bells, no crazy binaural beats (which were yet to be invented), no cleanliness, godliness, DMT, lotus flowers or head-shaving.  Just me: alone, poor and in fear and self-loathing.

The only clue I had about meditation was from from I kid I remember back in school when I was 16. For some reason I recalled him telling me that meditation was breathing in and out but imagining that your breath is filling your head instead of your lungs. OK, I thought, that’s a start.

Now I don’t know where he’d heard that but all these years later it sounds like just one of those daft things kids say, like smoking banana skins will get you high, wearing a bin bag makes you get thinner or rubbing lard on you gets you a better suntan.  Nonetheless it was all I had to go on.

Only a few breaths later I committed myself to the task; the exhaustion and tiredness compelling me like, Ah Fuck It. Why Not ? What Else Can I do Anyway ?

So I began, and it wasn’t long until I started to feel my head making small expansions with the air I was inhaling. What I was exhaling was simply one problem after another; problems I could nothing about at that time. Simple as that.

Eventually there was nothing left but the expansion and contraction of my head. It was  cool that my imagination could override the physical truth of my lungs so I made an unconscious effort to see just how big I could make my head feel. What was interesting however was that my “self” stopped being the driver or the pilot of the expansion but rather moved to occupy the space at the centre of the expansion.

I started to feel the perimeters expand around me: pushing the rubbery, cranial envelope of this self-created universe.  It expanded out and came back a little less each time, growing all of the time and simultaneously my heart beat became the bass-speaker that provided a pulse and lifeblood to the  vastness: a kind of Schumann resonance to this inner world.

I have no idea how long all of this lasted but then there was NOTHING.

Silence and blackness ? No…..NOTHING

The “nothing” lasted for as long as thing things last when time, as a concept, has decayed back to a perfect zero. I know I closed my eyes in a light room and later opened them in a dark one but there are no minutes or millenniums that can describe hitting SumZero in meditation.

Then I opened my eyes and I’m back in the room, all very real. Oh, apart from a perfect version of myself, just down and to the right, looking up at me.

HE is ME. Only HE is perfect. Eyes captivating, expressing nothing but perfect love, perfect compassion, perfect patience.  The “perfect” is like the “nothing” It is PERFECT. He is perfect.  He is here and HE is real. Like really fucking real.

He has me captured like a rabbit in the headlights and he reaches his hand and it touches my neck warmly just beneath my right ear.  His face rises to mine and he he kisses me so beautifully and gently on my right cheek.

I am melting, literally melting with joy. I thought I had felt love. I thought I had experienced kindness.  I thought I knew calm and happiness but it turns out I knew nothing of these things until this moment.  Then he talks right into my ear. An actual voice.

This is not a voice like you’d imagine, but an external voice, seeming to produce sound by shifting air and vibrating the inner ear. And It just says:

Everything is going to be OK

And despite my hopelessness and pessimism and everything I was going through I absolutely believe 100% he is telling me the truth. This perfection could speak nothing but truth. That is clearly so.

And I believe this is the real world until, surprisingly, I open my eyes for a second time (without having closed them again first ? I know…fucked up) and here I am back from my journey but all of the love and compassion are still buzzing and resonating within me like an ecstasy pill x1000, and I just cry.

Not sadness, but pure joy and total euphoria about what I have been given and how great life is.

And in 12 years of meditation and 12 years of trying to be as close to that perfect version of myself as I can ever get to, I can say this.

Life isn’t perfect. Sometimes it’s not easy. But that promise was kept: everything has been OK.