Suppose there is this child whose heart’s desire is to rescue everything, everywhere. We’ll say this child is a male, and that he’s 5 years old. One day this child is sitting upon a hill in the sunlight, his heart and mind are wandering into the shapeSongs of the sky, the sun and the clouds — and something like an angel comes.

“We hear the song of your heart, the song of rescue. You desire nothing more than we ourselves desire. Take these seeds and sow them, and see what fruit they may bear. They are the tiny toys that can save your world, if any will but play with them. We love you. We are always with you. Always touching you. Re Member Us.” Into the child’s mind, the angel places cognitive seeds, like flowers. With that gesture, the angel departs.

The child goes home, excited beyond his capacity to contain, and certain that his parents will understand this. He is thinking that they will tell the president, and soon everyone will have this Gift. Yet try as he might, he can get nothing but patronizing jests from them in response. They think something is wrong with him. The more he talks about it, the closer they move to wanting to ‘take him to the doctor’. He tries to explain to them that something is eating the whole world, and these angelToys can fix it. They put him to bed early, take his temperature, and try quite earnestly to convince him it is nonsense.

He cannot be quiet about it, however. It is far too important to be quiet about. Now that he has the gift awake within him, he can see the living webs of lights connecting everything. He can hear the talking underneath things. He knows his parents minds directly, in a way no 5 year-old is prepared for. He could heal them with his hands, he could shape matter with a song...if anyone would join and play with him.

Instead, the gift of the angel is a curse.

Some weeks pass. He has now braved open attacks from adults and other children on this matter. He has been taken to a priest, who told him that he wasn’t seeing an angel, he was sick. He is taken to a doctor who sent him to another doctor. The outcome was grim. He was diagnosed with something very terrible that his parents make him take pills for. The pills make him very sick.

Soon, he cannot think of the angels anymore. When he does, all the terrible results of trying to share their gift return immediately to his mind and experience. The only one who ever believed him was his best friend, from up the street. A girl about his age. She said she had seen the angel too. She said she saw it on the hill, just like he had. She told him not to tell anyone. She said: “If you talk about it they get scared, and when they are scared they do bad things to you.”

Now let’s suppose that this child actually did, in fact receive a gift that could save the world, from an adoring angel. A real angel. A real gift, that was merely ‘a special way of seeing things’. In fact, let’s suppose that angels have been coming to this particular hill to give gifts to children...for hundreds of years. Most of the children do not speak up in the same way. Some do and are quickly convinced into quietude. A scant few of the visitors to the hill are adults. A portion of these, go mad. Another portion become prophets, of a sort. There are many outcomes. But most of them favor neither the children, the rescue, the gift of the angels, or their sources. They favor something else. They favor something we might generally call skepticism. One may visit the hill, but not speak of it. One may be with an angel, but their gifts of rescue must be discarded, merely to return with any safety or dignity to one’s own people, circumstances and family.

Suppose that every single child is the hill itself. That we were all at that hill when the angels came with gifts. We still are. There is no place else to be. Something deadly is wrong with our skeptical systems of dissociative dissection. And it’s something that hates children, angels, and gifts. If this something weren’t there, our religions would look nothing like what they do today. They would be about sharing miracles directly, miracles of rescue — in a unity such as we have never imagined in our wildest fictions. One that knows no boundary of logic or class, but is instead the resonance that arises when we are in union with each other and our sources, directly, experientially.

Now I ask you for the favor of one final supposition — that each of us was given a special key, by angels, when we were very small. A key that only works when we put our keys together to play a game that saves each other and our world, faster, any time anyone gets a turn. This is the game the world was playing before we had language. It is the game that saves planets.

None of the adults can believe the children. None of the children, can explain it to the adults in a way that will allow them to receive the gift. Most of the adults who have received it, must mask it in order to survive. Nowhere are any of the gifts being shared. The game that saves worlds, and frees all prisoners — has no players on Earth, because it is illegal to consider such things.

Sometimes, an attempt to share them results in execution, or something worse. Every once in a while, one of the adults from the hill gets famous and writes a book. They make a big dogmatic system out of the gift, and this breaks what they are systematizing.

There is a game that can change a world, overnight. It can end war, and erase the chains of thousands of years of cognitive slavery for an entire planet. It costs nothing to play. But it requires our unity, our curiosity, and our willingness.

Please, let’s put our keys together. Now. There is no better game we can be playing. re Member?

Organelle : Cognitive Activism : Now


"Games of industrial commerce, mechano-penalization, and war have an obvious outcome: they eat the players and the game, faster, every time we grant them a turn at the table.”

— organelle:9/2003