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 15 Dec 2009 @ 16:36
"Potential is the eternal element in all experience." --JG Bennett
The facts ma'am:
1.) One perceives actualities
2.) All actualities are potentialities; all potentialities are NOT actualities.
3.) All things potential and all things actual are both conditions that do NOT permit game play.
4.) Potentiality and possibility are NOT synonymous.
-- Possibility is defined by what is agreed-upon as allowable action, i.e what COULD be actualized.
-- Potentiality is defined by what possibilities CAN be actualized.
-- Example: Because one COULD write a novel, simply because that is allowable action, does not mean that one CAN write a novel. Most people do not honestly distinguish between possibility and potentiality because they cannot confront the discrepancy. Nor would they know how to reconcile such a discrepancy, i.e. enlarge their potential.
Outside of any system, all events are possible within that system. Limited possibility only arises WITHIN systems. To play strictly within a system is to not only agree with its laws but to agree that those laws are irrevocable, unalterable and untouchable.
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 7 Dec 2009 @ 15:17
Geoffrey Filbert says he always enjoyed good theater (he means life here), but most people just want to bitch about the agony. Denying or refusing or protesting suffering is a not-isness on the nature of life. It comes with the terrority...and if you look, suffering makes it a far more engaging and beautiful place. The point is to WIN. Of course. But, there ARE other people out there who may not be obsessed with your personal success...
People want life, but they only want the bright side, therefore they have to refuse the whole thing. Then they watch mock-ups of it on TV every night. Yet they wouldn't watch TV if there wasn't conflict, division, upheavals, disappointmenOr maybe their issue isn't suffering, it is...exit. They can turn off the TV. They cannot turn off life (that requires ofun). More >
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 13 Nov 2009 @ 04:07
"How strange it is to be anything at all!" -- Jeff Mangum
Feel that pressure to be just one, single, solitary, indivisible person? Feel the terror at finding yourself a completely different person? Feel that fear of failing to persist through time as...something? The fear of looking out from a brand new place, leaving the warmth of your former body behind?
Today I realized I possess all of these limitations, and they are highly charged. I observed a deep terror seething within me. I brace for total collapse, anticipating the horrible realization that I am someone else; that I am a different person, a different body, a gust of wind, a platypus egg, a negative thought existing somewhere between the Sun and Mercury, a memory, a spirit faking omniscience, a planetary entity arching my love across the plains of my home, a father without children, an orphan, daybreak.
I could be anything because I am nothing.
I am everything, any whole to speak of.
I made these observations of myself amongst a classroom of fifth-graders today. I found myself growing closer to them as result, and growing more comfortable taking responsible for the entire space. Why? I was less afraid to BE them!
We live in a society full of smiling people that worship Charles Darwin in their hearts, and Jesus on the streets. We poison the ones who find themselves without one single, dominant personality. We call them schizophrenics. The psychiatric chemical treatment starts with the contention that these people need help. I concur. But the only trouble is that they are not in control of who they are. They are not willing. They resist.
Resistance is always the first step to insanity. Surrender is always the first step to truth.
BE EMPTY. LET GOD LOOK RIGHT THROUGH YOU.
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 8 Nov 2009 @ 01:09
Creativity. It's one of the terms one always sees included in the conveniently marketable phrases hawked by those promoting the typical rainbows-and-sunshine, New Age self-help approaches. "Increase your creativity," they often say.
For the most part, people do not need more creativity. That's likely what got them in their mess in the first place. They need more destructive ability.
Potentiality and actuality are inversely related, i.e. the more you have of one, the less you have of the other. I discovered this as I contemplated the notion of "infinite potential" one day. The only way in which it is possible to have infinite potential is no have no actuality--no games. Another way of saying actuality is 'rules.' Thus, the more rules to which one has agreed, the less potential one has to play as one wishes. And this is typically why people seek help in the first place. They cannot move/play/create as they wish. Is the answer then creativity? Is the answer to simply create one's way out of the problem?
In a broad sense, this is exactly how one goes from being a god to a dysfunctional, unhappy, delusional homo sapien. For if one started out as such a god, then one's potential was huge, one could say infinite. Armed with omnipotence, a being goes about creating a game. But the game fails. The being created a game and it went awry. Considering the being's creative potential, this may not have seemed like an immediately pressing issue at the time. The being could simply turn around and create another world, another space, another scene, another game that was ALMOST as grand and majestic.
What cannot be ignored however is that the being withdrew from an area in which it was still responsible. It doesn't come as a surprise then that Geoffrey Filbert once wrote that entrapment results from withdrawing from an area in which one is still responsible. Entrapment is limitation, impotence. The fact of the matter is that there is still actuality in place. Since potentiality and actuality are inversely related, that being lost potential. One could even envision it as programming. The being programmed itself to play a game and instead of erasing and rewriting the appropriate commands, it left them in place and moved on to another game. Do this myriad times and one may see a god arrive as a maladjusted human being.
In summary, when one encounters a limitation, the answer is probably not to create one's way out of it. The answer is to destroy whatever is keeping that limitation in place. The weapon of destruction is truth. But one must know how to wield it. The "how," the method of truth, is the process one uses. The process, or group of processes, is the technique, or as it's usually referred to, the "technology."
If truth were immediately accessible, then looking out one's window would reveal the Kingdom of God. But truth is many times not immediately accessible. One needs a technology to access it. Technologies are designed to systematically cut away the chaff from the truth to reveal and then vanish the actual creation, that which was serving as a limitation upon one's potential.
This cutting away can also be referred to as truth, but it is doing truth as a verb. Scientology only used one word to comprise both the verb and noun aspects of truth, and they called it "as-isness." Ed Dawson made this incisive discovery, brilliantly linking "as-isness" as a verb to the the concept of "ofun," one of the sixteen olodus found in Ifa, an ancient religion hailing from West Africa; and "as-isness" as a noun he linked to "oyeku," another one of the sixteen olodus of Ifa. Oyeku is, strictly speaking, infinite potential. What this means is that when one is doing truth as a verb, if one has the appropriate process in one's hands, one eventually arrives at infinite potential. At that point, one is then restored. Once that happens, one should very comfortable, and very ABLE, to create once more. Until then, be a student of Shiva.
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 28 Oct 2009 @ 13:44
Fragment entitled "The Eclipse"
“I can’t just go out and stare at the sun, now can I?”
“Well, you can Dierdra, but may want to bring some salt and pepper with you ‘cause that’ll literally cook your eyeballs!” Eerie fake laughter by both parties. The sound of it reverberates in the young boy’s head. “Just kidding of course folks. Now, there are basic precautions one should take when viewing a partial eclipse of the sun. First and foremost, do not directly stare at the sun. If you’ve managed to get yourself a pair of special glasses, then you’ll be okay. The best way to experience this monumental event…” The boy’s eyes, half-closed and covered in a feverish glaze, meandered slowly from the television and moved up towards the ceiling. Mounting anxiety had forced him to stop watching the newscast. The more he watched, the more the distance between himself and the world of that far-off studio grew less and less. He saw that small reality as one bud, among countless buds tipping countless skinny branches. He had felt himself inside the newscast, speaking the same words as that awful Weatherman who was so clearly faking it. The feigned laughter, the artificial setting and presentation, the plasticity of it all, it was too much. Waves of guarded panic began to roil in his gut.
He shot up from the couch, the blood flooding quickly to his head. He nearly fainted. His mouth was dry and the back of his neck ached. His head pounded and his sinuses felt severally desiccated. Unwinding himself from the sheet, he got to his feet. A moment of total disorientation ensued. How long had he been sleeping? Was this the same house had fallen asleep in? Panic finally seized him. Was he dreaming? He could barely discern the difference anymore. Pneumonia had wracked his young, eight-year-old body for a week now. In these few days, at the apex of his illness, he had lived swimming in and out of a hot and feverish delusion. One thing, and one thing only, kept him tethered. She was the only truth he knew. Praying she hadn’t somehow immaterialized, he set out to find her.
After scouring the house, he returned to the kitchen. He stood up on his toes and peered through the window of the door to the garage. There she sat, wrapped in her peach felt robe, fingers pinching a cigarette, phone pressed to her ear. She was somehow divine in this stark, mundane image: his mother, the Mother, ensconced among lawn mowers and bicycles. She tittered inaudibly through the glass. The young boy stood poised like this for a long time, enthralled and reinforced by the sight of her. It wasn’t enough though—she must see him too. He cracked the door and softly uttered, “Mom?”
“Hold on Sandy…Yeah honey?” She said this in covert exasperation. He tried not to notice.
“I didn’t know where you were…”
“Well, I’m right here. I’ll come inside in a second.”
“Okay.” He didn’t immediately shut the door. He needed her. If he demanded her attention, she would undoubtedly give it to him. But then it would be tainted by an air of annoyance and exasperation; he would be an obligation, not a love object. He wanted pure, single-minded attention, free of any taint of obligation. She must have time to herself…that is, if he wanted her abject care. He shut the door.
He didn’t move away though. There was nowhere to go. The rest of the house seemed too cold and too vacuous. He instead paced around the kitchen, biting his fingernails, a high-pitched longing in his gut. He had brief thoughts amid his frantic desire. The eclipse fascinated him. It sounded so magical. He could sense the rarity and preciousness of the event. Where was she? He thought it so unkind of her to make him wait for so long. Again, he peered through the window.
He watched her talk. She cocked her head back a bit from time to time, taking long, leisurely draws from her cigarette. She sipped her coffee. He stood transfixed. Watching her without her knowledge felt like seeing her…naked. He noticed that her robe had parted, revealing her thick but shapely upper thigh. A hot, sick thrill bloomed in his groin. An overwhelming feeling of wrongness seemed to fuel it. His breathing became short and erratic and he barely breathed, fearing somehow she might hear it. He was fully aroused now and could not wrench his eyes from that gorgeous leg. Everything that was happening was happening inside of a space that did not contain his moral, reasoning consciousness; he forced it to stay at the door. He was aflame now, sick in every way. He had just inserted his hand inside his pants when she turned her head and peered directly at him. In panic, he fell away from the window, beset by a shame and high fear. He was briskly escaping the kitchen when she entered.
“Noah?” The boy turned to face her.
“Yeah?”
“What did you need honey?” She said this with an amused, condescending countenance. He didn’t understand. Why wasn’t she upset? He had been spying on her! Her gaze drifted down. He looked down too and in horror, noticed what she must have noticed: he was still visibly aroused. He quickly looked back at her and saw the slightest, most vague triumphant smile touch the corner of her mouth; it suggested power, delight ….propriety.
“I want to go out and see the eclipse.”
“That’s too dangerous. You’ll go blind.”
“No. The weatherman. He said that you can do it safely, using a piece of cardboard and watching the shadow…” He looked down once more, crying. “I promise not to look at the sun.”
“All right. But let me take your temperature first.”
In defiance of the imminent eclipse, the sun shone fierce, reflecting strongly off of the rectangle of pavement that constituted the backyard patio. Cloistered inside all day, Noah was thrilled to breathe the outside air. A solitary bird traced a line across the blue sky. Noah stared at it, smiling, but whipped his head back down just as quickly. He must be vigilant! Within moments, he managed to convince himself that he had done no harm but admonished himself not to do again.
Recalling the task at hand, he leaned the piece of cardboard, pierced with an ice pick he had found in the garage, against the patio table. According to theory, when the partial eclipse occurred, one would see the small beam of light that shone through the hole in the cardboard disappear and then reappear. Noah waited, impatiently. Just to be safe, he stood with his back to the sun.
With one eye on the bright dot on the pavement, he studied his shadow. Extremely sharp, it made what looked like a human-shaped hole extending out from his feet. What if he fell through? It was a perfectly delineated hole, obviously made just for him. He imagined a stiff breeze blowing him over and he was sure if he did happen to fall, he would fall endlessly, turning head-over-heels for eternity. The sentiment reminded him of certain nightmares he had been having for years. These thoughts should have frightened him but in the midst of such a beautiful day, he couldn’t focus on them. Coming to consciousness, he started. The eclipse! He pivoted, looked up. Three seconds, maybe five minutes later, he brusquely tore his eyes away. Panic ripped through him. Rushing inside, he tore open the door to the kitchen and screamed for his mother. They nearly collided in the hallway. With only his scream to go on, she had become just as panicked as he.
“Oh my God, oh my God! What’s wrong honey?” The last few words came out through a whimper. She was cradling him. Noah just bawled—he couldn’t speak. This tormented his mother and in her fear, she became angry. “Noah, you have to tell me what’s wrong!” His face pressed to her shoulder, he tried to explain—it came out as unintelligible, muffled moans. She put his head in her hands and pulled it away from her shoulder. “What? Goddamnit Noah!” He told her, through the gasps and sobs.
“I’m going blind Mom. I’m going to go blind!” He could say no more and again buried his face in her shoulder.
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