…and it’s time for you to begin your master work…

…your magnum opus, your multi-volume exposition on the nature of all being and Time as it touches the corners of your small puzzle piece. Your walls are surrounded by wolves, and your time is running out. Within these walls there are sheep who think they are wolves, and wolves pretending to be sheep. But, outside these walls, they are all pretty much wolves.

The line that separates you from accomplishing your mission and dying unexpectedly is a line thinner than the finest line ever drawn by nanobots. You know what happens if you die before you complete your mission: you will spend eternity slipping further and further into a black thick void from which there is no return and no communication with an other being. However, you hardly know yet just what your mission is.

This treatise, this inquiry, this painstaking child birthed after you were thought much too old to produce any offspring of note–this collection of thoughts are most certainly not your mission, but merely the culmination of centuries of dying and being reborn through a number of distracting lifetimes in which you failed utterly and miserably to remember your mission, much less carry it out.

In all human endeavor there is the will toward purpose and the paradoxical will toward finding contentment with the artifacts of death. A man might wish to help others, but find himself one day selling software that is used by charities to raise money that they will spend (in part) to help others. He can connect the dots by way of rationalization to make himself be convinced enough that his work is on par with helping the blind to see and the crippled to walk. Once absolved of any lingering reservation about not being precise enough in his earthly purpose, the man can contentedly take the money he makes in his profession and spend it on earthly delights and treasures.

This is, of course, but one example of how the devil dupes us all into believing we are being saintlike. The man who feels the most guilty about not living up to the promises he made in the last bardo will simply declare himself an atheist, and not try one whit to be saintly or godlike. He will then turn to others and demand scientific proof for their God or gods, even as he can only offer humanist rationalization for being a moral creature sans God.

You are hardly concerned with that lot, though. Even as it’s strikingly odd that so many atheists, agnostics, vegans, feminists, buddhists, etc. will proselytize avidly their newfound sources of joy after railing on Christians for years for daring to preach to them–such inconsistency and hypocrisy is human nature, and glaring blind sides are to be expected from the aggressively blind.

What has brought you joy on this earth has always been the clearing of all distractions to leave only Love itself, and to focus on those beings who live and move through the creator Himself, who need Love more than anything else. A mind that stays alert and focused on this Love is a happy mind, and a rare one, indeed.

Your own mind can stay focused on this Love for perhaps thirty seconds at a time or less, before it becomes easily distracted again by the cares and concerns of both the inner and outer worlds. If you were a master of your own mind, you likely wouldn’t exist on this plane of being.

The gift you’ve been given is a terrible thing: a weapon that can destroy or heal millions at the flick of a switch that is completely your choosing. Once you’ve been made aware that you’ve been in the driver’s seat all this time, letting any and every entity that pops in the car take the wheel, you can’t possibly go back to sleep. You can’t cry out to God, “forgive me, Father, for I didn’t know any better!” God is loving enough that you can, of course, still cry out and say “forgive me, Father, for I am a wretched evil man who can only get better by the grace of the blood of the Lamb!”

But, what you crave the most in all that you do, see and touch, is to be able to return to a state of idyllic childhood, where you were still a minor and others were responsible for you, others made decisions for you, and you simply didn’t know any better. You form strategies of being around this craving, willfully forming blind sides then sublimating them so your left hand knows not what the right is up to.

The other unhealthy thing that you do is make a God after your own image. God becomes wholly permissive of whatever activity you choose to participate in, and you use terms like “he meant for me to do this, this is the way I am and God made me this way.”

How utterly shocked you would be to discover just how much of you was not made by God but by you–through millenia of deaths and rebirths, through choices made where you ultimately perhaps were seeking a birth passage from the womb of a noblewoman, aristocrat or celebrity. Your choices may not have even been so calculating, but simply a series of likes and dislikes have accumulated over Time to make the You who you are.

And finally, you should know that in each bardo you have but three choices if you have yet to carry out your mission: stay where you are and let vastly superior intelligences deal route you to where they will (these are generally of the evil variety, and there is almost never any return from here), make a deal with those evil ones and promise to return to earth to win more souls for Satan, or beg and plead with saints and angels to send you back as this time you will do God’s will and carry out your mission.

In this bardo passage there are trillions of souls begging to be returned to the earth for one more chance to get it right. Just securing passage to a human womb is hard enough. Then, to get placed inside a loving home where you are not molested or beaten as a child, or starved and left to fend for yourself–this is nigh impossible. Finally, to find parents who will raise you up to love and fear the one true God whose son is our Lord and savior Jesus Christ and whose people are the people of Israel, rather than one of the Satanic gods like Allah and the devil prophet Mohamed–this is an exceptional coup. And, as the Western world continues to turn its back on God and desire not to have more children, the chances of being born into a family to get your soul made right grow smaller and smaller with each passing generation.

…needing it all to have a satisfying conclusion.

All is clearly not right yet, and there is still much work to be done. It’s been messy almost since day one, and the process of cleaning it all up hasn’t been a straightforward one, either. The ultimate challenge each day is to know the difference between the devil’s distractions and God’s guideposts. There is an abundance of both awaiting you every time your consciousness comes back online.

You are mostly indifferent to material things, but can be just as easily sidetracked by delights of the mind.

…wondering how much she was really to blame.

You stepped back in time and read the last journal post you made before she left your life for good. Within it, you’d written a brief reference to how you’d heard her crying when you hung up the phone. At the moment of writing the journal, you convinced yourself that she was emoting crocodile tears, a phony show to get you to lay off and give her more money.

But, today you read it differently, and see in your self of two years ago a man not perfectly himself due to the alcoholic madness and bitterness for life not handing him the recognition of greatness he knows should be coming to him. You see a confused girl at the other end of the phone, easily swayed by the words of a stronger personality, while adamantly trying to inject her own independent, strong self into her life.

You see that the malicious actor in the tragedy that unfolded was you, not she.

…and it’s a “begin again” kind of morning.

The winter months are the months that age us the most. We get a taste of the darkness that will one day come upon us when we shuffle off mortal coils and slip into the void of the hereafter. Brains attuned to the hopelessness of the long eternal night demand to be impaled upon every jab of artificial light that comes their way.

A few mornings of the winter months find most souls already bent on preparing for the Great Sleep, and you step out into a world that is empty of humanity and terribly inviting in its cold, crisp brightness. You are freed of all the cares that plague you come tomorrow, and all the lingering anger for wrongs not righted.

You want to begin again with precise jabs of your own light, stabbing back into the darkness. No longer pretty or important (if you ever were), you are simply a lighthouse beacon mustering what little light you have to prop up the sagging tent of life now heavily weighed down by the black snows of encroaching Evil.

…with an idol to worship everywhere you turn.

It didn’t used to be like this, back when humanity was hairy and stank from not bathing, and all of its teeth rotted out, and people smelled like death itself by the time they were 30. Back before there were smart phones, computers, television. Mostly, the imagination had to do the work for you, to get you to fly anywhere but the muddy hovel you squatted in with wife and brats always dying on you. The most beautiful thing in your life was the local church–its vaulted ceilings and stained class windows, with the sound of the organ filling every nook of building and soul.

These days, you can step outside and worship a new motorcycle, boat or muscle car going by. You can worship new architecture dotting the skyline of the city, or worship the perennially young, slinking about downtown from one thumping sex den to the next. You can stay at home and worship at the altar of television, or jack into a billion short movies online, or mainline the latest news from old and new friends and enemies. There is plenty of time to worship the beautiful people who live like gods in supermarket checkout magazines.

If you are bored with all of it you can hit the malls and shop for new objects to worship with your touch and gaze. Always, you can find a million tonics and pills to turn yourself into an object of worship in your oversize looking glass.

You probably haven’t even noticed how inhuman you’ve become, and when you bump into a real human smelling of trash and funk and malt liquor, you know not what this thing is.

…with too much unfinished business on your mind.

You’ve been walking around with a lot on your mind that doesn’t seem to fit anywhere out here. Some years, you can be content to suppress most of it, and hide behind a second-rate life–emulating others who find contentment in the distractions of their culture. Briefly, you can project this stuff that’s inside you upon an other’s fantasies, seeing your magic wrought by a team of writers, actors and producers, then imagining you are some how part of this world as well. It doesn’t add up, however, because you know that what you have is real, and what they sell you is a made-up fantasy bone to gnaw on in your months of heightened discontent.

An easier approach to stifle your otherwordly self is to buy or check out large quantities of books you never read, and simply adore them on the shelf, imagining that inside the collective lot of them lies somewhere the perfect pitch to match the magic inside of you.

Some people go on to become artists of one kind or another. In art, there is an incomplete contentment that is stronger than what other activities provide. A quick review of the objects you’ve crafted or graven tells you that art is but another way to scratch the itch–not a stilling of the beast, a quieting of the ravenous wolf.

You’ve long wanted to create a new way of being for yourself, one in which each moment is crafted like a well-composed painting or poem. In this mode of existence, your mind doesn’t grow dull or bored, because every last little thing that enters it has the potential to be materials for your ever-present, ever-changing art installation churning up inside of you.

You have tools of the body that correspond to tools of the mind. Hands, heart, lips, tongue, eyes–deep feeling–all etching onto a canvas that has no physical form except the one you call your flame of existence.

brief new job thoughts

there have been some moments these past two months where i wondered painfully what the hell i’d gotten myself into. the people are often straight-up robotic, preoccupied, and in love with the corporate life. they are there to make money so they can go home and play poker with friends, barbecue with neighbors, and watch television with families. the weirdness that was mce and uw has been all-but stripped from the environment, and few people are willing to make conversation with you in the break area unless they’ve met you from the team you’re on, or an affiliated team.

and, this is supposed to be one of the less-corporate corporations to go and work for in austin.

i had a lot of moments where i felt like everyone around me knew as much or more than i did about the things i’m supposed to be the expert at–and i’m basically just hired on to be a code and button-pushing monkey–a glorified typist of sorts.

i had moments of doubt getting stuck in traffic on 183 after an already long day, and knowing poor taffy is spending way too much time locked up in her crate.

things have started to get better, though. i’ve had some breakthrough moments–not huge ones like at uw or mce where people treated me like a supergenius, but, moments of respect where it’s clear i can offer something beyond gruntwork to the team.