Strange Ideas About Love

comments 28
Poetry

Once I was mumbling
under my breath
about a feeling
that kept coming back to roost
in the lee of my chest
like a forlorn and beaten pigeon–
a feeling like
I was mumbling at altitude
and couldn’t get enough
air inside of me on the upstroke,
or like I was gonna’ blow my own heart’s
timing belt
if I did anything
too, too crazy…

…like play a few rounds
of Truth or Dare
with Hafiz.

Ohhhh, no, I whispered,
confiding in the air around me
and backing-away slowly
from the very possibility.
I’m not doing that.

Then my head snapped up,
instinctively,
like that of a squirrel
who’d gotten lost
in the discovery of a most glorious nut
and hadn’t checked the skies
for narrow-eyed, plummeting death
in far too long for comfort.

I scanned the room quickly for shadows.

Hafiz was regarding me patiently,
leaning against a door frame
with his arms and legs
casually crossed.

I flashed an awkward smile
and gave a vapid cough
as I returned from my illusory hell
of idle despair and ignominious squirrel death,
only to find I’d been wrestling absently
with the sleeves of my overcoat
for quite some time,
and with only limited success.

“You have some very strange ideas
about Love,” Hafiz said finally.

“Yes,” I replied, as I swore
at the air around me
and crammed my arm
into a stitched compartment
that was both inside-out and backwards,
resulting in a very clever straitjacket effect.
“I guess I do.”

Entrenched in Remembering

comments 32
Course Ideas

For the past six weeks I’ve been entrenched in the birth throes of an industrial project, feeling myself slowly succumb to its eye-dimming cocktail of fatigue and necessity.  I’ve been watching myself sigh in the hallway, crack jokes over the intercom, eat meals with forks unable to spear anything that wasn’t already mashed, and enter a stupor of gratitude when the person beside me stepped out of the darkness carrying a solution– something half-corroded with wires hanging off the side that just five minutes previous had been rescued from the enduring anonymity of a scrap pile.

We pressed buttons and touched screens still protected by their factory-applied films, and nothing happened.  We pursed our lips.  Nothing-at-all was to be our most relevant data point.  We examined the bifurcating field of plausibility in which we stood, and then checked the fuses.  We re-discovered switches and disconnects we’d already taken for granted.    Electronic devices that we contacted for answers failed to report for duty, or if pressed upon, produced streams of nonsense.  We jumpered them out.  Shut them up.  Listened to what remained.  Then we reconfigured them.  We hooked up new wires to check on the old ones, and we stared dead-eyed into the inanimate faces of gauges, with tarps whipping in the wind beside us, wondering which of us was the liar.

Deep in the night, in the fissile period between midnight and the first scent of dawn, an hour or two before the daily onslaught of commuting machines, birds with voices like squawking check-marks hijacked the nearby bridge, filling the air with their signatures.  They claimed it as their own.  Reveled for a moment in the glory of who they are and have always been.  Remembered, like we did as children, when we sneaked through the neighbor’s garden with our eye-patches, capes and plastic swords.  For that moment, that window of time, the wind, the seashells and the tree-tops tucked along the water belonged to those birds again, as they had for countless generations of their forebears.

An hour or so later, a shift change.  We were back on the scene, laughing about Murphy and Occam, buckling our overmatched forks against carrots and deep-fried chicken pieces the color of breast cancer awareness.  We cursed– not at events themselves, but at our collective fall from grace.  Same as the birds.  Same as the car horns, the whistling factory alarms clogged by dust, and the banging together of rail cars down on the tracks.  All of it sounded the same, like a face you keep seeing in the crowd.  Somewhere in all of this there was something we’d lost.

Somewhere.

* * * * *

As the one so appointed, I gave progress briefings each morning, and was called upon at various times to explain how this or that phenomenon could have happened.  We thought you would have known better, they said.  Couldn’t this have been avoided?  It’s important that we all understand the root cause, because none of us can afford for this to happen again.  None of us.

The imponderable weight of commerce bound us all together.

The night before, fifteen hours into a shift laced with an aromatic white-out of curing insulation and refractory, we’d discovered the meaning of a particular resinous vapor.  A cloud of smoke had suddenly emerged, pouring out of somewhere it shouldn’t have been.  Fire alarms in the next building had triggered.  We’d shut it all down.  We’d been on the verge of real progress– had been spinning at twenty-six thousand rpm for several hours– but now the end was in jeopardy.

Only two weeks left, and something you don’t walk into a store and buy had been reduced to ash.

Yes… the root cause

Once you find and correct the root cause of a particular phenomenon, it should never happen again.  Never mind that all of this– all of this– is simply what separation feels like, that every splinter of experience is an instant replay of the choice we once made together to try things out alone.  The birds clamoring under the trestle, the criss-crossed wires, the inscrutable gauges, the gaps in logic, the inadequate accommodation of the unexpected.  The uncertainty, weighted by fatigue, weighted by millions of somebody else’s dollars tied to a particular, rapidly approaching spot on the calendar.  This is simply how separation feels.

Thankfully, it’s never unattended, this separateness that’s only a costume.  Underneath, there’s always the grace.  The way a side conversation steered us away from danger.  The way we found what we needed when we most needed it.  The way someone unbidden stepped in to fill the gap.  The way logos and branding eventually failed to matter, and blurred into something eminently more human.

It’s only afterwards that we see it: the way we gather together sometimes with our check-marked voices to cry out to one another, to rankle, to fester together and wear down upon our shared necessity, to get down to the bottom of it.

To remember.

That Part In Between

comments 66
Poetry

We don’t really know
how it starts.
It just gets sprung on us.
This life.
Suddenly, we are aglow.
In the open.
Sensitive to the touch.
Metabolic.
Molten.
Astonished.
Hanging in space.
Once, after years of an ongoing ruckus,
I reached a certain condition–
a sweet spot just above the wick
where I was something
between a whirl,
a mountain pass,
a coyote’s sidelong gaze,
and a penniless hunger,
all dressed-up as a flame.
I was the bull and the rider, joined,
the movement and the moment,
the joy and the need,
tumbling together.

Then, with Hafiz perched nearby
offering his kind advice on the particulars,
the Beloved puckered her lips
and blew something sweet straight through me–
something decorated with its own butterflies,
the sound of falling snow,
and stories of the sea.
The flame vanished,
leaving a line of cool smoke
that rose into nowhere,
but that feeling came…

…that feeling when your chest swells
and goes dimensionless
and the luminous phenomenon at your center
swallows all the edges of existence
into an ocean of familiar magnetism
and cradles the world in its warm presence.
You merge with distant horizons
one after another in succession,
as if you had been caught and carried
by a wind with everyone’s smile
tucked quietly inside of it.
Yes.  That feeling arrived.

Hafiz whooped and clicked the stopwatch.
Just because.
Because maybe he saw them do that once in a movie.
Because you do things like that when you’re playing.
Needless, of course, when
the bull and the rider have joined.
Some people call this dying–
when the Beloved’s breath
annihilates particular contraptions of locality,
but Hafiz calls it “going down the slide,
like when you were a kid at the park
and your insides turned over
and every thought you had skinned-out.”

Can you imagine a slide like that?
So good you can’t keep yourself
from climbing back to the top,
over and over and over again?

We don’t know how it ends, either.
I should mention that.
There’s a strange interlude
between the bottom of the slide and the top.
And I don’t know if this is who I am or not,
or if I’m the part in between,
but if I stop talking like this,
I’ll get very lonely, and I’ll think
we hardly know one another again,
and my life will harden once more
into a collection of reflective glass shards.

And that’s just no good.
And I like feeling like
a wind-blown secret
lolly-gagging up in the sky
somewhere between here
and there.

Out of the Bag

comments 36
Poetry

This place
as we call it,
so full of needs,
is the silence
turned inside out–
a realm of voices
and wilderness–
as if the crumpled
piece of paper
with our Meaning
written on it
couldn’t be found
by our groping alone
and so the satchel
with Everything in it
had to be turned over
and shaken loose onto the table,
spilling out moons and raindrops,
car keys, a flock of herons,
thresholds and nooks full of lovers
warmed by the act of remembering,
and all the dusty stars besides.

Way back…
before…
(maybe yesterday morning)
who could have foretold
the glory of elephants?
Who would have dared
to imagine such trumpeting intelligence?
Such harbingers of time’s
interest-accruing wisdom,
with eyes that go straight through.
Who could have glimpsed
the rising of the waters, the winged fish,
or those deep-lying, boxy ones
with their own head lamps?
For who was there to see such things?

Who knows–?
but now we are here,
our seams showing to the sky,
sifting hungrily through
lists of ingredients,
recordings of trial and error,
and possible side-effects
stacked like flat washers
on a one size fits all anchor bolt
holding together our latest book
of best practices.
We’re enamored of
marching band patterns, too,
and the winking tones of atoms.

But sometimes,
in the quiet,
don’t you still remember
when you and the moon
were laying next to each other,
touching finger tip to finger tip
in the darkness?
Don’t you still remember
when Everything
was hiding happily with you
in the hall closet,
breathing in your ear?

Thinking of these things,
I’ve come to realize
that so much of what needn’t be said
but is…
is simply grieving.

And here in this place
that isn’t a place at all,
but the contents of our heart
displayed for all to see,
I am grateful for Hafiz
who saw that his seams were showing,
and laughed, before turning
into a moonlit doorway
the elephants cross each year
in search of water.
I think he realized that
spilling-over
was always in there,
that we were always in there,
and that this is what is now.

The Love, if you will, is out of the bag.

A Tantalization of String

comments 30
Poetry

The string had many ends
protruding wantonly
from its various epicenters
of line, curve and catastrophe,
each one of them meriting
careful study and consideration,
because it seemed very clear
to those who dared to look,
that a string with more than two ends
was surely more than one string,
and thus reducible, though
simultaneously such logic broke apart
upon close examination
of the thing itself.
Because also, the string was routed upon
and through itself in ways
profoundly unreasonable,
such that it also appeared to be continuous,
and to occupy some regions of space
with bristling vector contusions
of coming and going and intersecting
of impenetrable, resplendent density,
while in other areas one could follow,
with the proper magnifiers,
the merest of lines
lackadaisically bisecting existence itself–
always unbroken, free of color
and spanning the silent chasms
that lay like unmapped territories
between thoughts, commercial breaks
and those bunched-up circus riots
of split ends, gyres, and whirly-gigs
already so described.

And so…
the problem of the string was tantalizing.
People untrained in the arts of circumspection,
when confronted by the audacity,
blatant disorder, and unconscionable depth-of-field
of the string’s presence, would often ask,
with a great deal of emotion,

how could this have happened?

And they would deploy logic such as this:
I did the same as I have done
on every other day,
but on this one day in particular
the parked car with flashing lights
forced me to step off the curb
a few feet to the right of my usual
point of departure
and a pothole that had filled with last night’s rain
exploded into my face when a municipal truck
bore across my path like a near death experience
on hardened rubber wheels.

how could this have happened!?

Well of course, the circumspect will offer,
a meteor could have struck the earth
near this location several million years ago,
creating gradations of characteristics in the earth’s crust
that when burdened by a ceaseless convoy
of modern contrivances,
have no option under the laws of this world
but to buckle, crack, yield and splinter.
Then fill with rainwater.

how could THAT have happened?

You can see how this might go on for quite some time…
and all the while, people
are crying out for peace.

Yet there are few willing to be satisfied
by the answer of the String Whisperers,
which I think merits careful reflection
and reads more or less as follows:

There is not just one string.
Nor are there many strings.
What seems to be a knot
cannot be seen to offer resistance,
while what is so obviously a delicate line
is the means by which everything
is held together.

So we are left to conclude that, yes…
the problem of the string is tantalizing,
but best to keep a safe distance,
which I acknowledge is tough to do,
when string is all we are.

* * * * *  And now for a musical diversion * * * * *

Waving Hello

comments 57
Poetry

There are days
when the world streams past
like a horde of satiated ghosts
rushing out the back door
of the auditorium–
the show here is over–!
headed to their various ports of entry
before they close.
There’s the empty light socket
in the train station in Dover
that crackles and hisses
between 2 and 4 AM,
and the crook of an oak tree
that’s open for the crescent moon.
It never even knew, of course,
the event was in progress.

They’re strange, these days.
Nothing is bolted down.
A cow flies past.
The sky rings out with sound.
Welders congregate on the docks.
Speeches are offered up on the third floor,
because the first and second are abandoned.
There is a great deal of mulling about,
each in the relative safety
of his or her own mind.
A quagmire evaporates,
then fills back up with questions
no one should ever have to answer.
Then a cow flies past–
yes, the very same.

In the morning,
before the wind picks up,
you can see how every star is an opening
in the blanket covering the world.
If we were closer to the fabric,
the openings would seem proportionately larger,
and we could slip through the netting,
like business travelers.
Always going, but not for good reason.
Just because.
Because events conspire to happen.
Because we live.
And Life asks this of us.

What use is a compass
in a territory that is always
washing away,
turning inside out,
shifting time signatures,
and changing shape?

Our hearts are not for navigating,
but for holding still.
What’s happening mostly eludes us.
Stillness is the residue
of an ancient magnetism
the ghosts whisk through,
causing the safety of our minds
to blur into sheets of dreams.

That cow just flew past again.
I’ve stopped wondering what it means.
Waving hello is so much more genuine.

Briefly Away… Kinda’

comments 42
Course Ideas

Events have conspired to limit my time on-line in the next month or two, to what extent only time will tell. I am working on a small combined heat and power project that is completing construction and will be entering the start-up and commissioning phase, and I will be working at the project site as part of the start-up team. I had hoped to say a few words about this last weekend, but a sinus cold staged an intervention, and so I’m late in saying how much I will miss the regular interactions we’ve shared here. I look forward to being back on-line more regularly soon, and until then will be thinking often of all of you who have met me here to share a few thoughts.

Here is a piece I wrote before being caught up in events…

The Signal

Having lost the reference,
we measure the days
against our selves,
making for seven billion
hungry points of origin.

All those tiny minds
working the paddles
of Nature’s invisible pinball machine
at once
sometimes results in

wrecking balls
the size of our doubts
converging with increasing speed
upon the shed
in which we stashed
our happiness to keep it safe
until the tremors passed

lights in the sky
where five lanes of
pick me!
pick me!
dreams
reached the end of the road
and slammed on the brakes

and legal battles
that are scheduled
to occur via television.

We like to think the pinball machine
is a fiction, until the light
starts to burn out
on the only future we
ever thought we could have.

Then, stumbling through the dark,
we’re left with nothing but the urgency
of our listening

The thing I love
about the signal
is that without time,
you can’t blame,
and without blame,
you can’t project,
and without projection,
you can’t conjure
wrecking balls from the darkness.
You only have access to
the life you were given,
which is still right here
sitting on its haunches
and purring sweetly,
looking out
from inside the cage
chaos made of things.

And purring so sweetly.
But look…
the door is open

I’m learning
not to blame the chaos
in which I occasionally marinate.
Because if you’re falling
over the edge of a cliff,
a little scrambling
is probably warranted.

Afterwards,
I like to remember peace only makes sense
because it’s happening everywhere at once.
That realization reminds me:
I should reboot my connection.
I should reset my heart’s windings
by the drifting of the stars.

Beyond the Stasis

comments 51
Poetry

I’d like to get better
at letting the unknown
flow through me
in ways I never could
have predicted,
so that I can experience
my own nature
in ways that might cause
our experience here
to soften into a panorama
of endless giving,
but the community college near me
doesn’t offer that course.

So I’m taking one
on the typical practices
of automotive dealers.

And sometimes when I look
across the sea, if the wind
isn’t blowing and the sky
is vacant of gathering clouds,
and the horizon is dormant and flat,
I wonder why I’m here–
why I’m so ill-equipped
to recognize the beauty
of a human being standing
on the edge of nothingness,
aching to know it better.
Later, of course, I do see it.
It happens while I’m folding laundry,
or pumping gas
and watching the well-fueled cars
go by like a zillion steel gazelles
who all got the same memo,
but by the sea, alone,
when I’m so rife with myself,
I just flounder in all that space.
The ashes and beer bottles
I find over the dune
only accentuate the point
I’m missing.

So I’m taking a course
on the basic techniques
of landscape painting.

I just have this feeling, though,
that Jesus didn’t take a class on water
before that incident with the stormy seas,
or the one at the wedding party.
He was in some kind of relationship with it.
He said, never mind about
the typical practices of water.
I need you
you water right here…
to become the color of your secrets.

Which is why I think
we’re a fire that’s smothered
by something we’re insisting upon,
and when that blanket is pulled away,
we’ll leap instinctively into flame.
And if I’m in class when that happens,
I’ll probably start crying at the beauty
of strangers buying cars–
the only cars I have to sell.

I say this, remembering how
once I was by the sea when it did hit me.
I took a deep breath
and everything inside of me
sank into the sand,
and I was like a child
pushing against his father, the sky–
wake up, wake up, Dad!
It’s today, and you said we
could get a new Match Box car!

So, I know it could happen.
One day we’ll let the silence speak freely.
One day we’ll give a nod
to what we haven’t tried
and the space around us
will awaken…
change phase…
and wash our minds clean.

Never Mind How…

comments 39
Poetry

Sometimes
the clouds roll in
a few at a time
like spectators
to a barrel jumping
competition,
and before you know it
the sky is bruised,
the waves have run out of room,
and they’re colliding on all sides
like a legion of cymatic vendettas,
or a black body radiation field
composed of infinitesimal ballerinas
and one-way mirrors.
It’s the same way
particles come into existence,
always in pairs,
up and down,
here and there,
whirling, concocted, linked-together, just-in-time–
the connections obvious
because the void is so full of this every-which-ways looking.
But it’s uncomfortable to breath
right at the moving boundary
between life and nothing whatsoever.
You can drown on a teaspoon of water.
So, we’re trained to resist.
We’ve been bred for thousands of years
to take just this very circumstance,
and grab it by the neck.
But oh boy… they love it when you resist!
The waves I mean.
Try and grab a wave by the neck.
Resisting is like
putting your odds on the idea
that you can think faster than God.
When that thought
builds to a crescendo,
Murphy’s Law goes all hyperbolic fractal
and time inside the inferno starts whipping by
like a stiff breeze off the Cape of Good Hope.
Long story short,
one way or another, the waves slosh
over the sides of your life.
You start to sink.
You may start to panic.
But what this poem is really about,
is that you can breath underwater.
See, that changes everything.
If you’ll let it, obviously.
Where we get off track
is this thought we get sometimes–
from being bred for thousands of years
to grab this situation by the neck–
that if you hold your nose
and close your eyes
and sink into the water
and Hafiz slaps your hand out of the way
and secures a fitted mask to your grille
that’s equipped with a patent pending
underwater breathing apparatus…
you say no–!
It doesn’t count!
It only counts if I do it naturally

You see…
sometimes holiness
lowers a bucket from the sky,
but the decision is made
to hold out
until wings are sprouted.

Like we have that kind of time.

All I’m saying,
is that if peace holds out its hand,
crawl onto it.
Let is close around you,
and carry you safely
through strange places
that sound like they’re subway stops
full of totally insane negotiators
that have been bred
for thousands of years
to speak in tongues
and jockey for position.
Let peace carry you through.
Let Love teach you the structure of silence.

Let Hafiz put a mask on your face.
Stop insisting you know
how this works.

A Dialogue on the Continuum of Life

comments 26
Dialogues

This post is based on dialogue rather than monologue, which brings a different approach to things.  Because it is already fairly lengthy, I’ll not offer much by way of introduction.  Hariod and I have had a brief discussion on the topic of reincarnation and whether or not we consider life to be a conscious continuum.  I hope you enjoy.  For those not inclined to read through all of this, at least a haiku:

Crispy autumn leaves
scurrying across the street.
Red whispers tumbling.

A discussion on life and death: is conscious life a continuum? 

Hariod: Michael, I think we both accept the physical aspect of life as a given, that we are not merely ideas, or pure consciousness – agreed? If that is so, let’s see what happens when we tread upon the speculative ground of the after-life, or rebirth, reincarnation – however we choose to couch it. What do you think, or instinctively feel, about this – does anything endure, or is anything conditioned following brain death? I want to be open to this possibility, not in hope, rather in the spirit of enquiry. That said, all such enquiries are necessarily provisional, subject to refinement, and perhaps wrongly put, though with your permission, perhaps we can start with this elementary one: ‘is conscious life a continuum?’

Michael:  Hariod, I have come to think of what we would call the physical aspect of life as the flowering, or creative movement, of a timeless awareness.  This timeless awareness is without beginning or end, and in this conception the whole of physical existence would, in fact, be the product of an idea.  So in this sense I do intuit the existence of a continuum of being.  I would say that we emerge from it and return to it, without ever truly separating from it.  What I don’t know is whether the capsule of conscious awareness I possess today—the identity with which I am familiar and the boundaries of my awareness—marches onwards indefinitely as an “atom” of consciousness, as a continuum of conscious life as it were.  My initial reaction is that it does not.  I don’t think we are enduring atoms of conscious awareness, and I think the idea that we are is perhaps the fundamental misconception at work in the world today.  Yet, perhaps paradoxically, I also would argue against the notion that the particular character, nuance and quality of being that we call “Hariod” is lost…  Hariod and Michael are in there somewhere, as colors are hidden in pure white light, but in the ultimate sense we are all of the same being.

Hariod: So, you’re suggesting that our physicality is a causal effect, not merely of other physicalities, but of what you would call a ‘timeless awareness’; is that correct, or would you rather not discuss in terms of causation? That is my first question; the second is to ask how this ‘continuum of being’ comes to be knitted together as a continuum – is it dependent upon physicality to achieve that? Thirdly, when you say that ‘we emerge from it’, in what sense is the ‘we’ you invoke instantiated prior to emergence in physicality – or is it not? This is the perennially difficult question of enduring selfhood of course. Lastly, and I know I’m placing all the onus for answers on you here, could this ‘capsule of consciousness’ as you call it, exert a causal influence both upon itself and upon your ‘timeless awareness’ itself?

Michael: Yes to your first question.  I would view physicality itself as being contingent upon the existence of a non-physical, non-temporally bound awareness that is without quality or condition, and that cannot be influenced in any way by what may occur in the fields of physical expression.

Regarding the continuum, I want to be careful to denote the possible distinction between the continuum of a discrete being, such as a “capsule of awareness” that we so readily perceive ourselves to be, and a continuum of being that is the whole of all existence.  I think you are asking about the latter.  Assuming so, my feeling is that it is not in any way dependent upon physical expression to be timeless, un-conditioned and continuous.  As all that arises does so as an extension of what it is, it is inherently continuous over and through all forms of existence.

To your third question, I have a couple of notions that arise by way of reply. First, I would simply say that I don’t think a particular, conditioned “self” can instantiate without some vehicle for establishing relationship to other conditioned expressions of being.  This is because it seems to me that in order for conditioned selves to arise, they need to somehow “push off” from one another to come into some manifest expression.  They must have relationship as a vehicle for differentiating and influencing one another.  Whether this might happen before a child is born on this earth, I don’t know.  I think that it could quite easily occur in more subtle fields of consciousness for instance, but I have no direct experience of myself in this regard and so simply don’t know if it does or not.

In the absolute sense, which is the second way I am inclined to answer your question, one might say that each of us is an idea held within the timeless, unconditioned awareness.  In that sense, being outside of time and space, the idea for a Michael and for a Hariod would be eternal.

Now this obviously gets us to your fourth question about influence, and unfortunately by now I’ve made a complete mess of things.  There are quite simply paradoxes, at least in my own thinking, about these questions.  But I would say that conditioned selves that emerge from the ground of being influence one another continuously, for that is their nature and actually it is requisite that they do so in order to mutually come to expression, but they cannot change the ground of being upon which they stand, or from which they emerge.  What is influenced is what is known and expressed within the field of conditioned selves.  What cannot be influenced at all is the timeless ground of being; that is inscrutable – save for its continuous revelation through conditioned selves.

Hariod: That awareness which you describe sounds like the sort of thing that may present itself – I hesitate to say that ‘we experience it’ – in transcendental moments of illumination. It doesn’t delineate itself in space and time, or as a matrix of subject and object, and instead simply reveals itself to itself as itself, not as an object in the mind and without distinctive qualities, and yet in an utterly undeniable way. This is what frustrates a lot of people who want a description of it I suspect.

Anyway, I accept that this awareness exists as some sort of ground-state, or Tabula Rasa, of everything, without which there is nothing – not the presence (as idea) of ‘no things’, just nothingness, maybe an eternal void, although even that suggests spatial form for the void to fill. One can never know the absence of this ground-state, only that it is, when it is, and as it is. In other words: it cannot be remembered. [‘re-membered’ – the constituent member parts reassembled.]

As regards your intuited ‘continuum of being’, then yes, I am of course taking it in the sense of that same ‘timeless and unconditional awareness’, though think the inclusion of the term ‘being’ may cloud the issue Michael. Beingness, to me suggests discreteness and finiteness perhaps? Then again ‘non-being’ suggests absence, so it’s tricky.

Going on to your further point, then you say the ‘self’ has no continuum. I agree; in my own terms, I see it as simply a narrative construct held together and perpetuated by the stream of mentation and memory. It’s a brain-dependent homunculus, and it dies with the mind, or possibly before if seen for what it is. That just leaves us with what to me is the fanciful notion of the soul, and which might undergo some Pythagorean transmigration across the continuum of awareness. I think that concept is nonsensical; a put-up job forged by (man-made) religions and going back some 7,000 years or so. But what do you think; might you and I indeed possess immaterial souls, Michael, and I simply don’t get it?

You go on to suggest that we may exist as if Platonic ideas, eternal and immutable. That would be rather like an enduring soul would it not – an entity not subject to birth or death, as its physical counterpart would be? That feels too romantic for my plodding and arid sensibilities, and yet as consciousness is conditioned, and on the basis that it exists beyond mere physicality, then the question for me is whether the conditioning ends upon the death of the brain. This is one way in which rebirth can be accommodated – though obviously not for Hard Materialists!

This matter of condition-dependency also brings us back to the central question of whether conscious life is a continuum. Phrased another way, is the life of consciousness (as a conditioning, causal stream) body-bound necessarily? Can the conditioning effect obtain post-mortem? If we think about it, the conditioning of consciousness allied to the living individual is not mapped physically with neural correlates; it’s latent and immaterial. Why then, could it not persist – if only for an instant – so as to condition some later moment of consciousness that may itself be allied to another living individual?

That conception makes the elephant in the room disappear. And for clarity, the elephant represents the question of whatever it is that gets reborn or reincarnated. For myself, both self and soul are mythical constructs, and yet the conditioning of consciousness is not. Accepting this conception is satisfying for me, as not only can I do some good in this life, but the possibility holds that those actions – as imprints upon a signature consciousness at death – may do good in some future life. And so on.

This is probably as far as I can take the question Michael – the end point for my own speculations, though I’m happy to keep engaging with your own of course.

Michael:  Well, there are a lot of worms in this can of mine, Hariod.  Your response leaves me wanting to clarify one or two notions.  First, as I mentioned obliquely, I think that consciousness can be conditioned without what we are calling physical reality.  In practical terms for this discussion, I mean that I think consciousness can be conditioned without being directly coupled to the physical hardware of any particular biological organism.  If the absolute is unconditioned, then any personified form of consciousness would be what I’m calling conditioned.  But I don’t think it is necessarily the case that particularity, which is perhaps a better word than personification, requires a physical form to take on its particular character.  It merely needs some vehicle for expression—some means of differentiating a ‘this’ from a ‘that’.

To give an example of this, many indigenous spiritual traditions allow for dialogue with the “spirits”, or the ancestors.  Having had some exposure to one of these traditions, I can only say it would be very difficult for me to argue the experiences of people within these traditions are fabrications, and I would never try to do so.  Nor would I try to explain them away as artifacts of neuroscience.  Though I believe these experiences are quite genuine, I still do not feel it is necessarily the case that what we think of as a discrete ‘self’ proceeds on a long journey through countless lifetimes, becoming one person, then another, then another.  This type of thinking, in my opinion, is predicated upon a sort of confusion of the timeless and the time-bound.

It may be easier for me to try and explain with an analogy.  Let us say the absolute is a great mass of clay, and is sculpted into various shapes.  Those shapes would be particulars… or beings.  A shape could be made that endures for a time, and then passes away, but the memory of the shape need not pass away.  Now the specific quantity of clay that formed that first shape does probably not, in my opinion, remain discrete from the one great mass of clay that is the absolute, but instead falls back into it upon dissolution.  The manifest shape dissolves.  It does not in my opinion continue to stay discrete, to change costumes if you will, and go on to make a different shape in a subsequent time period.  The specific quantity of clay that made the shape of Michael is gone, absorbed into the infinite, but the idea of Michael is never lost.  And any bit of the great mass of clay that is the absolute could embody that pattern.  In a very real sense all of the clay is Michael.  All of the clay was Michael.  For the clay is nothing if not continuous.  Michael, as a seemingly discrete lump of clay wandering around America briefly may or may not have realized he was a continuous extension of all of the clay, but that would be his loss…  He might have fallen prey to the idea he was a completely independent, self-existing being, like so many of his time.

Continuing just a bit, if a person ‘A’ had made a strong impact on the lives of others, there may be some who wish to connect with that conditioned bit of clay known as ‘A’ even after her death on Earth.  I can think of no reason why the great absolute mass of clay would not be able to form the pattern of ‘A’ for such an interaction.  As all of the clay knows precisely what it is to be ‘A’, ‘A’ would respond.  All responses, involving communication, necessitate some mobilization through particulars.  An extension of the clay, and perhaps none of the specific clay that was involved with A’s life on Earth, could respond to this other person’s desire to connect.  And why would it not?

What I’ve tried to suggest here is that I don’t think it’s exactly and only one way or the other.  I don’t think it’s the case that physical body hardware is required for the conditioning of consciousness, but I also don’t think that we are nearly as discrete as it seems.  I don’t think what we would typically think of as an eternal self exists and endures as an independent capsule of awareness, immutable through countless lifetimes, but rather that our awareness is enfolded back into the sea—into the singular continuum of awareness.  If we do have an identity that is changeless—a soul if you will—then there is only one of them and it is all of us and all there is, ever was or will be.  That which we experience within us as this changeless soul is the root of all of us.  It is both Hariod and Michael.

Thus it is true that Hariod and Michael are particular conditioned expressions of consciousness that will dissolve when their bodies die, and it is also true that there is a timeless, eternal well of all life that is both Hariod and Michael.

Hariod: Okay Michael, I can accept your graceful conception as a possibility, and it chimes analogously for me with how the mind works in subjective experience – that in itself might warrant its further consideration. Nonetheless, something within me wants to pull the reins in a wee bit and stick to consciousness (mind objects), awareness (the illumination of consciousness), and physicality, rather than delving into spirit worlds and perhaps thereafter teleological and cosmological theories. I’ve had minor experiences of such matters, but wouldn’t want to erect them as pillars in this discussion.

The outcome of all this is that we both are open to the idea of that conscious life is a continuum; it intuitively sits well for us, even though for myself, I’ve no desire for any afterlife. For my part, I can’t get a purchase on any mechanism for these Platonic ideals of yours – I just can’t envision a medium (excuse pun) in which they’re carried as memorized templates in effect. It’s probably a failure of my imagination – not the first! Then again, neither can I explain my own instinct that the conditioning effects of consciousness obtain across the moment of death. Still, to posit that they don’t obtain is equally problematical, so I’ll opt for the instinctual response.

I’m going to wrap my contribution up by striking what I think will be a very firm note of agreement between us. That’s to say that whether or not there is an afterlife, we lose nothing, and gain everything, by living a morally and ethically good life here and now. I am perfectly at ease with non-existence, yet ill at ease with wrong-doing and harmfulness. Doing good and remaining harmless is its own reward, and if we want to experience heaven, we need not rely upon any afterlife; it will appear as the self dissolves in pure harmlessness. Peace and thanks to you dear Michael, and I’ll leave you to round-out the discussion here.

Michael:  Hariod, very briefly, before I offer my resounding endorsement and gratitude for what is indeed a very firm note of agreement between us in your closing, I just want to say that we have the physicists to help us when our imagination falters…  Ha!  In reflecting on the medium by which conditioned forms of consciousness might obtain in the absence of gross physical bodies, I realized I’ve taken for granted the fact that I see templates for this all around me.  These templates are themes I see built into our world.  For instance, the way particle physics endorses the notion of an active vacuum, latent with information and seething with self-cancelling fields that occasionally give rise to something measurable.  The way symmetries break open and reveal an up and a down, a left and a right.  There is in simpler terms the relationship of the subconscious to the conscious.  Where does all the information reside when not in use?  One might say in our brains, of course, but as a template, I see an example of a latent continuum from which something emerges from time to time for examination.    These are not attempts to say exactly how this may occur, only that I’m infatuated with the idea that nature is riddled with echoes of how things truly are.  That is perhaps a discussion for another day.

I was thinking before your last reply that this would all just be hot air if we didn’t somehow get back to the present, and reconnect to the importance of living from our hearts, dissolving falsehood, and continuing to be more open and loving for their own sakes.  And there is nothing I could add to your closing really, other than to reiterate it.  Despite all we have discussed here, it is in the present, and in our willingness to “dissolve into pure harmlessness” that we gain all that could possibly be gained.  There is nowhere else to gain it except for where we are, and where we are is the opportunity to make the most profound choice of our lives, to choose peace.  Thereby to discover heaven is all we’ve ever been given.

Many thanks for engaging with me here, Hariod.  I enjoyed this very much.  Peace to you also.