In This Harsh World Draw Thy Breath in Pain, To Tell My Story.

It doesn't matter what the story is, or seems to be. It doesn't matter how to-the-point it is. It doesn't matter if the story is about a long, well-disciplined and arduous journey, full of self-revelation, full of rising consciousness from one plane to the next highest, and higher still; for all states are one, all revelations just the energy of thought, emotion and body, and all disciplines equal, whether they seem available to the clever and energetic few or not. It doesn't matter if the story is one of a great seeing all at once, a spontaneous energetic shift of perception, the knife cutting all the fibers of the rope instantaneously rather than one hard-won fiber at a time.

Existence is existence, no matter what its face or quality. That which is, is, no matter what it seems to be. The story, whatever it is, however it is interpreted, is the same as every other story; all apparent beings are equal; and all space and the effluvia that populates it are a seamless whole. Beliefs, beauty, appearances, evil, the universe, and all infinite parallel universes are as nonexistent as a mathematical point, yet occupy all infinite imagined space; it is here, and not; it is now, and never. Identity and ego are endlessly diverting window dressings. Taking the story seriously is icing on the cake. The apparent universe and its inhabitants, the universe and its unlimited possibilities, and the mysteries of the composition of matter are simply not important, although miraculous and manifested for the mere hell and heaven of it all.

Perhaps it all seems very important. Perhaps the goals of life lived are the focus. Perhaps cultivating compassion and tolerance, or rooting out evil and suffering seems to be the most important thing. But no matter how truthful the latest truth seems to be, and no matter how clear the meaning of existence has become, it is and has become that way to something that judges these things. There is just truth, and existence, unjudged. It is that way whether you want it or not, and whether you have apprehended it or not. The wanting, the truth, the being and the comprehension are not what you seek. What you seek is much simpler and pared down than that. It is this, all around you, you, here, now, just as it is.


Brainstorm is perhaps my favourite movie - certainly my favourite for watching unbelievably late at night, in some very reduced state of mind. It has a fantastic premise - experiences are recorded direct from people's brains, and when played back, you can have the same experience that person recorded. It is terribly revealing of some of our assumptions about life and death, personal experience and perception. The leading researcher of this project (played with chain-smoking relish by Louise Fletcher) has a fatal heart attack near the recording device and has the presence of mind to stick the recorder on her head, managing to record her death experience. This clip is that tape - and the end is fascinating; is there really a heaven? Are those images just her dying brain's last electrical sputterings? The ego involved so heavily in the story, and so fearful of its own demise, needs a little hope now and then; here it is, provided by the imagination of Bruce Joel Rubin (who also gave us Ghost). It's freaky! Enjoy.