Poker of a Feast of HologramsIt’s just not you

“So I’m nothing!” I sighed with conviction and a tone of desperation in the backdrop. I attracted the attention of a totemic ancestor with the form of a chubby kangaroo. “Don’t worry, it’s just the alcohol. It happens when you are not used to drink a literary infinite amount of it. And she doesn’t deserve all of this. You’ll find a better one.” I thanked the wise words of the enlightened being, but politely I made the point that I was a bit more philosophical, that I was realizing the hologrammatic nature of consciousness and its consequent ephemerality. The big kangaroo frowned its forehead, expressing clear concern and worry and clutch his gigantic glass even tighter. “Oh, so THAT is it”. Ordering another pitcher of Ardbeg, the comforting marsupial drew a scheme.

The scream of consciousness  is the realization of being a being. It is the real birth of mindfulness but it costs the pain of ephemerality and mortality. The enlightened kangaroo continued. We have the outrageous luck of feeling the awareness of being a being. It is the bliss of a second. In that instant when we grasp the illusion of totality, when we pretend of being the sweetheart of the universe. Well THAT’s it. It is really everything. It’s just not “you”. But you attend the cosmic show of consciousness of someone. When you dedicate all your mind and heart to a divinity, we are actually drinking all the most beautiful dedication and worshipping and even more. We breathe horizons of bliss destined to the infinite, supreme beings of the universe. We do when we simply are ourselves, when we spend one minute in thinking that we know we are alive. The trick is that, again, it’s not you. When you are able to clean the stage from the biographical pettiness of your actual worries and aspirations and start to

clean your mind to leave room for the infinite compassion of the Celtic Virgins, and the lady always ready to feel for YOUR pain, Mary and the Fairy with Turquoise hair, and the nurse that is changing your delirious sheets, when you make your awareness the temple to worship this compassion, when you leave the temple empty, that is when you get it.

 

Feel the extension without limits of the new gods, replacing infinite spaces of divinity from the old ones. Doesn't it sound cool, does it? Well, it’s always you. Not the biographical, passportish you, not the physical person that is associated with your national insurance. But at the same time it is the collection of your personal and private memory: you need to travel across your own experience, the small moments when you learn to walk, the large hug of mother when you fall down, the birthday party, school, writing nonsense that slightly does acquire sense, playing with the other kids, kicking the ball from noon to dusk.

The particulars are yours. It’s just not a matter of ownership. You don’t have it. You don’t have yourself. It’s only when you lose yourself, that you find yourself. Thank you giant kangaroo, nice that you like Depeche Mode too.

So bitter and so sweet. Probably it’s the second pitcher of whiskey. But there is some wisdom in this projections of identity. If my consciousness it’s not me, but the hologram of narratives surrounding me, it means that my own certainty of being here is no more real than the existence of Pinocchio.

Oh, Hi bro, here you were!    

A feast of holograms Part2:Guess the fictional one

Desponded but with a pitcher of Ardbeg in my hand, I was mumbling on Granpa’s revelations. Now, image I’m sitting with you where you are. What’s wrong in my train of thought? We have Pinocchio, my grandfather and some very good, inspiring beings, including a guy who pretends to be: the son of god, your brother and god. Either we are experiencing some logical holiday, or it is a poetic expression to say that we are all brother and all divine, or the Catholic theology is right and THIS bread IS really MEAT.

Well, divinities can be substantial entity, they can weight and talk and sweat ( and swear).

Or they are projections. Ah, projections. In Sri Lanka I was reflecting about offers on a temple's altar: they give "real" rice to their projected divinities. And who’s benefiting from this superstition? Ants, banqueting on the combined offers for Hindu gods and Buddhist deities. Oh yeah, just projections. And your offer has been physically devoured. You bring an offer in the form of a meal and that lunch is eaten.
Job done.  

OK, so projections are misallocated attributions?

I wish I could slap you so hard…Focus!

We have: Pinocchio, Jesus and my Granpa. Who is fictional? I swear I know my grandfather was a real person. I really met him, many times. I ate his chocolate, listened patiently to his rants against the government. I said farewell to him when it was time and I wasn’t there when he died. But he was a real person.

Now for Pinocchio. Pinocchio is real as Nikolay Stavrogin is. I’m very fond of the writings of Dostoevsky. I know his characters, their psychology. What I mean it’s not just that I have knowledge of their lines in the books, their role in the plot, their fictional function. I know them as persons. “Impossible”. Slap.

I immersed myself in the Dostoevsky world. He was a genius in giving impressions and feeling. He made more than an effort to be comprehensible. Actually he dug very deep in human nature, in YOUR human nature, so that your deep, petty feelings, your ridiculous ambitions, but also your great heart or your unconditioned love, could be in tune with the story. He was trailing YOUR thought so you could pulse with his story. 

That is why his characters are not living on the moon: they are figures of real persons. Do I know everything of what Stavrogin did when it is not told in the book? No. But the same stands for my friends, my relatives, my love. After vodka, myself. I know enough Stavrogin to know him personally, to know the depth of his psychology as I would for a person I meet in the real world. But Stavrogin is a fictional character, is “bi-dimensional”! He is just a string of deeds and lines. Double slap.

No.

(to be continued...) 

A feast of Holograms: “I am” she criedUnexpected trail of ancestors

Last evening I was having a spliff with my friend Pinocchio. I’m not comfortable with this, since smoking for a wooden puppet is not always safe and wise, but what can you do? We were seated just outside our local, the only pub open on the dark side of the moon. You know, it’s a quite deep provincial place: nothing happens and you resort to hallucinate yourself to feel of being alive. A bit like everybody in every other shit hole everywhere else…

So finally we decided to do something and with a bit of arrogance, lack of alternatives and high dosage of psychotropic substance in our blood, we made a move to the swankiest club on the moon: the ENBELAUSOCLU or the Enlightened Being Labour Union Social Club. They meet only after work, but since they are enlightened beings, well, it runs non-stop. And with that I mean, eternally.

So Pinocchio and I stepped in and…well with our great surprise at the moment, but not very much with hindsight if you consider the exact character of the patrons, they welcomed us wholeheartedly, genuinely and without a hitch whatsoever. Immediately we have been introduced to all the guys and would you image what is the most common greeting among enlightened beings? Exactly! “Hi bro”. 

But again, you should expect they are pretty cool. Pinocchio and I,feeling more and more confident, decided to hit the bar, almost unconsciously. And guess what? There was one! And a magnificent type I must say. A bit like the Graal in Indiana Jones, it is not a posh, Dubaiesque, super-fashion kind of parlour, but a frank, efficient saloon. Why so good? It has everything! Seriously: Ardberg, Beluga, Morellino but also Arnais, Lison, Exmoor Beast, or even Priorat. 

Why magnificent? 

Open bar. 

Yes my friend, I had almost to console Pinocchio: he was in tears, sobbing like a child, which is funny because all its joints were clinking like maracas. 

Anyway, we were sipping a Chianti in our pint glasses, when we finally started to look at the amazing frequenters of the place.

There was literally everybody: at least a couple of dozen of Buddhas, Bayazid in great shape, JC, a couple of very pale Celtic virgins, a handful of shamans, several totemic ancestors, two VERY old guys, Wittgenstein (probably the most unease one in the place: not a smile), Madiba, Quetzalcoatl. I was staring at all these wonderful souls in a state of admiration and confusion, when suddenly I spotted Granpa. MY Granpa, walking arm in arm with the Fairy with the Turquoise hair. Don’t take me wrong, my grandfather was a nice man, a generous, solid elementary teacher. But his biggest accomplishment towards universal harmony was to have deserted the army during the war. Twice, the same war.

I shouted with a piercing voice “Granny, wa'dayuidduing here?”. I fainted, probably because of the strong emotion and also for the firm slap from one of the druids (with a fish). 

Bad vibes are fairly matched in the ENBELAUSOCLU. 

Patronizing with ancestors, fault.

When finally I could start a conversation, Guanyin was sweaping my forehead with a wet towel, and obviously my first uttered expression was: “Thank you”. 

If only I could remember to start that way always! 

Damn! 

But not always the Goddess of Mercy is refreshing your deranged head. Fair point. Anyway: back to the story.

First: start with “turning off the light” with my ear. Basically twisting my auricular devices till crying. Then he commenced to share wisdom with amiability. Remembering that enlightenment is mainly a low profile: if you are too focused in stating that you are enlightened, good chances you are not. No reason why your old ones shouldn't be enlisted. 

Second: enlightenment is not about super powers, your neighbor with lawnmower could be one. Just not likely. 

Third: have you smoked again with Pinocchio? I told you it’s not good, especially for him, since it’s a wooden puppet. 

Fourth: we are all living beings and enlightenment is first and foremost being aware of being a being. We started many years ago (many) with some protein chains. 

They weren't aware. 

Long story short: some “things” of matter started to be aware of their own presence. AKA: first mindfulnessed ancestors (thank you totemic uncles). Enlightenment is a cherry on consciousness. So all your lineage till the first ancestors, are actually telling you something about the light of being. Don’t be surprised then to see relatives in this cognitive heaven.

At this point me and Granpa went on different paths. Literally. I wasn't convinced and he took the Fairy with Turquoise hair somewhere. 

I had to talk to Pinocchio quickly. But where was he gone? 

Desperation, abandon, loneliness. 

Many questions, few twists and irremediably here’s the bar.