Doors, Windows, Walls, and Bridges

“Oh Petey, the merciful the compassionate, throw us a freaking bone down here in 4D and reveal to us, the unworthy, who is the Beast With Two Tracks?”

Before getting into the answer--if Petey actually has one--please indulge me for a moment. Some of you original cosmonauts may recall that on perhaps three occasions over the past year, I’ve given thought to packing in the blog, only to continue my daily upword and inweird raids on the wild godhead.

There are probably a number of reasons why I haven’t stopped, but perhaps the most important one is that I cannot stop. This is not to confess that I am some kind of tortured soul, like Dr. Sanity or ShrinkWrapped, who are sadly addicted to blogging. For them, it is a day-day-day struggle with Internet Abuse--and let's be honest--probably outright Internet Dependence.

In my case, when I first started the blog, I naturally put pressure on myself to come up with something interesting to write about every day. But that soon grew wearisome, as I would be thinking about it all day. There is no way I could have continued working that way while still abiding in primordial Slack.

At some point along the line, I began the habit of waking up each morning no later than 5:00 AM, checking in with a few of my favorite blogs, waiting for my brain to come on line, and then writing whatever came to mind, with no prior thought or preparation.

In the past, I had never been a morning person. Quite the opposite. As soon as I felt like my brain was starting to fire on all neuro-cylinders, it was time for bed.

But now--here’s the interesting part--if I don’t drag myself out of the rack at 5:00, my post starts writing itself. Various unbidden phrases, sentences, and paragraphs start flowing into my head, and if I don’t catch them right away, they just disappear into the ether, never to be heard from again--lonely little thoughts without a thinker, blowing about the cosmos in search of a home. Reminds me of a line from a typically immortal performance by someone who routinely achieved aesthetic perfection and therefore proved the existence of God time and again:

Wind that speaks to the leaves
Telling stories that no one believes...

The thoughts pass through my head, out the window and into my back yard, where they brush against the leaves, perhaps goosing a bird brain and coming out as a surprised CHIRP CHIRP before they scuttle down the street and over the subjective horizon.

Sky, so vast is the sky,
With far away clouds just wandering by,
Where do they go?
Oh I don’t know, don’t know...

I was up too late last night chatting away with my son's fairly liberal godmother (a scandalously tantalizing subject for a future post), but my third eye nevertheless opened at 5:00, when I heard the term “destiny drive.” Then “object of destiny.” Then “successfully amounting to nothing.” Then “your timeless true self is extended in the temporal world in the form of your destiny.” Then “time is what you require to make the journey from God to God.” Then “the soul is all that it knows, but in order for it to know what it knows, it must first unknow what it thinks it knows.” And so on.

So here I am, trying to pull it all together in the form of a post.

Let’s start with the idea that human beings, in that they are in the image of the Creator, represent the unsurpassable summit of nature. To cite a mundane example, take the most beautiful woman in the world. In fact, there is no such thing, because there are too many of them, and perfection cannot surpass itself. A beauty that could endlessly surpass itself would be absurd, and would drain beauty of its transcendent meaning.

We only recognize beauty because we know it absolutely, and are able to judge relative approximations of it in light of that absolute standard. Thus--you will forgive the crass example--there are countless “tens” in the world, but there are no “elevens.” Nor will there ever be any elevens, despite the genetic experiments being conducted as part of the Victoria’s Secret Genome Project. I can assure you that those bizarre attempts to create an even more perfect beauty will only result in hideously malformed monsters. No surgery done by the hand of man will ever make Paris Hilton prettier, but her life will continue to make her uglier and uglier.

I am reminded of another song, this one by the Shocking Blue:

Goddess on a mountain top
Burning like a silver flame
The summit of Beauty and love
And Venus was her name

Her weapon were her crystal eyes
Making every man mad
Black as the dark night she was
Got what no-one else had
Waaaaaaaaa!
She’s got it! Yeah baby, she’s got it.

In fact, for reasons that are metaphysically obvious but artistically forgiveable, Father Roy cannot possibly be correct in affirming,

Pretty woman
I don't believe you, you're not the truth.
No one could look as good as you.
Mercy!

For beauty is truth, as we know with regard to art. A great work of art is perfect, and no work of perfection can exceed any other. There is a limit, a summit, an absolute, which is one of the reasons we know that God exists. Likewise, there is a limit to truth. Truth is true, and cannot surpass itself. It can only move away from itself, which is proved every day by the leftist deconstructionists in our midst. Waaaaaaa!

Now the cosmos, in its own way, is perfect--especially before you humans arrived and began messing things up. As Terence McKenna once remarked between holycinations, “this was a nice neighborhood until the monkeys got out of control.” Paradoxically, the beast that is supposedly the summit of nature is also the most imperfect sumbitch in all of creation, for there is nothing quite so imperfect as fallen man. What gives?

Our unknown friend says that “The ‘good news’ of religion is that the world is not a closed circle, that it is not an eternal prison, that it has an exit and an entrance.... ‘Perdition’ is to be caught up in the eternal circulation of the world of the closed circle... [whereas] ‘salvation’ is life in the world of the open circle, or spiral, where there is both exit and entrance.” Mercy!

What sets man apart from everything else in creation is that he is the very doorway up and out of the cosmos, into the Divine Mind. But at the same time, he is a doorway down and out of himself, and is the only beast that can actually be lower than the beasts if he fails to transcend himself. Thus, humans are the Beast with Two Tracks, and we all must choose which fork in the cosmic road we will take. But only every moment of our existence. For each moment of time represents that existential fork where our will is free to move closer to our destiny and become what we already are, or remain as we are and therefore never become who we are really meant to be.

In ether worlds, only human beings may approach perfection by transforming themselves from the potential of the image to the actuality of the likeness. We are the only thing in existence that can do that, i.e., become what we are and achieve a destiny that both is and is not yet. Our life is nothing less than a pilgrimage toward our own destiny, but we are only free to embark on that pilgrimage in an open society oriented toward its own nonlocal telos. In short, most human beings for most of history have been prevented from even taking the first step of this journey because of the sick societies they were born into.

Perhaps even more tragic are those who are lucky enough to have been granted the boon of a human life in the contemporary west, only to revolt against their freedom by plunging themselves into the trivolous and frivial, worse yet, the sickular and the laughtist.

Well, I’m starting to run out of gas. Having stayed up too late last night, my river can’t quite find the sea this morning. I’m feeling a tad walled in by the cosmos. Tomorrow I will further elaborate on the nature of our Destiny Drive, and how it relates to cleaning your windows, opening the door, and crossing the bridge. Assuming my unknown thoughts are there to think me in the morning.

*pronounced “Jin-gee”

Don't you know, Dindi,*
I'd be running and searching for you
Like a river that can't find the sea,
That would be me
without you, my Dindi