Looking For Our Wallets While They Are In Our Pockets
"Dr. Miller says we are pessimistic because life seems like a very bad, very screwed-up film. If you ask "What the hell is wrong with the projector?" and go up to the control room, you find it's empty. You are the projectionist, and you should have been up there all the time.”
More questions than answers. It is more than likely the actual contactees in a veiled dialog with a parallel realm of sentience are the ones we do not know, versus the ones we do. An inversion of human behavior toward our compulsion toward proselytizing one another.In this we always pose the question of our own orientation in terms of desire as a nexus of acquisition. And so we ask, "What do they want?" Consider for a moment a one word reply. Nothing.
There are plays within plays in the imaginal realm we occupy as a default certainty, illustrations in a child's grimore. Then, if this is so, if we can reduce this sublimation to it's essence, a perfume that remains in the atmosphere of our own innocence being related to the pride of ignorance. Perhaps the world is a creative expression, a wonder wheel, and most certainty a masterpiece of a narrative that we illustrate as characters within this play upon contingent certainties. What do we desire from the spectrum of ghost images of our own world? The list is seemingly endless. If these phantasms desire nothing from their observers then we have on our hands have a very effective mirror of the human condition in all it's recombinant weaknesses.Father confessors of the fifth kind in a ritualized form of a inter-dimensional catechism. Or then again we have the meme made flesh, wherein mind meets matter meets a projection of our cultural orientation toward the non human upon a quantum playing field that serves as an effective mirror to make that which is invisible within ourselves, as an anticipation, manifest. Perhaps these aliens are a wish from childhood....in a comic book of empowered quasi humanoids who will say us from ourselves as well as the evil villains who would do us harm. In this there is no in between, only silence in their response in this masquerade upon our own powerlessness in the face of a lathe.
They come upon us as a uninvited approach, or is it a reflection of a past future, or that of a future passed, or a once and future illustration within a secret conscience, of an alternative orientation toward ourselves? While either recycling truisms within a innovation of context,, or passing an evaluation of our behavior, abstracted cosmologies, bizarre star maps or seemingly prosaic histories that are superimposed upon our own, the relativity of these alleged creatures pronouncements are served with a bizarre corresponding apathy of behavior makes one suspect they are simply telling us what we want to hear and that the veracity of their statements are beside the point.
Add to this their high indifference toward any empathy made tangible in the face of a long history of their benign indifference. In this mirror we seemingly encounter our own better natures mixed with indifference which also mirrors our best intentions as it were in relation to actually acting upon them. Is this simply a coincidence? Or, have we encountered ourselves in a quantum wave form collapse in the mirror of Oz wherein we supply the bias in the form of a mold in this realm where these articulate bizzaro humanoids abound? Such is the imaginal realm. Human Ver 3.1 meets Human 4.6. Much sound and fury yet nothing changes.
We are on a slender hair between dissipation and perhaps our own lesser resurrection as an aggregate sum of our desires, or that of the greater resurrection in the erasure of the natural world. Between these parallels is a mask of our race, a persona we have illustrated, painting by proverbial numbers, while we view "the other", our secret sharer, the stranger as a deconstructive force. One does not easily pose the same suspicions we have toward the alien toward ourselves. In all this, there is the finite, which is a poignancy of courage toward life, our eventual fate, as well as the memory of kindness and one's family ..something that will transcend our frailties in the coming storm regardless of whatever any supernatural phenomenon is at play upon us, we remain human. In our history, this is the silent prayer that we welcome every morning with, we have been given a gift to do what we please, for better or for the worse, for ourselves so may may do so for others..for better or worse. There is no transference, no dispensation we will receive from any non human race.
One sees the purveyor of trifling refreshments in the looming shadow of Mount Palomar in the mind's eye. He observes the crowd poised at the opposite side of his counter as a line of supplicants on a pilgrimage, and he, we see, as a secret sharer beside him, a tall blonde vensusian with a map of an unknown world imprinted upon terra firma, by his footsteps, that the tired feet of the masses lack in their loyalty to a technological quest toward an empirical telescope, while he sees through their desire, through the lens of an entirely inverted telescope,they are yearning for an entirely unseen source of refreshment. As a purveyor, perhaps as one who has empathy with these sojourners, with a sleight of hand in mind, armed in the relativity of our orientations under a microscope,, he becomes a purveyor of dreams, as yet he himself is the product of his own creation, as a dream of one's Self, in relation to circumstance within a projection booth far above his audience.
In reality, in an ironic twist of perspective, unbeknownst to himself, he is seated squarely among us in the theater of the imaginal realm. The flash captures a subspecies of this plight in his aviary, smiling with a work of art, as a metaphor that the proof of the truth by circumstances often create intermediate necessities.This was his masterpiece. The human being with his dream on a easel, should we cast stones? I defer. Perhaps he did speak for us and for them as two sides of a coin.
The imaginal realm knows of no bounds,internally or externally, whether it is the black, invisible light of the unseen that illuminates it's shadow in our sun, or the interdependent singularity that swirls in it's reflection of the surface of a bubble that is form, or the illusion of existential pieces that animate a Newtonian clockwork.
Nothing can surmount the intelligence of the human heart in it's nonequivalent positioning when it is a receptacle, an open system rather than a miserly collector of baubbles. In this, perhaps there is something that these ghosts desire if perhaps they view us as the Hindu iconography suggests, that by our behavior, we are simply monkeys stealing fruit from a tall tree, gadgets, conveyances, conveniences and simply cleverness lacking a commodity they wish to trade in exchange, which is not a technocratic mechanism substituted for knowledge, but rather, being, on a par with themselves. The sublimation of irony in the reflection the contactees gaze upon is ourselves positioned in a world we desire, yet live within, yet being unable to metabolize a coherence within it, we seem to be meeting ourselves on a game field of OZ, where guns and roses are not subject to relativity.
This is the shadow of the contactees desire in daylight, search of a secret sharer by possession, by franchise and a intermediary domain wherein, they as the subject of their own objectification, they reign in a sort of twilight, illuminated by their adherents and detractors alike in this constellation. They are our mediums of desire, our secret sharers in the darkness,as they to their interpreters, the translators of our own shadows.The authors of dreams poised between empirical proofs and a truth that exists only in the eyes of it's beholders, as they themselves author their own variants of a narrative story, a mythology of origins as well as their destinations in the imaginal realm. A dream within a dream, one superimposed upon the other. William Wilson comes to mind as Poe's protagonist realizes his own doppelganger of desire became a ghost which followed him as a mirroring shadow. So may be our aspirations as well.Oh, yes... then there is the matter of being and the intelligence of the heart. Welcome to our world.