To be and not to be - that is the answer

"We are not born in to this world. We are born out from this world." Alan Watts
Everything is born out of this world. Look all around at the growing things, all springing up and growing out, reaching up and spreading. But only so far as the fruits and leaves die and new ones take their place each year. Each growing thing reaches its limit.

This spherical earth is a rolling, broiling, seething, mass. Each plate heaving and turning, rock and mass rising to the surface, moving, and being dug under - the earth turning itself inside-out, outside-in. Topsoil turned continuously by the worm. The agony and the ecstasy. Being fertilised and giving birth. Living things spring from this earth. Seed is planted and life shoots forth.

Some say there are galaxies in clusters like grapes on the vine. On the earth life burst forth, all various kinds of living things blooming like grapes on the vine.

And mankind born like a piece of fruit on the branch, grows and expands, mostly water. Some fruit falls early, some when they are old and bruised, and are mulched back in to the earth and regurgitated. Nothing is wasted.

The carpenter is branching out...

I have decided to publish a new occasional blog. Read about it here. A carpenter from Nazareth will still be active, but the other site will be a bit more...niche.

The stowaway

Halt your vital search elsewhere for that great illusionist, God. Turns out he was already on board all along.

He is in the cargo hold, hiding among the baggage.

In order to find him you only have to remove the baggage. Of course he could be in one of the pieces, so each item must be opened, pulled apart, the contents strewn around.

Once the baggage is removed, the stowaway is not there. There is only empty space - nothing.

It is in the very act of removing the baggage that the truth is revealed...

Relax - you're already dead

The individual life is wafer thin. Hours and minutes and seconds are peeled off like sheaves of paper and blown away in the breeze. Looking back everything is a distant memory. We can barely remember anything, and what we can remember we struggle to remember accurately. We are only left with residual feelings and emotions, and even these may not be true. We are casting an eye over our own demise.

Every minute has passed away. The walk from one destination to another has happened and is no more. A muddy footprint like a memory is the only evidence of where you have been, not where you are right now. Just mud on the floor, footprints in the rain, even they will disappear. A scent a dog might follow, this too will disipate.

The only thing that exists is right now; this very moment. This instant.

You can not die if you are already dead. Do you believe in life after death? You have nothing to fear. Do you believe death is non-existence? Then you will never die. You are not dead tomorrow, for if you were, you would no longer remember this very moment of being alive. You are aware of being alive this very moment - then do the same tomorrow.

It only matters if we are anxious about time running out. Time can run out no more than life can. Life does not run out. Life is. I am. We can no more imagine life ending than we can imagine life beginning. What was there before life began?

Life is for ever.

What is the purpose of life?

Life has got itself in to a spot of bother. It has turned down a blind alley; got itself in to an endless loop; it is a stuck record, skipping on a scratch; it needs to sit itself down in a corner and give itself a damn good talking to.

Jon Rappoport: The secret at the bottom of psychiatry’s rabbit hole

Retract every one of the 297 mental disorders. Erase their names. It’s over. There is no proof any of these disorders exist. They only have the status of fictions. Psychiatry doesn’t have some special dispensation to do “a different brand of science.”
Read the whole article by Jon Rappoport: The secret at the bottom of psychiatry’s rabbit hole.

Derrick Jensen: Beyond Hope

When you give up on hope, something even better happens than it not killing you, which is that in some sense it does kill you. You die. And there’s a wonderful thing about being dead, which is that they—those in power—cannot really touch you anymore. Not through promises, not through threats, not through violence itself. Once you’re dead in this way, you can still sing, you can still dance, you can still make love, you can still fight like hell—you can still live because you are still alive, more alive in fact than ever before. You come to realize that when hope died, the you who died with the hope was not you, but was the you who depended on those who exploit you, the you who believed that those who exploit you will somehow stop on their own, the you who believed in the mythologies propagated by those who exploit you in order to facilitate that exploitation. The socially constructed you died. The civilized you died. The manufactured, fabricated, stamped, molded you died. The victim died.
Read the rest of Beyond Hope, by Derrick Jensen.