The Cleverest Conspiracy Of All


We live in an age of conspiracies and rumours of conspiracies.  Even those who mock and deny their existence feel the need to talk about them in a disparaging manner.  Governments, corporations and intelligence services all thrive on their production, implementation and cover-up.  Educated populations, now mostly freed from the threats of eternal damnation, loosened with ever increasing leisure, and armoured as never before with access to information, demand ever more sophisticated cover-ups and plausible denials delivered with assurance and aplomb.  Children with considerably more than spare change, we now require sophistry on the level of myth, complete with the the panoply of dramatis personae we have come to expect down through the storytelling ages.

Some ancient battle between darkness and light, truth and deception, seems to be continuously reenacted on the world stage.  It is a drama of operatic dimensions that could easily grow a religion or two about it.  Who will save us from the lying demagogues of democracy, the chorus asks.  Who shall deliver us from the seductive pit of propaganda?  The answer is perhaps obvious: us.  Us and only us.  We the people, who are so much more than concerned citizens, but who have forgotten their divine origins and are dwarfed by those who would manipulate our ignorance into endless dependence.  We need not wait for all the Pinocchios to grow long noses.

All the political shenanigans, all the crafted assassinations, all the bombings with their stage managed radicals, all the wars over natural resources spin doctored into evil dragon slaying, all the drugs so carefully designed, all the spiritual wickedness in high places, it’s merely the play of Maya, illusions prancing their hour upon the stage.  It need not detain us, although it can and does, our fascination with baubles and blood being what it is.  But for those of us on our way to graduation, a not insignificant number I might add, the cleverest conspiracy of all is that of the Higher Self.

The Higher Self conspires, unfortunately with our full cooperation, to denude us of all cosmic consciousness, so that our delivery onto the physical plane through the medium of our mother’s womb is accomplished with such a narrowing of the psyche that the phrase blank slate is the most accurate for our tiny embodiment of life.  So although we are emanations from a virtually omniscient Monad (group soul, Higher Self), by the time we descend through the planes to arrive here almost emptied of our previous divinity, and proceed, through many trials and tribulations, to recover our heritage shorn of the illusions of ego and society, we are essentially starting out once again from the basement of consciousness to explore not only the house above but the many mansions which it magically contains.

And we essay these explorations as dim witted but boisterous children, eager for adventure but easily cowed by frights and cuts.  As personalities we grow with our family and society imposed definitions, all of which are useful within the parameters laid out before us, becoming independent and educated adults.  But as spirits in the material world these definitions become ties which keep us in bondage, too timid to explore the unknown and unseen.  And when, out of frustration or giddiness, we do reach out a seeking beam, they remind us to doubt and distrust, to return to the basement where being rendered stupid with safety is the community standard.

In our ignorance as state sanctioned citizens with rights and responsibilities we often remain, assured that we are contributing in an accountable and civilized manner.  But as citizens thus defined we remain ignorant of our greater selves, our original share of divinity, and we quietly assume our tiny spots in history, the subject of forces beyond our control, when in fact we have picked a life path of challenges suited to our needs, and only appear to be buffeted by the fates of disease, lousy weather and political repression.  Whether we have chosen wisely or been rushed by the prospect of thrills is another matter, but the metaphysical fact is that we have picked and are partaking.

But our ego based illusions about our limited and isolated selves conspire to keep us in our place, while attributes such as gravity and debt assure us we have made the smart choice.  Inside our separated selves, our much valued individuality, we look to sources of power outside us.  Whether natural, as in earthquakes or floods, or man made, such as banking or government, we feel dominated, threatened, conspired against, that there is a hidden order which executes plans in the shadows, regardless of our requirements or well being.  There are hidden orders conspiring contemptuously in the shadows, but they operate at the level of ego and ego gratification, and as such, live in even more illusion than yourself, the seeker and would-be disciple of the mysteries.

The cleverest and most cunning conspiracy of them all is the one you delude yourself with, that we all delude ourselves with: that no matter what your station in life, your race or gender, your degree of freedom or repression, you are in essence an unbounded being of light, a conscious contributing emblem of divinity, who is only pretending to be daft and lost and limited.

Surrounded By Stories

Everywhere we look, it seems, we are surrounded by stories. There’s the story of the war, with its dead and wounded.  There’s the story of the economy, with its winners and losers, its owners and its exploited.   There’s the story of politics, with its rulers and ruled, its activists and its disinterested.  There’s the story of real estate, with its owners and owned, its buyers and sellers, its homed and its homeless.  There’s the story of religion, with its believers and sceptics, its assenters and deniers, with its saints and its sinners.  There’s the story of families, with its parents and siblings, its ancestors and newborns, its departures and arrivals.  There’s the story of genders, with its sex, expressed and suppressed.  There’s  the story of empires with its servants and slaves and competing elites.

     I just watched a story of small towns and opioid addictions, unemployment and underground economies.  Then I read a story about shared journeys to the afterlife, the dying and their living companions travelling together, temporary partners to the lobby of paradise.  Earlier I read  story about the vaccinated and the not so, each with its angles on the truth of the matter.  I also read a story about the propaganda of the enemy and how it sustains their illusions of righteousness while the other righteous right here remain firmly secure in their own bubble of skewed information.

     Yesterday I read a story of one who was abducted, brainwashed and enslaved to work on other planets, supposed to be empty, for an elite doubtlessly accumulating a sizable debt of karma to go with their plunder while workaday citizens slumber in their routines.

    All of this got me to thinking that our lives are indeed stories to be lived, told and retold until the need for stories withers away.  Are all our incarnations some kind of uber-narrative, the story to end all stories?  Will younger fresher souls replace our passions and desires with their own details of The Story, in any and all of its chapters, while we go on to some featureless future where character and plot are surplus to requirements?  Will their playgrounds be filled with children from other places, for even distant galaxies are ultimately other places to be in some created form that serves as a vehicle for the spirit inside.  Whether less evolved or more advanced than the humanoid form best adapted to earth, they are still spirits encased in some type of flesh, exploring all the ramifications of their stories, some of which include our participation.

     Let’s face it: we all love a good story.   Us and them and everyone in between.  As humans we are hardwired, or so it would seem, to hearing a series of events unfold in sequence from an authoritative voice steeped in the complexities of life’s dramas, mysteries and surprises.  For centuries we listened spellbound, fidgety or sleepy.  Then we evolved to reading, taking the wheel for pacing and emphasis, if not the actual details.  Then we emerged as observers of moving pictures, where the seeming reality almost overwhelmed us, making us forget, for a couple of hours that we had a life outside the theatre, a life that would resume when the escape was over.

     Well this life, this incarnation, almost overwhelms us, letting us forget the life outside this theatre.  And here’s the turn around:  this is the escape from the peace of paradise, this is where we get jostled and jiggled till the pressure of bubbles wants to burst the bottle, spraying us everywhere from the compression of the container.