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.


Assessing One’s Incarnation


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As we move along the unfolding of our timeline in this incarnation, expanding to fill the seemingly invisible parameters of our greater being, the one which spawned us in the first place, at least in the dimension where ‘first’ is relevant, our consciousness shifts its focus, suddenly and surprisingly, showing us more locations for its exploratory curiosity than we ever, in that old, boring version of sanity, suspected.

One of those locations is the sentient being beyond the death of ‘Gordon’ who happily inhabits his afterlife, living to the hilt all its joyous possibilities, while exercising, from time to time, that regret/remorse function, which, by its very nature, illuminates some of the actions, attitudes and decisions this ‘I’ is currently negotiating, to be something less than, say, optimal or ideal.  I feel him looking at the ‘me’ in motion through the days interactions, weighing this present against many pasts and finding increments of improvement balanced against many instances of backsliding, behaviours cultured and sophisticated propped like hats on the heads of the primitive and savage.  I feel him amused by the many trajectories making their marks of assumed achievement according to the cultural norms of the day. He sees, if not completely without prejudice than at least a minimum of it, the relativity of all seeming accomplishment, not to mention the comedies of pride in their ownership.

In ‘my’ perception, which of course, is always partial, I felt his lack of judgement to be more successful than my own, and the progression between the two to be a path that not only would I follow, but one that I could not possibly avoid, regardless of the fears and doubts that might litter my steps.  Obviously I am, as we all are, an actor improvising his lines in scenes already staged, during epochs stoically endured for the eventual delivery of their goods. We knew it would be tough, but when we got here it was almost overwhelming in its oppressive tendencies: whether nature, in all its unstoppable powers, or kings and their consequent armies demanding and controlling, or merciless scything of plagues, we fought a losing battle on all fronts until an early demise was fancied if not exactly invited.

And the paradise from which this post-mortem Gordon peruses the amusing dramas of the many pasts he participated in, either as supporting cast or star, is much the same as the one we all pass through, on the way to the heavens of the blessed which religions promote and propagate, or the featureless ocean of light in which true divinity not only reigns but can be reined by any who might make the effort to merge, which when done, is no effort at all.  The paradise of pleasures proffered and accepted, of joys inhabited and expressed, of desires gratified after long denial, it’s all there basking in the glories of the inner radiance which illuminates all forms, natural and architectural, galvanizing the tendency among residents to call it home, and to dream of it fondly when absent in the rigours of incarnation.

Does he look forward, this post-mortem Gordon, in anticipation of adventures, challenges and karmic resolutions not entirely to his liking?  Does he see the great game continuing on until all options are exhausted, the players played out, the ambitions defused with achievement? Well, as I can, from this limited viewpoint, envision such, I am sure he can also, and probably with more convincing detail.  He has, as I feel out the shadow cast backwards through time from his curious retrospective gaze, moved his focus of consciousness into the sphere of the Monad, losing his self in the delights of reunion, becoming what might pass for ‘a time’, something more than a being endowed with sentience, something more like a sun with its assemblage of planets, only then to return to the persona picked out for the late twentieth century, that menu of attributes that makes up the ‘me’ from which this writing emerges.