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In the midst of pondering the similarities between the disposal of special prosecutor Alberto Nisman in Argentina and the murder of Boris Nemtov in Moscow, both of whom were working on reports tying their leaders and/or governments to massive cover-ups and how that ties in with my conviction that we live in an age of government by gangsterism, where, if plausible denial, fraud, lying, and cunning subterfuge don’t fix it then irritating spot removal will, I came across a book review of “The Singular Universe and the Reality of Time”, another in the long line of theories and counter theories about time and its apparent hold on us poor mortals.
While it can be rooted as far back as philosophers like Heraclitus and Parmenides, the more recent eruptions have come from the field of quantum physics and cosmology, whose practitioners are still debating whether the flow of time is an illusion or actually quite real, a definite quality that nothing can transcend.

Of course, all this ricocheting rhetoric takes mortality and the physical plane as givens, mostly because scientists, other than bravehearts like Einstein, can neither think outside the envelope nor afford to think outside the envelope, as their work depends on funding and the funding depends on status within their community and that status depends on working within the assumed paradigms of the era, and as our paradigms issue from the standard issue skeptical materialism of the last 200 or so years, nothing like out of body travel or memories of other lives is admitted.

These guys worship the brain, the source of their ever-so-clever-ideas, and do not, or cannot, ‘get’ that our human awareness, our consciousness, exists apart from the brain, and that the brain’s evolutionary function is to trap that consciousness in a very small tunnel, where it is limited to steering us through the shark infested waters of life so that we live to survive and replicate our bodies in that time honoured species-centric fashion.

I’m sure they’ve heard tales of what that consciousness can accomplish when liberated from the perceivable forms of biological mechanisms, but they choose not to believe it, as their equipment cannot yet measure the experiences discussed nor replicate their parameters. Not to mention the howls of disapproval from their colleagues should they choose such a path.

For us experiencers, however brief and timid our explorations, the notion of time takes on a very different hue. We know that a long and complex obe can be fitted into a few minutes, as evidenced by our bedroom clocks when we return to the pillow and our snoring mates. We know where we’ve been has some very elastic time indeed. We know that grandad and grandma were the recent recipients of our tendered embrace because we kissed them in the garden of their new home in the heaven of their choice, and that the fragrance of their gardenias still lingers in our nostrils.

We know, after many attempts, that the peasant farmer struggling to reap his crops, the beggar girl reduced to back alley sex, the enlightened despot juggling the various claims on his court and resources, the emancipated courtesan controlling her clients, the bisexual playboy purring through his pleasures, the freedom fighter cursing and killing his oppressors, the serene philosopher conveying his knowing, the devoted priest serving his parish,…we know they all exist in their epochs and societies, each as real and demanding as ours is to us, completely separated by time and yet somehow joined at the hip in eternity, that eternity where we meet them in the paradise of our understanding and compare notes for the huge, sprawling novel we’re writing together.

We know that we repeatedly drop into the pool of sequential time from our perch in the ‘nowness’ of eternity, do some lengths, learn some new tricks and return.  We know that we are subject to the laws of time while swimming, that we will find exhaustion at the end of our laps, but will climb out soaking to comfortably dry off and relearn to relax.  We know that diving into 425bc is not much different from appearing in 926ad, 1947ad or 2135ad,  We know that each one is a side door to a stage where dramas are unfolding and that each of the minions admitted have a part to play as the giant tides of change wash over humanity, moving it ever so infinitesimally towards fulfillment of innate potentials.  We know that time ages us when we’re in its thrall, but we also know that eternity has kept us ever fresh for its delectation.

As we struggle to understand these apparently irreducible riddles, these paradoxes so perfumed by delectable mystery, we feel our way, like children in a dark abandoned house, to the knowing that time is real in its local applications, and that it has to be real for its game players to learn the frontiers of its usefulness, but that it is illusory in its non-local applications, as an incarnation in Ancient Egypt, Renaissance Italy, Sirius, Andromeda or Twenty-Third Century Earth, can be merged in the oneness of meditation, or the merging of personas in paradise. Or indeed, the indistinguishable ocean of bliss that is the Godhead, the ground of all being from which all existences emerge, develop, decay and return.
The initiates of the ancient mystery schools knew this and understood that waiting patiently for the others to catch up was part of the game. As we look uncomprehendingly at government gangsterism and the high priests of materialist science lording it over our media and our lives, we do much the same.

One of our eminent prophets said, or so we are told, “father forgive them for they know not what they do”. It is still our mantra, and I cannot conceive of a time when it will be otherwise, as when we graduate here, we get to go on and surreptitously graze amongst some other scared little sheep scattered throughout the universe.

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