THREE .

THE COLLECTIVE
T H E N AT U R E O F E X I S T E N C E
O U R N E E D T O U N D E R S TA N D I T

T he gauntlet has been set, across the board. The way

things go — the pattern that appears repeating every-
where — how long before we realize consciousness is a singu-
lar entity? Not yet — for we have the incomparable teachings
of the masters — signposts only, brief glimpses into the true
nature of our existence — being disseminated by those who’ve
been captured by the forms and words. The whole thing slides
into the realm of philosophy, reason — from the point of view
of the individual. Everyone speaks as if there were a vast gulf
between us. You can tell right away how far along the adept is.
There are few teachers who speak from the other side of the
wall, as this doesn’t draw one in. The ego, as important as it is,
is made of the bricks and mortar we’ve put together through-
out our years — it is the wall.
The teaching society, no matter how profound the plat-
form, is yet another facade, another silo. If you are a man or
woman of the path, this is an urgent matter to be looked into
with a unperturbed eye. If you become enmeshed in form or
dogma, ideas, devices — you’ll have to break free of them in
the future — at great expense of time and energy. By all means
go in, but read the environment.
If you’ve reached the point of absolution, there are no
more contests against your identity. It’s as if everyone has se-
cretly agreed to play nice, to the extent of their abilities. But
really it’s your own nature reflected, the pattern that you
manifest. In my younger days I received instruction from the
Buddhist hierarchy to not react to other’s provocations, but of
course there was no resolving the turmoil on the surface. It
wasn’t until there was a shift in my consciousness, an opening,
that I was able to enter a blissful state — where the need to re-
act was removed, by itself. I don’t think the mind or karma can
be directly manipulated — not in any meaningful way. Though
the Buddhist teachers had a point, it was a signpost only — a
concept that could not be attained outright, and is indeed be-
yond the grasp of nearly everyone. It means nothing. These
teaching devices are from the minds of true masters. You can’t
make the leap from ordinary citizen to sage on encountering
their work. It does ring a bell down some dim corridor though
— doesn’t it? The old masters were not wrong, just a consid-
erable way ahead. It only seems magical or other–worldly.
This is the inherent problem, that their example demands a
current–day example — and it’s a strange sort of human that
gravitates toward positions of authority.

“There are people like tigers, who thirst for blood to lick. Who-
ever has once experienced this power, this unlimited mastery
over the body, blood, and spirit of another human being, his
brother according to the law of Christ; whoever has experi-
enced this control and this complete freedom to degrade, in the
most humiliating fashion, another creature made in God’s im-
age, will quite unconsciously lose control of his own feelings.
Tyranny is a habit; it is able to, and does develop finally, into a
disease. I submit that habit may coarsen and stupefy the very
best of men to the level of brutes. Blood and power make a
man drunk: callous coarseness and depravity develop in him;
the most abnormal phenomenon become accessible, and in the
end pleasurable to the mind and the senses. The human being
 and the citizen perish forever in the tyrant, and a return to hu-
man dignity, to repentance, to regeneration becomes practically
impossible for him.”
– Fyodor Dostoyevsky (1821–1881) –The House of the Dead

I believe there should be something written into the doc-

trine that the promising student or adept be set on his or her
own after a certain period of time — a decade, maybe more —
to roam freely, so that the full extent is laid bare, the candidate
at the mercy of the play of light, with no refuge anywhere.
Does the universe embrace one? No? Well… maybe it is you
who should do the embracing. At any rate it’s an encourag-
ing thought, that the wise and unformed youth be folded back
into society, to learn to live again, as human beings. But what
about the majority of practitioners who don’t go through long
periods of residency, monastic training? The pattern is already
there. It’s not my business, or that of anyone else, to interfere.
If there is no great flowering of dharma, ah well… human life
is at such a primitive stage. What do you expect? There is not
one life that isn’t called out of chaos — the shock of it, of
becoming aware of our own existence! It will remain with us
until we cease to be reborn. We have very little time in our
lives to penetrate this great matter, and coming from our nec-
essarily entrenched views, the resolution is far from us, much
too far — but someday.
They have mastered me, this confluence of currents. I like
the weight of it, the immediacy of being pressed against every-
one, made to boil, and evaporate. I’m held to a concrete bench
in South Gate. There’s no use explaining. It wouldn’t make
sense without a story too much for me to consider. It’s hard to
think of anything outside of this blinding light; the moth who
never eats, only to flutter against the glass with powdery wings
in a prison of sunlight. Whoever has the wherewithal to sort
through my observations can make their own reasons.
 The lunch shift didn’t show, just today, so they closed down
the post office for an hour. My luck, I happened to be there for
an hour. Maybe the second shift was busy reading some of my
observations? They need some kind of rotating schedule here
in South Gate. There are plenty of candidates driving around
me. Their cars go by like insects, buzzing and whirling around
the lights, purring hotly, impatiently. The slow lanes merge
into a bristling freeway like strands of silk on a web. If you
haven’t been here, it’s something you must be indoctrinated
to. There’s a constant and ready need for danger, thrills. Time
is highly exaggerated, compressed, the whole of it vibrating
madly like a wormhole between worlds. A flood of wild crea-
tures, racing wheels, and narrow eyes — loud motorcycles
wind their way through like sentinels, with helicopters careen-
ing overhead, everyone wild–eyed and clinging to their con-
trols, bored with the tedious chore, and full of rage because of
it. There are no champions. Everyone is more or less equal in-
side inside their cages of steel, and, with no one keeping score,
there’s a tremendous show of aggression and cowardice.
I’ve rode through a thousand towns in all kinds of vehicles.
Whichever one landed me here, does it matter? It was a locust
shell, which I left on a tree. It smells like sweetgum now, and
car exhaust. The things around me are hard to describe. There
are so many colors. I feel like digging back underground, but
since I’m free at last — free! What a joke! It’s only a matter
of time before I succumb. I should be busy recording shit like
everyone else, and trying to find a mate, only I travel light, and
I don’t want to leave anything behind.
The wind feels good on my back like a long poem of sum-
mer and dead souls. There are so many of us! The crows sing
overhead as if continuing the thought. A traffic jam forms in
front of me and disperses like a line of ants, but I lose sight of
them in the whirlwind. I’m pressed again between the cool,
dark limbs. As it grows dark, and the time for me to speak
with you draws to a close, I’m transfixed by a parade of coffins.
Keep it quiet. No church bells, no last kiss. Bach please, the
organ pieces. They’re so sad and mocking. I understand him.
***
The work has been frantic. This season is full of challenges
to my dignity, my livelihood. From the center of this cacopho-
ny I’m pleased to note that I remain unperturbed. Truly my life
has become its own reward. The moon hangs large in the sky
tonight. Is there some correlation? This wild energy… maybe
it’s too much for me. I sometimes feel that my life is only for
a moment more — from the intensity. I’m sure it doesn’t ap-
pear that way from outside. All the great ones speak about this
curling energy, yet most are completely unaware, even doubt
that it exists. Why have we turned cold in such large numbers?
It’s as if the nature of consciousness is not at all singular, but a
collective. We see what everyone else sees, so deep, so preva-
lent our code that there are few anomalies. There nearly has
to be a revolution — and what for? Why are some inclined to
look into the nature of our existence rather than enjoying our
time here? We did not get where we are by not being the cru-
elest and most cunning. Our history is not one of resting on
our laurels. If there’s no press forward… none of this — there
would not be anything. There is an innate respect for those
who are pushing the envelope. And those trapped behind the
wall, swayed by the thoughts and opinions of others, who are
unable to fathom the magnificent pattern, instead focusedon
the mundane? Why is it that so many great things are lost to
time? How many brilliant minds were taken down out of fear?
Why are the Aztecs in ruins? Stonehenge? The great pyramids
of Egypt? So many things we are oblivious to, that we our-
selves have devoured and left to dust and ruins.