MORTALS and PORTALS: A Morphic Resonance Montage

PORTAL: JostFoto

 

 

The term [morphic fields] is more general in its meaning than morphogenetic fields, and includes other kinds of organizing fields in addition to those of morphogenesis; the organizing fields of animal and human behavior, of social and cultural systems, and of mental activity can all be regarded as morphic fields which contain an inherent memory.—Rupert Sheldrake, The Presence of the Past (Chapter 6, page 112)

Manhattan, 1988, dressed to the nines while negotiating eight plates spinning mid-air, dreams about the skyline of the city falling like dominoes recurred with alarming frequency…

It’s not unusual for me to have OBEs, angelic, even ET visitations.  (Don’t you!?)  As far back as I can remember, I commune with the departed in dreams---they often offer the most pithy, remarkable tidbits accelerating my spiritual evolution.   Then there’s the repetitive leit-motif, flapping my arms, becoming air-borne, sometimes soaring out into the vast reaches of outer space, past Alpha Centauri at light speed.  On occasion, I venture through a worm hole, a kaleidoscopic spiral of 3D Platonic Solids.  (Don’t ask.)  More than this, the numinous, prophetic dreams take me by surprise without fail.   Friends, family members, public figures, and world events each have made cameo appearances foretelling prescient narratives in the Orphic Realm.  (Do tell…)

We mortals like to believe choice—free will at the wheel, steering the course of favorable events—determine our destiny.  Yet, a spontaneous, impersonal shock wave can ripple out setting an avalanche in motion, toppling our best-laid plans, making a mockery of our precariously situated constructs… 

Friday, February 26, 1993, 18 minutes after 12 noon, a truck bomb was detonated below the North Tower of The World Trade Center.  I was at work in the box office of the Joseph Papp Public Theatre on Lafayette Street, East Village.  My colleagues and I were noshing, more than likely engrossed in dissing the upper administrative echelon, happily ignorant of the terrorist plot unfolding.  Without any courteous preparation, the floor gyrated, the windows

rattled, our nerves frayed.  Mind you, the blast reverberated up the streets and avenues from two miles away, downtown! 

The ensuing moments, amidst the wailing, hysterical fire trucks careening by, I knew: In an explosive flash, New York had changed.  Granted, the city can dole out its fair share of lurid tabloid fodder.  But, a terrorist attack!?   Perhaps, I over-reacted a la Chicken Little mode; nevertheless, heeding an intuitive flight instinct, “Get me the hell out of here!” was foremost in my frontal lobe. 

Within a year, I would come full circle escaping with two bags in tow similar to my arrival thirteen years before.  I dearly departed, in the wake of a debris trail strewn with discarded possessions and splintered identity fragments.

Suppose, for example, an idea, or a suggestion has the quality of an evolutionary undertow, pulling us forward into the future…

Even though, I swore up and down, I would not set foot in Manhattan again, New York will always be home to me.  I forgave and forgot the lofty aspirations that crashed and burned.  Time did heal the heartbreak of betrayal, the all too familiar dynamic of unrequited love affairs.  And, as for the devastation suffered by too many close friends lost to AIDS---with or without you, the Hudson River of life will poignantly roll along gathering no moss.  Inevitably, a return to the city that provided refuge from the Bible Belt constricting the burgeoning artistic verve of my youth, was indeed, predestined.  (Never say never…)

 

Underlying the seemingly randomness of multidimensional existence, the Universe provides portals which awaken us to the unity of interactive probabilities…

 

 For those of us there at its messy, yet inspirited emasculate conception, we will attest and aver, WIGSTOCK has an unabashed, overt, in your face impelling allure.  The power of drag compels you.  WIGSTOCK is an apotheosis of biggest hair, highest heels and grandiosest [sic] camp.  The annual Labor Day event helmed by The Lady Bunny and a pre-Gaga gaggle of outrageous, innovative drag queens (including RuPaul), began in the early 80s as a fierce and fabulous fete eulogizing the end of summer.  I had been a devotee from the beginning.  Ergo, there was no hesitation: when my friend Gary called to tell me the cityscape was festooned with posters announcing, 2 September 2001, WIGSTOCK 2001: THE FINAL EXPLOSION would be the end of a chapter in New York City Gay Culture---“Oh, my Diva Goddess!  I’m there!”  Besides, I had been musing about a provocative subject for the next photography exhibition.  Come on---the thought of New York drag queens garnishing the Deep South walls of a Tallahassee gallery was titillating, to be sure. 

"Once you decide to titillate instead of illuminate . . . you create a climate of expectation that requires a higher and higher level of intensity" (Bill Moyers).

 

[NOTA BENE:  Similar to the indefatigable farewell tours of Barbra and Cher, WIGSTOCK has subsequently been revived and resurrected like Lazarus rising up (quite appropriately) lip-synching the irrepressible anthem, I WILL SURVIVE.]

On that grand and gloriously gay of all days, it was at least 110 degrees in the only available shade provided by towering bouffants, bee-hives, rococo parasols and other such feats of architectural artifice.  Wading neck deep in an undulating, uber-accessorized current of sub-woofer beats, gold lame’ and mascara, pectorals and biceps strategically sculpted into chiseled precision, glistened and flexed to distraction.  Abreast a wide assortment of liberated bosoms ranging in sizes from tea cup to the silicon and/or helium enhanced, the excessively buxom served as floatation devices keeping the sweat-soaked unified mass of humanity suspended on waves, upon pulsating waves moving together in rhythmic ebb and flow.  The ecstatic ocean of male, female, Lesbian, Gay, Bi-, Trans-, yes, even hetero- couples with offspring, all randomly tossed adrift, were buoyant on a burlesque high tide rolling in hysterical pretendence and gender ambiguity.  Yet, somehow, without an act of God scourging the accusatory acts of abomination animated, quite naturally, we bonded together in an authentic, unconditional solidarity.  (If only everyday were like this.) 

MissThangInAction: JostFoto

 

Like the pull of the moon on tides… Could it be, thought forms, intuitive hunches, and prophetic dreams possess an endemic gravitational property that defines the energy parameters in matter manifesting?  What if there exists an energy field linking all probable realities, an energy matrix behind physical form on the 3D time-space continuum tapestry of possibilities?

Emerging from the undertow pulling at our lower three chakras, Gary and I pried ourselves free from the incessant beat of the disco.  Surfacing out of the seductive amalgam, we sauntered downtown, along the banks of the Hudson River toward Battery Park and The World Trade Center.  In no hurry, without a particular place to go, it was if we were propelled toward an undetermined destination.  Wherever, whatever it was that beckoned, the still, small voice of a siren’s song spun, turning and turning us into the center of a concentric gyre. 

Unwittingly, my companion and I were swept up in the centripetal force around the perimeter of old Pier 26.  We approached the south side of the boat hangar.  An appointment with destiny directed us to a precise intersection of latitude and longitude.  There, prepared before us, in the presence of an undisclosed enemy, laid a blemished, yet white, round, plastic picnic table.  Atop, placed dead center, was an 8 oz. clear plastic cup approximately ¾ empty.  Two straws were leaning against the northeast rim. 

Much to my horror, albeit mystified just the same, it would soon be exposed nine days hence.  Pier 26 positioned as a premonitory promontory, had become a portal for a portentous photograph projecting a metaphorical morphic resonance field onto the unsuspecting Twin Towers.

 

Seemingly unrelated events are all pixels comprising an orchestrated larger picture…

On a sunny, beautiful, pre-autumn morning, September 11, 2001, 9-11, at 9:59 AM, the South Tower of the Twin Towers collapsed and disintegrated.  Approximately 29 minutes later, exhibiting a dystopia demolition in similar manner, the North Tower collapsed and disintegrated at 10:28 AM.  A day out of step, time stood still and the shocked world congregated, unbeknownst of the insidious grand illusion.  Millions, billions, glued to TV screens lost all rationale to the obvious, hypnotized, falling under the spell of persuasive, recurring, surreal newsreel loops, sound bytes depicting a surreptitious, covert diabolical sleight of hand.

“Number 9, Number 9, Number 9”…

The two stalwart sentries that had once emblematically protected Battery Park, the historical arsenal of artillery batteries positioned there during the city’s early settlements, were leveled to Ground Zero by weapons of destruction they symbolically guarded. 

1-1 resonated in a dream memory databank: an image distilled nine days earlier, left me with painful lingering, a relentless sensation, bereft of both legs upon which I stood in a former world.

 

WTC 2 Sept. 2001: JostFoto

 

 

 

INTEGRATION BOOTCAMP, INC.

 

 

 

To those of you out there who are enduring the venomous psychic napalm attacks from friends and family, sometimes coming out of left field, you are not alone.  As many of us break with traditional interrelationship patterns, tribal cohesiveness is disrupted.  When one projects empowered authenticity, the new exception to the rule is that your empowerment will threaten the masses who flock in safe numbers, huddled together fearing the adventuring beyond the unbroken circle.

The new paradigm emerging comes with a price tag: it's called Integration Bootcamp, Inc. .  Many are summoned to undergo intensive catabolic carbonization. Yet, few can endure the cauldron of individuation when it gets too hot in the kitchen.  For sure, facing repressed shadow material of the psyche is no vacay.  But, someone's got to do it.

Achieving psycho-spiritual integration can't be attained by attending Sunday school once a week. Neither will going to group-sing kumbaya weekend retreats nor reading the latest "secret" recipe book give you the keys to the Emerald City.   An escapist conviction that by repeating the "happy mantras" alone, try as one might, just won't completely pray the muck and guck away.   One is inevitably brought to the kneecaps, prostrate, face to face with the blood and guts of solitary, personal "salvation", addressing deep repressed wounds of the individual's membership within the collective. What did Jesus and all the other avatars do?

 

Change does not come with the enchantment wave of a magic wand. There is the dialectic of thesis, antithesis, creation and destruction to contend with before new forms of synthesis take shape. Have you ever observed a super highway under construction?

Remain calm, "50-50 fire and ice". Breathe in prana. Stay in your center of beingness. When the emotional, psychic geyser feels as though it's about to erupt---and, it will---practice patient compassion before gouging a loved one another cavity.



"Social processes always cast strong shadows. The individual is never certain of being safe among his/her (tribe), once the process of individualization---with its negative aspects, competition, social aggressivity and greed---forces the breakdown of the organic tribal state of wo/mankind during the archaic ages." ~ Dane Rudhyar 

 

 

TRANSFIGURATION:  HYPNAGOGIC HALLUCINATION or MY SO-CALLED EPIPHANY

 

 

TRANSFIGURATION: Jostfoto

 

 

“All night, all day, Angels watching over me, my Lord…         

Now I lay me down to sleep, Angels watching over me, my Lord.
I pray the Lord my soul to keep, Angels watching over me…”

~Traditional Hymn

 

I must have been five; maybe six years old, I recall a bedroom shared with my baby brother, four years younger.  He slept without contest, interned behind retractable bars in a crib.  The twin bed upon which I slept was situated free-range under a spacious window, positioned parallel within whispering distance--the proximity of our beds both spatially efficient and efficacious. 

Being put to bed for the sole purpose of falling to sleep was a rule of conduct strictly administered by our parents.  There was no margin for infraction.  Dad was once a sergeant in the Air Force.  Consequently, lights-out, barracks protocol prevailed.  One peep heard, incurred a stern reappraisal of incriminating behavior. 

Sure, we talked amongst ourselves--gibberish, really.  Courting suspense under the radar was part of the fun; even if it was mostly monologic.   We just couldn’t help ourselves.  And, why not?  A five year old and his junior roommate had a lot to share, recapping the day’s business.  Besides, provided the “pss pss pss banter” maintained a decibel level below the drone of the distant television, the recumbent tete a tete could go on for quite a while undetected.  Plus, we had a back-up plan, too.  Muffling spontaneous eruption of uncontrollable cackles, burying contorted faces into pillows was an accident-proof recourse---well, almost always.

Eventually, due to being kept up way past his bed-time, the little sibling slipped into slumber.  Subsequently, there I would be, left to my own devices, a whirling dervish of spinning quixotic visions in the noggin.  The room invariably transmuted into a shadow-box.   An interplay of morphing shadows and silhouettes surrounded me.   I was by no means, a fearful child.  And, I did know the difference between what was real and what prevarication was.  Nevertheless, just the same, menacing chimera and fantastic scenarios could be actuated through the wide-open aperture of this child’s hyperbolic imagination. 

Perched upon a pillow, elbows propped on the sill, peering out into an enchanting, mysterious star-speckled sky was preferred over counting sheep.  The vast expanse of The Milky Way provided a panoramic canvas, whereby, connecting twinkling dots, real and imagined constellations were constructed.  Exhaling breezes unfurled the festooned curtains, sheer and diaphanous, wafting like angel’s wings aflutter in wisps of fugacious flight.  Serenaded by a nocturnal chorus of cooing, chirping, croaking creatures concealed amidst the phantasmagorical landscape, enchanted my eardrums.  A multi-timbral soundtrack, an incessant, yet soothing night-music lullaby, would coax inevitable sleep. My bed, an interplanetary craft, transported me out beyond the cares of the day left behind.

On one of those star-trek nights, cast adrift in the Orphic Realm, I had the strangest, heretofore sensation.  Betwixt sleep and awake, my body froze paralyzed, heavy and immovable.  Inexplicably, I was unable to shake myself free from an inexorable cataplexic grip.   I was falling, free-falling without a parachute, impervious to the external world of five senses.  My inert body was molting, a lifeless garment, over a bottomless chasm.  Futile, hapless screams hollered out, were mute.  Senseless cries for help, reverberated and echoed back to me within a bell jar vacuum.  I fell deeper, deeply into an inescapable void of hollow darkness. 

Just before impact, a spasm jolted an instantaneous paroxysm!   I literally jumped out of my skin, buoyant, hovering above the bed.  The previous prepubescent kinesthetic disappeared into thin air. Even though, I still thought of myself as my self, I was disconnected from the flesh and bones identity lying supine down below.  Enlarging, my awareness encompassed multitudes, an integral part of an ever-expanding, pulsating Universe. 

Do I contradict myself?  Very well then I contradict myself,

(I am large, I contain multitudes.)  ~ Walt Whitman 

The walls of my room took on a volatile, mirage-like transparency.  Were they evaporating?  The dialogue and laugh tracks emanating from the television interspersed with my parent’s laughter and conversation could be heard down the hall.  Yet, clearly, I wasn’t in Kansas, or more precisely---I wasn’t in Florida, anymore.   Not in possession of comprehensive literary allusion, my young mind construed the perplexity akin to Dorothy being whisked away to the Land of Oz.

What in heaven’s name was happening to me?   How was this Technicolor splendor broadcasted in such panoramic high definition widescreen?  Apart from the improbability of it all, I was just about as beguiled as a five year old could be in the throes of an astral projection.   The new-found ability to navigate in gravity-defying feats of aeronautics was out of this world.   There was no need for wires and harnesses.  One could actually hang glide upon command without the aid of updrafts or wingspan.

Quite unexpectedly, the apparition of a man, attired in a black tuxedo materialized.  His corpse, for that is what he resembled, was outstretched overhead.  He was poised at a 45 degree declination, suspended mid-air, where the window had been.  Despite appearing dead normal, his grimace had a facial contour of someone in excruciating pain.

Did I know this man hitherto this ethereal excursion?  Except for the movies, I had no recollection of ever seeing someone so formally dressed.  However, a peculiar familiarity regarding this stranger was disconcerting.   ???

Propelled by curiosity, I maneuvered about for a closer inspection.  The apparition had been stabbed between the shoulder blades.  Strange though, there were no visible signs of struggle, or blood.  Thus, if he was a revenant that had come on the scene to haunt and spook, he remained uncharacteristically still and composed in a wake of repose and eternal sleep.

Then, a strange thing mystifying occurred.  A sensory rush of confounding effect overwhelmed me.  Into the wild yonder, the specter began to levitate slowly, air-lifted by a mysterious force.  His countenance modulated to luminous serenity, like those picture book paintings I had seen of angels aglow with loving, beneficent beatitude.  The empyreal entity soared heavenward evoking, what would turn out to be, shamanic soul alchemy.

Beholding this numinous TRANSFIGURATION, my heart filled to over-flowing with ECSTASY, a palpable LOVE.  The multiverse was transplendent, flood-lit with glorious, unified LIGHT.    Was this a panegyric celebration, a victorious return home aloft in the celestial ocean of SUPREME BLISS?  Ascending out of reach, leaving no trace, the avatar was consumed by a sacramental immolation of OMNIPRESENT WHITE FLAME DIVINITY, at once pixelating into millions, billions, trillions of white doves. 

I haven’t been the same since.

“At that time Jesus said, ‘I praise you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because you have hidden these things from the wise and learned, and revealed them to little children’.” ~ Matthew 11:25

In retrospection, I entertained the manifestation of a martyred incarnation.  It mattered not whether the visitation came from the past or future, or if it was an adumbration of the present lifetime.  The uncanny thing was, when I found myself in times of trouble, struck down by cruel twists of fate, the sense memory databank downloaded this apotheosis as an instantaneous, decisive moment.  Through the years, though kicking and screaming at times, I’ve had the forbearance to endure outrageous misfortune and senseless suffering from a higher perspective.  Indelibly etched into my impressionable psyche, like the relic of a venerated saint, the EPIPHANY has given me hope and faith when friends and family failed.

Hindsight is 20/20.  I see now the EPIPHANY was a prescient gift of GRACE.  Further, the revelation foretold via metaphorical narrative, the process of ASCENSION.  Even at an early age, I was given a brief catechism—a pictorial guide for the attainment of the soul’s highest expression.  The ascended martyr archetype represented overcoming earthly sorrow through the ebullient power of forgiveness.

“Father, forgive them---they know not what they do.”

When heartbreaking vicissitudes of cruelty, betrayal, abandonment and rejection leave one in doubt as to the higher purpose of living the Golden Rule---those are the transformative times we do it for our own soul's transcendence of the material world.  Within the greatest weakness resides the kernel of the greatest strength. The disparity between the two reconciled into a unified axiom of truth is not an altogether easy task. As a matter of fact, when served the foibles, fallibility---yes, even the ruthlessness, it can be quite a conundrum, especially in regards to idealizing THOU.  Yet, the greatest lesson--- despite the tribulations suffered, even by the most desperate, despicable hands imaginable, we trust all are just seeking a way forward---the way of all flesh evolving.  By penetrating the unfathomable abyss of the soul, we excavate the greatest gifts of FAITH, COMPASSION, HOPE and LOVE.

Our bodies are becoming crystalline compounds of ever increasing photon energy.  The activated Merkaba Star Tetrahedran, Ezekiel's Chariot, will transport us to lofty realms where prejudicial borders and echelon criteria are no more.

Divine timing is everything.  As Gaia traverses the photon belt, the sun continues to molt its molecular structure, a birthing-process manifesting in massive coronal ejections and solar flare activity.  This in turn is accelerating the pulse of the telluric dimension into the higher octaves of vibrational frequency.  As above, thus below:  The tetrahedral silica of the time-space continuum fabric is being activated by these monumental galactic light-source events: a triangulation is aligning the structures of the crystalline human liquid body (especially through DNA and the pineal) with Gaia's crystal grid network.  What was once engineered utilizing the density of shadows will no longer hold up to the light.  As humanity's consciousness evolves, returning to the One Light, collective thought will transform from an elitist mind control matrix into a halo:

 Ascended Masters of Truth, Set Free.

This is from a piece written 16 July 2011 posted @ 11:11 AM. Note: The unintentional prescient message preceded the global OCCUPY movement by two months. May it hold relevancy today, 8 December 2012.

Dear Friends, Radiant Shards of the One Galactic Crystal:

To be sure, it has taken millennia meeting at expedient, appointed times to dismantle the narrow, dark corridors of 3D epistemology. We have been patient and long-suffering, tilling closed minds and hard hearts, planting the seeds of self-evident Truth enshrined in HeartMind Divinity.

The time is nigh when individuals who were once indicted heretical, silenced upon the executionary pyre, will arise now from the smoldering ashes congregating as a unified global population, in numbers too loud and vast to be ignored.

Thank you for being punctual, keeping our dates with destiny through the years. Hold fast to the dream. Venerated salutations to you, ALL, for fulfilling the sacred contract of Ascended Christ Consciousness.

<((In Lak'ech ala K'in))>

The countdown to 12.21.2012 is ticking away with just 17 days to culmination of this most-hyped date. The doomsayers are coming out of the woodwork as they cash in on alarming apocryphal apocalyptic prophecies. Will there be a morning after? Should we just pencil-in holiday plans!?

Be comforted. The Mayans never said it was the end of the world. It is the end of a long 26,000 year cycle, the Zuvuya, analogous to an end of a 365 day Gregorian calendar year. The cycle ending was about the domination of the male paradigm. And, by the look of things, they didn't do such a dandy job---unless, of course you buy into the misogynist manosphere myth. Fortuately for the rest of us, their reign of greed and sexploitation, pumped up with all manner of martial male-enhancement paraphernalia is reaching an expiration date. It's a flaccid end to a taut tightrope of engineered duality that's judiciously being circumcised right down the middle.

The good news: The Divine Feminine, Goddess Sophia, maligned and subjugated for millennia, is about to have her 26,000 year return engagement astride the Mythic Ourobouros. This comeback will outdo all of Cher's many combined. In other words: the Bitch is back in town and she's gonna be more fierce than ever before. (And, I do mean that in the most venerated, exalted of terms, too).

Every dog has his day. "Entitled small penis white boy supremists"---BUFFET OVER!!

So what can we can expect from the much touted 21 December 2012 event? I like to think it's an internal, quantum phenomenon, a spontaneous combustion event that was embodied eons ago. The transplendent light of avalokiteshvara that has traveled with us throughout incarnational cycles eternally is being comprehended in our present cosmic compassionate consciousness now as a consecrated presence of collective bodhisattva selfhood.