Chandala Liberty: A Meditation On Gravity

To be the opposite of something is the same as being something - Cheyenne proverb

There is an illness at the heel of The World.  Gravity.  A Weight.  No matter the noble heart or lofty mystic mountain eye. Wherever the eagle without ego spirals in carnivorous abandon and down into the shadow of the crow. Old men and children die.  Tears fall down.  Light Falls Down.

In the vacuum of space gravity appears defeated but is in fact magnified and focused into the mineral core of even the smallest body within its folds of consecrated emptiness.  Here, the corpus of the astronaut turns upon itself like a planet and is subject to the ravages of the planet, which amount to the relentless pressure of annihilation.  Back on Earth and the Space Man is broken, man.

Space is a Star Factory.  It's tough to be a Star.  Stars are the fabric of the Great Net of the Indras - each one a jewel and fantastically unique.  The appearance of this net in space amounts to the manifestation of an infinite variety of properties into the absolute void.  Cast upon the waters it sinks and yet remains upon the surface.  Where there is one net, now there is another, but deeper and wider.  Next, another deeper still, and soon a great lattice of net and knot sweeping every corner of the sea. The Sea of Nothing. To catch the sole occupant, a lonely tadpole, who is God, the empty mind.

Trouble is, God forgets how small it is to be, and slips back through the net and into the darkling sea.

 

After a time, some impossible phantom hook is cast. A single knot is snagged to hoist the marvelous net and release the catch.  The single knot is Christ at the moment of Crucifixion, hanging from the yard arm. In this rapture the Empty Mind of God beholds the Many-Verse much as Christ upon his Cross recalls the golden gifts of his birthright - brought from lands so far and wide that they must be borne not of the World and its four-fold winds, but rather the World of Dreams. 

Of course, the net is Empty.  God and the Many-Verse he created 'to find himself' do not exist.  You do not exist. You are a dream of yourself.

Here in the intolerable awe that is the proverbial Fear of God (Nothing), one may gaze upon the Crucified Christ in his crystalline glory - pure white sevenfold light - as he is speared and dies.  Just one grain of sand, after all. Notable merely as the last one through the hourglass.  Baptized in his blood, we draw him down and give his body to the sea and by the weight of him - the unchained knowledge that we feed upon our selves, and that we are empty, and that we are nothing  - the net of souls will follow.  Every Man and Woman plunged at last into the certain depths of truth like Stars falling from the heavens unto the Earth.  Down to the the deep - to shine a light where it is proper to shine a light...

Into the darkness.

Everybody's doing it - you can too.  Abandon hope and enter here.

Abandon your comedic designs of a shining city on the hill where nobody shits and everyone is smart, funny, immanently fuckable and politely nouveau riche.  Abandon yourself and give your spirit into the Sick.  Sick for agricultural red-rum and the moral law of murder.  Sick for the needle, the pipe, the bottle and the tit.  Sick for the arms of the Bodhisattva and vain promises of Light.  Sick for Love and Sick for War.  The rich and wretched all.  The stupid happy and crazy divine.  Droplets of unchained memory - sick and dying ever, still, never dying - never will.  Whorled without end.

We are the beloved of the Lord because we love his Gift and accept our lot.  To be the Weight.  The cancer at the root of Time.  The End of Time itself.  The Sick and Evil, who can not be persuaded toward the Light, who prefer the labyrinth and its cool corners - harbor towns and the smell of creosote, battle fields and crime scenes - who prefer the Sea.  

We are the Sick. The Untouchable. Chandala Liberty.

And we will bring you down.  It's a promise.

John 19:30