By Brian George
This is section 2 from my book "To Akasha/ Part 2; The Gate that Opens out of Nowhere onto Nowhere"—a book that I began in 1992 and am still just finishing up. I will be posting sections from it periodically.
Akasha Stands on My Head
Radiance—destruction or posthistory? Explosions under ground. Force contained by matter. The middle way that opens worlds. Death as act. Vam! The shattering of worlds. A piece of broken shell. The last survivor. Radiance. 1 body standing.
At the end of time your petals have now opened with the splendor of 10 thousand suns.
Your footstool has been seeded. You have come with signs and wonders several years before yourself. On the courier’s skull you have placed your foot. It cracks, but is somehow adequate to support you. A scent of sandalwood still trickles from the reactors at Chernobyl. The red sun is to enter from the west every 26,000 years: to Orion you have given the command.
You now stand naked on the Great Wall of China blowing aeons from a thighbone trumpet.
Like flags Sunyata’s snake skins flutter on the heights of the incandescent city. To Omega point Earth’s population escalates. You have cast your nets for sailors out of Tyre. Rap stars from the Bronx. Blond masters of electroshock from Kenya. Monkey kings half frozen out of fallout on the Bering Straits. Eggs that have broken yokes. Architects from the Olduvai Gorge.
The Van Allen radiation belts change keys. Tuning up, they discharge from storage their auroras. The human vessel must be redesigned for travel—through the center of the sun.
A blacksmith shop has now reopened on Mt. Ararat. Iapetos limps. He leans on a staff. He throws his shadow through the wastelands of 4 continents. He assembles a new race of crash test dummies that will fight against the deluge. Cultic suicide will transport the lovelorn to the laboratory inside Halley’s Comet. French letters have been sent to every Hasid in Siberia. The human UFO is forged. The bins at Harvest Home fill up with wealth. Into them are shoveled many radioactive split cocoons.
You have placed your mark on every petal, on each chromosome and atom. You have programmed all 3-d appearances to remain much as they were.
You now lie in wait beneath the ruins of a satellite dish in Colorado. You have exposed the name of every alien behind the great hoax of the Shroud of Turin. At the Mormon Incest Data Banks you have set free your own weight in gold.
The great above has placed its foot on man. It has fed with violence on the great below.
You have turned your face towards planet Gaia. You have gone the way that does not turn back. Your light globe hops and oscillates above a barbecue of body bags—it is a picnic of The Lutheran Police League of Pretoria. You have polished up your face with the convulsions that enact the world. You have laughed at a defiled Mother Theresa floating face up on the Ganges. You have wept to see how the growth of child labor in Kiangsu has slowed to a crawl the squaring of the circle. Rex Tyranosaur is lifted by a web of complex chains through the Zodiac.
The great above has fed on fossils. It has calcified all evolution. The world is backwards under stood. Your foot has caught a shooting star. You have pulled the beard of Ahriman. You now stand naked on the Great Wall of China blowing aeons from a thighbone trumpet.
Out of light’s circumference you have stepped to Earth in 1 body blazing with 10 thousand suns.
At the end of time, you have come to play.
You have stepped down out of light to say, "Child of post-history observe and register: 2 cobras couple on a hot tin roof. The roof collapses in a hurricane of centuries. What body is left standing at the shattering of worlds? Observe beneath your mouth: my feet. Observe the trap door at the center of the underworld.
"By way of it lightning rises through the Zodiac. Observe your body, naked god, now fully present in my own. Observe the free fall of my soma to your mouth. Observe the diamond burning in the lotus. I have waited—here and now. You have never died. Observe the light globe of the Queen of Heaven!"
Reproduction of your trauma is a mass hallucination. You are an atom spun before the laws of space existed. The root of matter squared is not the equal to ½ your energy. You are the iris of a haunted ocean. You are the ancient shadow that had once been alchemized out of the bones of unknown birds.
(Illustration: Victor Brauner, Consciousness of Shock, 1951)