By Brian George
It is possible that each step in the march of evolution—which some, with equal justice, might view as the march of devolution—has to do with the educational stages that unfold in the primordial egg. Laird Scranton writes, “For the Dogon, as in string or torsion theory, these vibrations occur inside a primordial egg. As we have mentioned, the vibrations, which are characterized by the Dogon as the seven rays of a star of increasing length, eventually grow long enough to pierce the egg. This act of piercing, which the Dogon consider to be both the eighth and culminating stage of a first egg and the initiating stage of a new egg, is defined as the conceptual point at which the finished Word is spoken. For both the Dogon and modern astrophysicists, these eggs in a series form the membranes that constitute the woven fabric of matter. Consequently, the process by which matter is formed is compared by the Dogon priests to the act of ‘weaving words.’”
We can certainly view words as just another type of object. If we do then they are just more clutter, which, at some point, we must clear away. Let us also imagine, however, that our words may still conceal some spark of genuine power: that they are tools of memory—the quaint traces of a supernatural technology—and that, even in our semi-conscious state, we can use them to transmit, to embody, and to reveal.
Somatics had advised me, “Language is black magic and the double edged sword. Please only take it out of the sheath to reflect light into the dark not to hack away at gifts placed around you.” But, to my mind, this is simply a description of the two-fold movement of primordial energy, and of the particle/ wave ambiguity of the serpent-force itself. This is just what Kundalini does: At the beginning of each cycle, it can be sent forth—like a beam from the forehead—to create; at the end, it frees energy from its projection into form. It is the potency that can generate either knowledge or illusion, that directs us in through the door of the strange labyrinth that is History, and then out again, bearing gifts.
You wrote, “Is it possible (this idea keeps cropping up in my head) that we should stop reading, writing and talking?” My thoughts, also, have often wandered in this direction. During the early 1990s, almost every day for several years, I felt overwhelmed by a flood of other-dimensional information, which proved no more difficult to access than my breathing. On the one hand, it almost felt like an assault, on the other, death appeared to be my friend, and it did not seem necessary that I should slow the process down. Space was transparent from one end to the other. The records of all time periods were now simultaneously present.
In a poem called “Opening of the Records” I had written “War will be declared on the improper use of trees. Books will have no pages. Telepaths will judge the haunted farms. Few of the many will not at first go mad.”
During this period, I worked with a sociopath called Richard, who had confessed to me that, after being fired from his job as a software engineer, he had purchased a rifle with which to kill his former coworkers and friends. A few practical considerations had interfered with his plan. He also believed that Hitler had been too soft on the Jews. He was a sociopath, yes, with a very limited insight into people, but he did have an amazing eye for the carefully hidden weakness. Once, he had asked me, “If you have so much faith in what you call “Akashic Memory,” then why do you have so many thousands of books in your house?” He had me there. As a husband and a father, I have learned to make due with a less absolute approach.
If the Akashic Memory and its bank tellers have any use for me at all, I doubt that it is as an example of perfection! I can barely remember what I said to my wife yesterday, or to pick up milk at the store.
If we are swept along by a process that is as perfect as if needs to be, then why should we add our words to the total of those spoken? Let us think of space as the preexistent sun—as a sphere whose center is both local and non-local—and of the last 12,000 years of civilization as the moon. In a “total eclipse,” from our vantage point, the moon appears to be a foreground object that blocks access to illumination. A foreground ball of rock conjuncts a background ball of flame. How odd then that their sizes match up so exactly! My words point to the fact that the sun has not departed from its orbit.
(Illustration: Brian George, Egg with Columns and Instruments,