We, Initiation Addicts

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As you all likely know, the light metaphor is often used in various religions, esoteric and exoteric to describe the manifested creator or idea of wholeness. My humble advice is to tame the curiosity by not completely submerging oneself into this Light, lest one delights in dissociation and a disintegrating merge into this non-dual godhead metaphor. I realize this is but a grandiose red button for the masochist initiation addict like myself and various friends alike, so I will leave the chiseling of eloquent vines and fish hooks onto another red button—one that appears more palpable due to being light manifested into the prism of colors instead of light itself. Light has a correspondence to concepts such as infinity, “the all”, “the loops”, and “the unnamable”. To reside here appears arbitrary. Residing here is like incarcerating oneself into a hall of mirrors. Can seem fun at first, but personally, it gets old quicker than I can finish this line.

Enter: The Magician (Will)

Initiation addicts need not worry, however, for this other realm that is light manifested into the prism of colors can easily tantalize. Residing in this realm is like holding that prism (or wand) —perpetual power—upon one’s hand. This is a tremendous amount of responsibility. The phallic wand, being power, is also Will that creates and fertilizes structures and concepts. This is the realm of the Great Artist—the perpetually-updating realization that all is your own unfolding creation. The colors are vividly visualized and can be associated with the four elements, which together form a sort of Thor’s Hammer lightning bolt of will. Extended amounts of time here takes a disciplined soul, and can easily land one into a solipsist lunatic labyrinth, so one should not be afraid to make use of veiling.

Enter: The High Priestess (Wisdom)

So then when the realization of our own will overwhelms a bit, we shall veil our will as to discover what the will actually was. In a sense, this is playing peek-a-boo with our very selves, for when being the Great Artist is overwhelming, falling back on the path of seeking seems like the next path for the initiation addict. This is working backwards (in regards to creation) —digging into what has been turned unconscious. The realm here is associated with the feminine. The focus here is on recounting the steps to your own creation. The joy, however, resides in the steps themselves. We get to receive the wisdom from various vantage points. Where we do not have the privilege of creating (in the bigger sense), we have the privilege of interpreting and utilizing the already-existent treasure of resources.

At the end, we may question our very thirst for will and wisdom—the seeming masculine and feminine of the primordial world. I know I am in this game because I simply enjoy games—the more intricate the better. To me the game is inseparable from art. If I am not creating art via “will”, I am interpreting art via “wisdom”.

Exit: map/art/program entitled We, Initiation Addicts

Grettel’s Night Owl

In this story, the elevator closes shut. Grettel hits the button, but is taken back where she started. The single story facility rejects all other stories, deeming them too hierarchical. Grettel then leaves, convinced she has stepped out of her legs. Immediately, however, a logician nearby objects, yet is incapable of voicing this as a feral cat. Grettel escapes language and floats out into a sea of chaos. Hoot! Hounds swim after Grettel till the three play dead. The next mourning, Grettel follows the funeral disguised as herself.

To this, the judge issues out a death sentence. The Reaper gets the death penalty. Hoot! Astounded, Grettel throws her hands up, but is unable to catch them with mere stubs. After a large scene cut, the hands become vultures. The vultures fly into their own wings, rediscovering nonduality. There, one gate flings open, granting entry. The next passage, another flings open. The Gateless Gate flings open on the condition of being shut. Grettel fishes from a tortoise whom lacks any tortoise-like features. The tortoise says he forgot how to open his mouth.

The sun descends to bed, burning all the leaping sheep, except for the ones dreaming of leaping men. By the time the shepherd discovers this, he is edited away. Grettel then wakes up the rooster. In the sky, she spots the bladders of the gods. These clouds sculpt a hot air balloon with a trickster inside named Truth. Truth goes to lie down, speaking these very words. Instead of sheep, Grettel counts her fingers hoping to get eleven. Hoot! She may have driven herself mad if not for the flat tires. Grettel then goes flat. Truth folds her into a box with no inside.

Then there is change. Grettel’s pockets eject single-sided coins. At ground level, she stands upon an ice-slick pedestal and slips into the sky. A paper mache trophy discovers Grettel’s arms, and disbands dozens of cheering spiders. Grettel runs from her spine and finds solace in her rear-view mirror—but for a laugh. Hoot! The axis of her mouse wheel is made of bunga hunga. She travels along where east meets west and ends meet means. She carries a blank map scroll to the fireplace. The smoke laughs in her face, so she laughs back.

Grettel hears her deafness, plays peek-a-boo with herself, and conspires against her own footprints. Clouds rain umbrellas. Winds blow the sky away like a blindfold vanishing once worn. A gentle wrecking ball swings past Grettel as she forecloses on her coffin. Hoot! She bids on quitting gambling and wins a trip to the floor. After tumbling for seventeen seconds, she misses the bus. A skateboard offers her a ride, yet stays in place due to having no wheels. Truth gets wind of this and throws a fit of lighting bolts, knocking Grettel unconscientious.

In the emergency room, indifference surges through Grettel’s veins until she becomes indifferent to indifference. At this point, the nurse administers antivenom, despite Grettel’s immunity to biting her own tail. Grettel then dramatizes an out of body experience and meets God whom pokes her with a pitchfork that deflates her self-image. Discharged now, Grettel learns her lesson of not ironing trousers before midnight. The night owl watches over in boredom. Grettel goes down in history.