A First Draft titled, Just Sayin' What?

Recognized Bias more honest?

Just Sayin' What?

Draft One
by Robert Duberg

Nothing said ever did justice to the perception of a diamond by the true feminine mind of the goddess within. There, the light of brilliance in what matters penetrates beyond sexuality even but not without providing the platform by which sexuality is resolved by the rock, where notions of clarity reach their highest form. And with men, their beauty reflects in their best friend cliche, their palace dog, that unconditional expression of love of the highest form between man and his world. Looks good on paper to most though I doubt most even stop to consider, some to stupid to get out of the way of oncoming storms. They get a sign tied to their big toe, for the death that has taken them is ruled by entropic extremism only. Life is defined by the opposing energy which sustains systemic vitality, the coherent structure through which the process of living moves. Understanding the paradox of contraction ("holding it together") as it directly creates the condition in which our lives actually thrive, again, is an art which has all but been lost on humanity at present.

Halfway through my own life, the decline is accentuated in a stepped up kind of way. I can respond, but my responses seem far too slow on the uptake, pathetically missing any compromise sufficient and innovative, and only rarely enough or properly justified to the critical mission of staying on course, awake, and centered in the most high gravity of higher consciousness. My progress, a thread of penetrating insight and integrity, through each new moment arising, is often nil. Not less than a several times a day I am busy behind the scenes of ordinary perception and recognition open to my brethren, rejoining, re-igniting, redefining but at least refining my resources along higher roads having possibilities proper to my path, proper enough to evoke a feeling it is the best one I know that has heart. A path with heart, simply means a path one feels with the deepest part of my heart in which the seat of my conscience resides. Conscience is our compass on honor which reflects human order. Anything else, leads by entropy to living arbitrarily in the end, yet another free pass for death to enter and take what spiritually is our destiny without resistance or effort, that higher possibility long ago snuffed out by some concession to comfort or nod to conformity.

Our victorious destinies require this little discipline of our attitude which seems a paradox in the wise but is simply a seriousness approaching the strength of death itself but orthogonally in a conscious valuation of what being alive offers us ultimately. The short version for this author on the subject of entering that level where the possibility becomes enough of an issue to keep me awake in the dead of night, when there is NOTHING naturally holding me to the line needed to see me through to that infinite dawn's light within was being their in my father's extended fight to stay alive in the end when he succumbed to a cardiac event. Attuned and hyper-vigilant at the age of 11 without any idea of the extreme position that put me in down the line, his heart attack in the restroom called to me silently and I arrived within seconds to break his fall, lay his body on the ground, cradled, his head in my lap, whereupon the process in progress became clear to me even then for its being his last on this plane of existence in this life we shared, a legacy that defines the essence of life that's mine, in part. His death then, was a propelling force far outside normal boundaries of human affairs at that age. Death's paradox is its essential primer for being and consciousness at the next level, with enough supporting and higher influences nearby to help. And NOTHING says it quite like Death says it even when denied its intent to consume the remains of spirit with entropic overwhelm which annihilates that grip of spirit which allows for such complexities as humanity brings to thrive and evolve in fact, as in synthetics and inventions which long ago eclipsed what nature has come together for us to exist in the final analysis. Where we draw the line and own and make ours as the source of our own being distinct and not attributable except in the sophist's logic of Newtonian days gone by is by far yet another missing piece of the human iconography by which his true spirit can be known. Be in the world but not of it, is a cliche waiting the next level.

The moral of a life lived from a point before my teens in which I succeeded in keeping my father alive only to have him die in my arms, would certainly make sense only in clarifying that pain of which I personally draw a line around as to its being unnatural, something having an existence relevant ONLY to mankind. Natural Death is not the issue, it is the meaning my father's death specifically created in my essence or what it means for me to be alive as a human being. Thus, my death, in the way I speak of it especially is NO longer natural in any way. My view of it sees a humor which most would find rather strange, and its true, even now I am chuckling over the way I died to natural means and ways and have been ever since that fateful day as a child. The next level looms and calls me out reminding me any hesitation or lack of commitment or willingness is less clarity and a choice for death in the end. When everything in my conscience and heart screams against this, its fair to ask how it so often makes no difference with so very few and rare individuals holding to the higher roads by which liberation from suffering disappears for those ascending at some point. The story of man's true possibilities is the story of his waking sleep, defined by falsity and incomplete chaotic integrity of being, which as a structure shackles him unconsciously to realms of being by which most accept without question. The paradox of death is perhaps the most potent one indeed, if you consider how direct experience of it in a clarified relevance never-ending both confirms and verifies one's true knowledge as well as removes something necessary in order for man to defeat it or otherwise deny it when it comes calling.

In closing then, the next level or the last level as chronologically relevant here is reversed and comes first in importance and value. But, not only that paradoxically but also in a way holographically, not simply added to or calculated or computed in to our life calculus but throughout and beyond the dimension of time, beginning and end. This kind of change is next level and probably ought to be reserved even past new age terms like transformation as well. The guts of this, this higher road, which honored appropriately expresses a shift minimally along the axis of order itself is not content but a field of possibility content expresses some relevant vital impression worthy all by itself for the listener to attend to now.

The paradox of rules runs up its flag on this pole. While the past saw us reminding ourselves of such boundaries, rules, means, and ways which supported the order of that day. Today's reminders must be remembered to in fact express something else distinct from memory. If held from within from this level of clarity in one's discerning spiritual light, the proper step to the next level is at least in theory emerging between us. Knowledge beyond memory is knowledge between memory, the last frontier where knowledge has yet to be understood as unknown but discoverable. Thus Vonnegut's time speaking on the essence of a good story means to my reader a finding of light which re-dazzles a diamond clarity, raising that clarity into a realm beyond memory but living magnificence and realms of power no words have yet been spoken sufficiently unto. The hero today remains Vonnegut himself, give no small claims to that character at the root of your story for now. Heroes speak for all of us and only when Johnny is on the spot, in full regalia, making the point without any confusion or lack of attention from those that matter. What Vonnegut wanted was to help us write better, what this writer wants is for the reader to not be unsatisfied, and what my father wanted ... was a paradox for me in that he died when he really wanted to live, and in a double twist ... he wanted to speak to me across the veil of death to confirm that place which humanity continues to spin out about in terms of how to proceed through and back.

Can language be a hero, a character in a story one can root for?

IF not then, unable to represent the possibilities now extending within, who or what shall one root for and if not a hero then what? Express the matter/spirit boundary given by measurable and immeasurable dimensions of existence in language which itself has yet to evolve the capacity recognition allowing the speaker to connect properly on the issue with a listener.  (the listener, having only memory to orient to what is received as far as accessing order, is structurally limited to a realm incapable of evolving in which humanity can share truth with others about this aspect of life, in which order can be held vital through the transition and detachment from the human material form.)

What does it mean to consciously lose the human form and continue to align and order energy without the  material structure one's life and death define naturally? 

    - the possibilities for progress are?  -- our non material energetic power intuited in the ideas of INTENT AND WILL connected with clear synchronistic manifestations which reflect in the material realm but like ocean waves are in the world but not of it or shall I say intrinsic to baselines on which the     material realm is based and centered on. Mentally, the primary engaging interactive element by which we  are connected to all of that is called our memory. Paradox is a characteristic of higher roads and thinking, which form the style of liberation as it is expressed in langauge through the             human mind. Thus, progress looks like backwardness, contradiction, and anything but linear refinement which was the hallmark of progress up until this point of higher non-dualistic thought and consciousness.

What can be said to expressing stories when this new pattern emerges for which the probability of having a prepared and ready listener approaches zero still? Can writers from higher consciousness write even while all the pertinent and relevant meaning is stripped moment to moment from their words leaving whatever is left without any single sniff of something original, what possibly will sustain their motivation to write in such dire and dismal conditions?

And of the masters who were able to sustain the motivation and publish their compendium despite this recalcitrant and unreciprocating and unforgiving and unbending resistance to their just sayin what they want, everything they accomplished must at some point be undone ultimately. Thus, one's response to their just sayin' is justified to the extent that one can criticize it intelligently enough without being swooped up into the hell that is the mystery. That's the eventual destination just sayin' reaches anyway, and certainly by all ways and means to be avoided. It matters, the truth is not something incomprehensible, but just sayin' whatever even if the genius of the speaker is unwavering matters not. It'll be much harder to rectify the Christian Cult and its victims in the end compared to the cynical unconscious humor entailed in mockery aimed at conspiratorial doomsday sayers. The initial impulse which just sayin presents, the shock of a reality that is NOT all that which our memories present it to us to believe as such with beginnings and ends and solidity and mass, IF NOT actively engaged in inventing and struggling with a narrative which properly moves towards (since that is all one can expect without consensual agreement among humanity's speakers and listeners) THE NEXT LEVEL, to be true to one's commitment to spirit in this situation is to check in to the space of possibility within and come from there voluntarily suffering the struggle of what to say when one has no memory to regulate and organize. Creativity is and has got to be ongoing, and at a level that speaks beyond justice but penetrates realms without apology that are mystical. The best way is to retain some small thread of linear dichotomy such that ordinary reader's, though dissatisfied, aren't able to continue the confining imprisonment which associative memory asserts on us. The confusion will be a positive one as it has been said but now with particular relevance ... the most important conversation each of us needs to engage in is exactly that one which leaves us the most confused and dazed. To see the active paradox at work in that understanding is to hit the last leg of the wrap up of my so called short story . Again to Vonnegut's requirement that we're either revealing character or forward action, sentence by sentence ... my sense falls mostly into the notion of action, where the character remains paradoxical and problematic for the very simple fact that very few have the capacity to appreciate paradox presented as anything other than an oddity. To present it as a core value and foundation of structure in thinking will continue to be part of the struggle for me until such time that it isn't.

Have I been sadistic enough? Well no quite frankly, and again paradoxically, without this element it always seems as though readers lean to characterizing their experience or read as itself sadistic or laborious minimally as such. It may be that the doom-saying still retains some value precisely here but my initial response to that is that it just seems awfully convenient and thus lacking proper consideration. Yet the question remains regarding this idea of sadism by Vonnegut which I prefer to think of in Emersonian terms of INSTIGATION. It all comes down to the idea of the best way to engage the reader, introducing some level of pain (the higher the better as this proportionately means a greater or lesser degree of attention) to which everything else one says follows more or less effectively or not at all.

One person doesn't mean individual, but could also mean stereotype I think, do you?

Cutting to the chase, was not quite as vivified as I remember intending it to be prior to my opening words today in writing this story. These things are on me then to make a difference next time around. Opening must be a rush of pertinence minimally ... if I do nothing else, I can have fun with that and see if you agree on the next level manifesting as ordered.

9/21/2011 rjduberg