The great spirit, great soul, and cosmic love

taken from ANARCHY OF SPIRIT: an epistle for ridiculous times,  from early writings by Jack Haas: this is a rare, online book

page 4


It was in this play that is playless in which I lost all surprise. No joy could redeem me, no heaven could heal. I was trapped like all others who claimed not to feel.

Mine was a life, artificial and real; as if throughout it all a glass wall separated me from myself; as if I reached out for what could be seen, but could not be touched. Oh, in that maddening regression we have deceitfully called life, we get only visitor's rights to see ourselves- that we might come nearer and nearer, only to not come near enough. Only to witness and weep.

I know now of hell- where the living spirit dies in the tomb of our misunderstandings. For the living spirit alone is what connects us to each other, for it is life, and everything else is hollow, separate, and dead.

I was always undead, always apart, always me- that mis-shapen conduit of unearthly desires- and crazed through the pain of our thoughtless false confines.

No, none of it was me; there was only the great Spirit, the great Soul, and the unbridgeable gap in between.

Oh, let me tell you, indeed you must either give yourself great distance from the Source, or struggle to find the embrace, but do not allow the unbearable vision of eternal absence, of a longing which grasps desperately for that which it has seen, and yet cannot latch hold. No, never bring yourself into sight of eternity without joining on. Such is the loss of losses, because we are born at that wall of vision which can rarely be got through, and then our own tortured breath and tears become the cloud of fog which takes even that away; it is our suffering which melts away the sight of what we are and yet cannot be. Yea, we are laminated to the infinite, and sorrow is the membrane in between.

Proximity is what destroys anyone who knows how much love is lost. And even to find where it lies hidden is not to then necessarily possess it. Because I, for one, did return to these dark depths to retrieve love. But like a man digging for buried treasure so deep that the mine collapses upon him, I was trapped, it seemed, so close, and yet life remained forever out of reach. That is hell. Better, I thought at the time, it would have been to die once and for all, than to endure the grief I found living.

For anyone whose memory goes back before the ruthless withdrawal of cosmic Love, life will be little more perhaps than drudgery and loss, though still, in the end, it is worth it- to live through the joy and hurt of being, to stare it in the face, and to find the heart of the matter in matter. 

For, you see, it's as if I could see not only the misery but the miracle of life as well. Everywhere I looked were the opposites of pain and wonder, stretched in differing directions, but emerging from the same confusion. Indeed I saw the beauty and magic which is always and all around us, and yet how thoroughly we suffer the endless pains of their absence; in fact, if truth be known, we live in heaven even now, but that heaven itself is in hell; life is both horrid and beautiful, and thus we dwell in such exhaustion and dreaming.

Were life suffering and nothing but, we could easily lie down and never seek to get up. And yet we can do not but rise. Rise and fall, rise and fall, forever grasping through the thorns for the roses.

That there are roses in this painful life, and that we try, but can rarely grasp them, that is our torture and folly. If you don't believe me see it for yourself. For god's sake see it all for yourself. Look deeply into your fellow's eyes someday, look through them, and you will see that hollow core of lonely agony of which I speak, and then you will never see life the same again.






Early writings by Jack Haas: a rare, online book.










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