Dream, sin, dementia, the great enigma, and a fiddler
taken from I, FOR LACK OF A BETTER TERM: a soul's soliloquy, from early writings by Jack Haas: this is a rare, online book
My sin was the belief that I was separate.
Like the sclerotic conduit of unholy tears, I had been unwittingly plugging the divine flow from carving its natural unseparate path, simply because I was trying to exist in the comfort of division; I was attempting to disappear behind any exposure, to cloak myself under the guise of autonomously existing; I sought to become a separate, calloused growth around my absence; to become something, anything, so that the soft, unprotected nothingness inside might have, around it- like a turtle's shell- the security of somewhere always to hide.
You see, Eye had simply been claiming to possess what was not mine- me. But I gave myself back, or stole myself away, it seems hardly to matter. There was no force to serve nor oppose. I was the force.
The chasm was not crossed- that spasmodic cleft of my dull surprise- because I was on the correct side all along.
Oh, how beautiful it is to live. Why I raged with such futility against it all, I shall never know. I suppose I simply could not endure the silence ...of the Self.
Hard indeed it is to stop, to end, to fall away from it all, and to let the greater life live through you.
Throughout the earlier dementia of my unbecoming, I had lost sight of the hard won reunion, and hid behind the shield of trivial whims, as life fell not loosely about me, but clung fast in wanton, false division. I had betrayed my sacred non-understanding by embracing a profane understanding. But now I have only the mystified acknowledgement of a stupendous, debilitating obviousness; awe is the only response I have left for our being.
I finally caught up to myself, and then ...I existed no longer.
I was already dead, the only thing left for me was to die.
Which is to say, I descended and then rose again, resurrecting myself out of the death of what I know I was not, into what I know not; no, I do not know what it was that I was, nor what it is that I am- that is the cornerstone of my absorption.
Eye did not, after all, contaminate my being in the vortex of plausibility. I did not embrace the rhetorical overtures of conception. I did not accept life's eternal distractions. My task was to continually not-know what others claim to know; to weigh the anchors of the mind.
Fragile, but intact, I despised, then loved, then forgot.
I dissipated into myself occurring, into whatever I thought I was, and whatever I thought it meant.
Becoming calm and unrepentant, I finally forgave myself, shook my angry fist at the sky, and then forgave god completely.
I synchronized with destiny, and the great enigma accomplished itself.
I have no truths, only the rejection of all untruths. I did not find a conclusion, only a beginning; I disappeared into mystery, emerging out of the absence of myself.
I could not deplete into nothingness only, but had to learn how to not exist while existing; to do so I consumed myself greedily, voraciously seeking peace until I realized it could not be found, then life became peaceful, and I was emancipated into the dynamic, non-occurring uselessness called play. Fear dissolved into wantless laughter, and all the bagatelles in between.
In the end my only duty was to be myself. I had only to find out what that was- to recover my true nature- and then bask in the glow of the One.
And when that happened, joyless bliss wafted through me like a breeze no one can buy. Benedictions arose in the glory of sight unseeing. It was the beat of a mutant pulse moving onward.
Was I not the psychic Virgin, ripe for the rape of an amorous God? Yes indeed, communion descended upon me in cold shivers, and the like.
Oh, how I howled like a wild banshee in love with the light: There is One event, there is only One event occurring!
Everything is equally miraculous, why should I supplicate, praise, or guffaw at one thing or another? There is only One event occurring.
Suddenly it was life, and only life, that walked through me upon the shore of it's own infinite being, in search of nothing, and with no idea of what it was.
The wind, and land, and light became alive, for they were life, and so was Eye, and only life can see life.
Oh yes, yes, and yes again, finding the enraptured, ignorance of all that is, I live now, blind and nourished, like a newborn pup, insatiably sucking at the turgid tit of ...whatever!
It's now as if I'm some sort of ooze moving through myself, only I don't know what is me, and what is not me. It all blends in together.
Like the lamb, rescued and returned to not-being, not-knowing, and not-doing, Eye move now within the medium of another being.
It is no wonder I struggled so frantically for most of my life‑ Eye had not yet been born, I was still in the womb; 'idea' was an unbreakable, amniotic wall which I was pressed up against continually; I was squashed into concept, and into conception.
Curse the profane umbilical froth which bound me into reason. All along something extremely important had been missing from my life, and that something was ...me.
I had been defined by the false parameters which surrounded me. And when they finally snapped, and Eye emerged, the world was still the same, and so was I, except ...now I was absolutely in it.
Nothing became of what I could have been, nothing stopped when Eye stayed.
Nothing changes when you find out who you are, except that now you're ...you.
Oh me, wretched in deliverance, so many damned years already upon this earth, and I have just now truly landed in being.
What a life. What an insufferable, magnificent life. A dream, within a dream, within a dream.
Ah, to dance, to drink, to kiss the wind...
For it is life's hand which even now moves this pen, not mine. Where then the dichotomy found in the singular play? The pen moves. The Mover moves the pen. Who is the witness? What is the spectacle?
I am but a reed in the flute of the infinite heart. I am a song of the generous voice which sings. I am a dream of the Dreamer.
Oh, Divine orgy, profane delight. Fiddler, I am your fiddle.
Early writings by Jack Haas: a rare, online book.