An infinite bridge across a finite chasm, and a dance with no shadows
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
Onward, we must keep on, with the insufferable rhythm of this solipsistic incantation.
I have often said that in the single instant of absolute wonder- when suddenly I forgot everything I had been told from day one- I lost my life completely. That is, I lost my life, yes, but not Life; I lost only the blind, heartless wombat I had been made into by others, and by my own spiritless cowardice and sloth.
Yet in that grey, hazy dawn of my autonomous disenlightenment, nothing was altered, nothing subsided, nothing was better. I was still bound fruitlessly into this surrogate quintessence- into the lie, the Great Lie, the one that says- you are this, and life is that, and thus binds us fast into the wrong idea of ourselves.
Indeed as quickly as I was lifted up, I melted back into the sordid old thing, helpless to remain aloft. I called it aloft, though I was still on the ground, and calling it ground, and thundering blindly about, sometimes on all fours, as if that might shorten the fall. But even then, in those lower reelings, where I was cast about in cataleptic fits of exhaustion, attempting relentlessly to escape myself, I was cleansed of the mire so completely, that all I had to do was sink, and sink, and sink, further and further into the filth, and the flesh- and then I was able to fly.
Ah, to fly- to erupt without any movement, to rise without going high. I flew inside myself, through the infinite space of unmeaning. Through the lift and the glide of just being.
For when eventually I learned to see equally in all directions, I came to exist in the non-existent space, which is immense and yet without any distance or view; it was all forever old, and all forever new.
An infinite bridge across a finite chasm. A flame within an inferno. A drop inside the storm.
I was in the storm. And I was helpless.
That is when, as I intoned earlier, I stopped, and began, and the start and the finish all blended; what ended had never even begun- it was an instant, forever cataclysmic euphoria. As the ether ignited in hellish ecstasy at my fallen condition, I opened up like a mollusk in a fire, and the scorching flames consumed me.
And then what the hell, if you can buy this, but in the next step of my dismantling and rebuilding, everything else sped up and catapulted through the living stasis of my soul. It was an exhilarating, innocent capitulation wrought down upon me by a force I have not yet named; I gave ground in the hollow of my wonder and man if everything didn't perish and grow through that infinite hole. The unworldly, horrible stillness in which I then basked seemed impossibly to produce the song of everything else. How is that possible I haven't a clue. Not one.
I can only presume that the whole shmeer about becoming what you are, or what you could be- but as yet you never have been- eventually comes right back to where it started- to you. But when it gets there- and let me tell you it gets there, with all the fire and brimstone of your day- there's no 'you' left to receive it. You are IT.
For, back when I found myself suddenly in the middle of life's mayhem, and the only thing that I was certain of- which is to say, myself- had vanished beyond all recognition- when I, so to speak, let it go- and yet nothing was gone either, that is when life took me forcefully by the arm, wrenched me from the moorings, and led me back into myself, and myself was, in the end, no different than the magical happening which we so often dismiss as what lies, not within us, but ...what lies without.
Yea indeed, like a dizzy logotrope, spinning wildly about, grasped by that halcyon light which follows the passionate arc- to turn towards the colossal mystery of being, to follow the real but invisible movements, to want truth inside of you more than you even want yourself there, is to appear mad and sane in the world of reason. To move with a heaven-tethered eye, never bending from its sight, is to be nothing and everything which is; it is to look through a different window, and still live inside the house.
You see, the microcosm is not altered when the macrocosm wakes up, the division simply vanishes, and so the non-existent gap no longer exists.
Then it is, let me tell you, that you begin to dance with no shadows.
Early writings by Jack Haas: a rare, online book.