1:5 – “tHE fUTURIST fROM iNNER-sPACE”

Some fairytales are real. Much in the same way that what seems most real is often false. And how sometimes the messenger who awakens you out of the sleep of life ~ and into your true dreams ~ comes from someplace at first unseen; a world almost invisible to you until the moment you walk through its door.

Where he was from—outerspace or innerspace, the past or the future, or whether his present was perhaps a Dimension of Places Tomorrow—who could say?

“I feel very closely associated with colour,” he said, kicking his walking stick into the air, as if testing the wind to discover the hidden directions of the future.

“You see, when I want to express my deepest strength and beauty, I seek always to radiate a vast array of brilliant colour. A different approach, I suppose, to expressing a sense of power.”

“Like a peacock, the new king of the jungle,” the Priest of earthPresent quipped without intending to be heard.

“I place anything that illuminates toward the top,” The Futurist replied.

“Of course, where I’m from, things are very different from here,” he continued. A light shone from the centre of his hand. “But then our eyes are not like yours. We can see intentions.”

“Now THAT at least is a topic that would be useful for my purposes,” the Priest of earthPresent thought aloud. He trickling his finger down to meet his sword. “These, after all, are not times of conversation- but of Conquest.”

“The Futurist Walks Through

                         The Walls In His Mind…”

leg

“It’s interesting, isn’t it,” The Futurist remarked, “how the first person to raise a fist is the one who has lost the argument. Something that appears one way, but is in fact another.. A performance of strength that is a weakness. Unlike a peacock.”

He began humming and almost immediately took to a brief waltz, gardening his imaginary plants. His hands moved in caressing motions as if speaking through his fingers. The Priest of earthPresent watched him with curiosity but was not distracted from his point of view.

“Your world runs by a different Order,” the Priest acknowledged, with a weary brow raised. He fumbled for his hidden wallet in a sudden panic that it might be missing, but found it resting calmly in his hip pouch. When he looked up, The Futurist was gone from sight. Turning around, he saw the space traveler begin to glow.

The Futurist closed his eyes. And a moment later, became a stone.

“There is far more in heaven and earthPresent than in even your wildest imagination,” his voice echoed, now from within the stone. “ Likewise, there is more to you. Much more than you now see.” The rock radiated. “Even beyond your Human Trappings.”

“ H u m a n Trappings? What more is there to us than that?” demanded the Priest, becoming agitated by The Futurist’s uncanny convictions. “Flesh and blood is what we are!” The Priest rubbed his hands, as if proving that reality was truly as it appeared to him. “We are real, not fantasie.”

The Futurist peeled with a laughter almost eerie in its lightness. He was coy and self-contained; a riddler with flirtatious leanings. His eyes were the colour of a clear noon-day sky with a centre, the colour of midnight.

“My friend, you will never be real until you can live your fantasie. It is the most real part about you,” The Futurist flatly spoke. Then he chuckled again, as if finding a humorous tidbit amidst his invisible novels. “Until fantasie is real for you, you have accepted too little of reality.”

“Your vision is irregular,” the Priest of earthPresent said. “But on this planet, where you now stand, people are put away in very tight coats for beliefs a tad less eccentric than yours!”

The Futurist seemed to be paying little attention to the Priest’s objections, retaking his original form while dandyishly beholding his own reflection in his hand. “Mind your assumptions,” he said very quietly, as if telling a secret naughtily ahead of its time. “Your planet has not accepted enough of what constitutes Reality to qualify as Sane, yet.” He paused before adding, “That will take some work.”

The Priest of earthPresent looked out into the Vast. He saw far into the distance, what looked to be a runway of white roof shingles. Then one moved. And then three…into the sky. He saw the shingles had been birds.

“And if that be so,” The Futurist interrupted his thoughts, “perhaps the stars in the sky…” and he paused dramatically, shifting his walking stick upwards, “are actually just people…wearing lights on their hats.”

A tall hat encircled his spiral-inspired head, with flashing stars which disappeared by the time the Priest finished blinking. In fact, it happened so fast, he wasn’t sure he had really seen the signal his eyes had sent him at all.

“Nonsense!” the Priest insisted, startled; but more confident that his own life was not comprised of misbegotten illusions. It was shaking to a man’s faith in the limitations he had so taken for granted, to watch The Futurist toss reality about like a cat’s toy. Perhaps the roof was truly coming off the house, he began to think.

“On my planet, our eyes are different than yours,” The Futurist reminded.

“Are you not on my planet, now?” the Priest inquired. “Where the stars are not just people…”

“The Stars are just people wearing lights on their hats…”

starhat

The Futurist didn’t respond, but with his eyes and his knowing, neither of which the Priest could properly decipher. Then, The Futurist took on a tone of boredom. “It must be difficult living in such a non-conceptual world.”

Three paces later, The Futurist’s cape had turned in colour, from a hazy purple to a metallic silver. The Priest felt a little overwhelmed, for sure.

This Futurist was a kind of madman who was not mad at all. Not using conventional standards, anyway. Reality was conforming to his whims. Or so it seemed. And what did this madman—if he be man, at all—want from earthPresent; he whose own world was so far Beyond?

“What would it mean to be truly alive,” The Futurist offered thoughtfully, “here on earthPresent?” now munching on a handful of something the Priest might as well have believed to be The Futurist’s private storehouse of fantasie-dust.

“To make it to the next day, of course,” the Priest murmured. “We are, here, concerned with problems of survival.”

“In effect, you are your eyes,” said The Futurist’s ghostly apparition, “and choosing as your own vision the sight of the blind.” His silhouette walked like water toward the Priest, and as his hands touched the Priest’s head, I also felt hands upon my own head. It was then that I realized I was more than just myself, but were in some way, two.

“Listen with your fingers, and tell me what they can see…” he demanded. I didn’t want to answer. Didn’t want to perceive. His hands upon my head was itself a vision. “Can you see what’s right in front of you?” he asked.

“I can,” I somehow murmured.

“What are you, then?”

I felt the ground with my fingers and shook. I wanted more than ever to avoid The Futurist’s questions. An army I would have gladly fought, but a mirror? Oh, to be conquered by such an Intimate Gesture.

“Flesh and blood,” I stammered.

“Can we be any more of Nothing than that?” he called, as if enraged at the suggestion. “Beyond that, please!”

I sought to escape and felt myself levitating. Hovering above, from outside my body, I watched The Futurist caressing the Priest’s head.

“Our earliest ancestors?” the Priest shrieked. “is the Common Tree Shrew!”

“You crazy bird,” The Futurist cackled. “Stones and minerals are closer to your earliest ancestors, but what do I expect from you? You’ve been told these things….”

The Futurist forcefully began reciting something, and then added, “Your people once firmly believed that this planet was flat, because they were also quick to be deceived by appearances.”

I understood what he meant when he spoke. But, really, I was still basking in the waves of, what I can only describe to you as thought, sent forth from The Futurist’s fingers like some deranged yet master pianist, whose songs were like miniature paintings. I had no response to offer. Only a faint sense of wonder, mostly at why he was here.

“There are too many Priests of whole worlds who don’t even acknowledge their invisible reality,” The Futurist said. “Once you can admit to yourself that it exists,” he continued, adding a delicate pause…surely for dramatic effect, “you will inevitable find that there is more….”

When I looked up at The Futurist to grasp his meaning, I saw not what I had expected to see…or had ever expected to see. But the sight before me explained beyond words what he had meant.

The Unicorn barely moved, but her eyes held spiraling universes deeper woven than the very fabric of Time. It appeared as though the sky around her were melting, as if barely deciding to exist.

unidimension

“The Unicorn exists in a Dimension of Now…”

 

 

“No, “ said the voice of The Futurist from within the strange white apparition, “I, too, am not as I appear. But this illusion will suffice.”

“You are You,” I stammered.

“And What Be That?” she replied from within her formlessness. “What form is real? One gradation further into the melting sky, and I would exist here without any form at all, in that strange realm which you so fear and call death.”

“Death?” I muttered barely audible even to myself.

The Unicorn laughed without laughing and said, “That concept shall be your final illusion.”

The Futurist stood before me like before, now extending his arm toward the bank of trees ahead. Their colour was reminiscent of fall, yet the smell in the air was distinctly spring. Perhaps both were true for me. The mask of all I had believed about the world, and about myself, was peeling.

As I motioned to stand, I felt as if I were waking from a dream and was somehow transported to a completely different place, even though our conversation and the happenings of the day felt fluid. The Unicorn’s form was gone now, though I would hesitate to say that for certain.

Upon hearing me, The Futurist laughed, and for the first time, I did not feel mocked by his laughter, but felt instead a greater sense of ease.

2:5 – “tHE wILDERNESS oF cONSCIOUSNESS”

As I entered the forest, my feelings were like imprints on some abstract canvas which, when I tried to perceive them, only dropped further out of the zone of my experience, existing just out of sight…perhaps, somewhere in that melting sky, of which the Unicorn had spoken.

“It is impossible to see yourself on the canvas when you are that very canvas,” The Futurist said in his unusual manner. “This wilderness which grows all around you is not the kind with gnats that eat at your flesh, or buffalo roaming the open fields. It is, rather, the wilderness of consciousness.” He extended his arms as if an inter-galactic airline steward showing off the dimensions of a spacecraft.

“It is a space craft, if you will,” he continued, “a self-generating environment composed of your own…well, inner-space.”

“Is this for real?” the Priest of earthPresent asked me.

“At this point, I’m just observing, too,” I answered, “but we know we’re Some-Where.”

The Priest and I were aware of each other, though we couldn’t see each other. I could only surmise that we were one and the same, since The Futurist had assured us we were in our own inner-space, and there was no separation between us.

Being in this state of disembodiment was a lesson for both of us in accepting the existence of the Invisible World. Nothing was for certain, however, if you understand my position. Even The Futurist was, himself, perhaps no more than a holographic transmission from who knows where.

“The Futurist looks out at the Wilderness of Consciousness from his Oversized Windows…”

 

The Futurist rubbed his hands together, gaining friction as he rubbed, and slowly pulled his hands apart as though he were sculpting energy into a ball. For what purpose, I couldn’t guess. After a brief pause, he held it out to me, and I felt the Priest of earthPresent reach out to receive the charged sphere.

It was exhilarating to touch, and though I couldn’t see it, it is true that I was acutely aware of it’s existence. Once I actually held the sphere in my hands, I was sure enough it was some incarnation of night and day, and communicated this silently to the Priest.

“Yin-Yang,” the Priest said, breathing a little heavy from the weight of his uncertainties. I tried to soothe him, but in a strange way, he was on his own.

“Very good,” The Futurist remarked, seeming genuinely pleased. “The circle you now hold is the springboard from which all material things take their image.” He kicked his walking stick very high into the air, and pressed down upon the ground as if making a point to the soil, which, admittedly, was made of consciousness. His actions were beginning to take on new meaning to me wherever we were, and because everything he did communicated some form of understanding, I trusted more freely in what he said, and that we had somehow left what I knew as earthPresent.

“Traveling to other planes, like traveling from one day to the next, is all simply a matter of inner fluidity,” The Futurist said, continuing to respond to both thoughts and words, once again blurring the distinction for the Priest and I between the external and internal. And somehow this ball of energy that the Priest held was reinforcing this feeling. More and more, there literally was no solid ground.

“In the world of the mind, there is no solid ground,” The Futurist’s voice could be heard, though I could no longer see him. “All is flux and balance. Welcome to my planet, where we all walk on water.”

“This world of consciousness is the planet of which you spoke?” the Priest asked, finally easing his breath. It is a strange paradox, but somehow the knowledge of being in flux was somehow soothing in a way that felt very much like solid ground. For the Priest, it was a matter of finally realizing where he stood.

“Yes, yes,” the Unicorn assured us, sounding much more light hearted, perhaps because she was back in her forest. “Now, bring the orb’s energy into your self.”

Everything became strangely amorphous, and my vision was impaired or at least altered. I saw mostly spirals of light, spirals of green.

“Why am I not seeing you, Futurist?” the Priest asked.

“You have not yet given yourself over to Nevermore,“ he replied. “You’ll move higher into the Sky Planes by going further Inward. As you Trust, I will become more apparent to your eyes.”

I closed my eyes to once again stop relying on them. First, I felt the unifying ball of energy within my bloodstream. And as I stilled my mind, it occurred to me that my own bloodstream was somehow linked to a great cosmic river that flowed like roots…stemming from the Beginnings of Time.

When I felt at peace, I opened my eyes to see if I had arrived in Nevermore. Everything was blurry, and light began filling what I had thought were physical spaces. This was most frightening because, believing fully in the existence of the physical world, this light penetrated my deepest beliefs.

“I saw mostly Spirals of Light, Spirals of Green…”

I kept hearing the Priest thinking “Is this not death? Is this not death?” and I wanted to hold on to the world I knew, yet felt the promise of a world that still would exist, from where the Unicorn was speaking to me. Her words varied in tone between distinguishably male and female, older and younger, and yet, none of these audible sounds made any direct sense.

Then I began to be older and younger myself. I began to be woman and man, yin and yang. The Priest extended his arms perfectly sideways to release our resistance to this overwhelming flow of energy. The only solace seemed to be in submission. It was not submitting exactly, but giving way to aspects that contained everything. A sensation like a pulse began beating at the centre of my forehead, and I thought I must be getting closer to the Unicorn.

“YES!” the Priest screamed, without knowing why.

The Futurist sighed with a fond sense of remembrance, “You don’t need to know about that just yet.” He extended what looked to be a glass of wine, and smiled politely.

The Priest of earthPresent was bewildered, and starred at the extended glass of wine transfixed. He reached into his hip pouch, and fumbling, grabbed his pen and small note pad. These pages carried his thoughts, his grocery lists, his scribblings, which all seemed from another world now. Putting pen to paper, he wrote the word “YES” as if it contained the most gravely important key to existence.

“Gladly,” the Priest of earthPresent recovered, taking the glass from The Futurist with an unsteady hand. He needed a drink, if only to convince him that the place he was in was, by all accounts, real. The glass was real. And yes, the wine…divinely so.

I also knew we were in The Futurist’s home, which was decorated as individualistically as his attire. Colors I didn’t even know existed floated around the room like incredibly large, visible molecules.

These unusual balls were somehow configurations of light and emitted subtle vibrations that I could feel when I walked near them, as if they were planets being interrupted by a passing meteor. The orbs usually hovered, but occasionally took on an air of having conscious intention as they would suddenly shift air space and hover someplace else. The Futurist assured me that my perception of movement was an illusion. I wasn’t sure whether he was limiting that statement to these balls of light or not.

There was an amazing amount of luminance within everything, in fact. And looking out at the forest from his oversized windows, I could see that there was no shortage of light in the natural world of consciousness, as I should have supposed. Looking around the room, there were many doors which were all opened, and which, from my vantage point, led down immensely long hallways, with open doors extended all the way down. It was like a reflection of a reflection of a reflection.

The Futurist smiled at my musings of thought. This much was clear to me, as were many things on this planet of transparency. I began to understand some of his earlier references to the place he “came from”.

After a few sips of his divine wine, my physical self, the Priest of earthPresent, was able to sit down in an unimaginably soft yet sturdy chair, and discuss matters of great consequence without words. Although talk could be disguarded here, we enjoyed looking into each other’s eyes, and sharing a warm smile, all for their own sake, as the conversation of thought went on.

“The glass was Real…and the Wine, Divinely so…”

Through this time, I came to understand some miraculous things. Firstly, music was ever-present on The Futurist’s planet, and perhaps this accounted for his whimsical disposition. The impression that he always wanted to burst into song was not so far from the truth. For, in actually, I learned, he was a song. And so was I and everything else.

I would have resisted the notion, I suppose, if I had not directly been experiencing that feeling on this strange planet…of floating…but from within the mind, as if riding the wave of some enchanted melody. And it was obvious to me more then, than now, that everything which seems so separate from us is woven together, not “like” relationships between harmonies, but exactly so.

I also came to understand that within myself were greater and greater variations of separated yet connected selfhood. The Priest of earthPresent and I were not simply of the same Being, but, like yin and yang, constituted a kind of sacred marriage between the “I” and “me” of the Self. The Futurist communicated to us that direct, conscious awareness of this marriage would be of the utmost importance on our journey through our own “inner fluidity”, which, once we returned to earthPresent, would simply be as a rambling river dreamsong within our veins, like a melody floating beyond physical space, in the likeness of the melting sky.

Though this river is eternal, The Futurist still assured me he would meet me when I reached it’s end. When I asked how he knew I would make it, he replied that I already had, and he said it with the kind of conviction that only The Futurist could have, and with a warmth that made me believe my marriage to the Priest was not my last. Together, the Priest and I, as one, would unite with yet another, and I knew that somehow The Futurist was intimately involved.

3:5 – “tHE mIND cAMERA”

Dreams are much closer to Reality than daily living on earthPresent. In the physical planes, things are very clumsy and primitive. A toaster becomes a toaster. A clock seems no longer a symbol. The workings of reality become dependent on lazy, stubborn exactitude. But also, things become crystallized…slowing down so they can really be touched.

The Priest picked up the strangely covered volume that lay on the floor of his new surroundings. It was a text of old writings from the times on earthPresent when they still used words to communicate. It told of the times of social slavery when society was built around exploitative businesses that forced people to serve the system rather than being served by the system to pursue matters of the Spirit. It told of the times when people thought salvation came from outside themselves in the form of another, rather than recognizing their savior as states of mind available to themselves. It told of the Great Blindness that had led people to believe the world was physical at it’s core, rather than psychodynamic. It all seemed so far away, now. It truly was ancient history.

He put the book down, shivering a bit from the chill he felt reviewing his own past, in a world where he had been so deceived by appearances.

The room he found himself in now seemed almost Void of past. It was new. The wall was bare, except for a single word somehow painted, yet hovering, that simply read “BECOME”.

“The Priest considers escaping the Future through a hole in his mind…”

The Priest was aware that his mental shifts were such that physical reality could no longer support his previous world. He was like an alien who had lost his own planet and was forced to forge a whole new concept in living. In a very real way, the Priest’s planet, earthPresent, was no more. Home was simply wherever he was. Which was not such a bad place to be, he thought. Maybe he liked it better than before. There was always a new colour in the sky here. He didn’t even recognize the fact that seeing the sky would have been impossible on earthPresent, considering this room didn’t really have an “Outside”…

“You are learning quickly,” The Futurist said, greeting him by walking through the other end of the wall.

“Fancy meeting you here,” the Priest said.

The Futurist laughed. “Where else?”

“I’m beginning to wonder,” he replied.

The Futurist snapped his fingers, and long paintbrushes, still wet with paint, appeared within his reach. He looked up at the wall, as if pondering how he might raise the entire scope of his future in a fury of firm, committed strokes.

“What are you doing now?” the Priest asked.

“I paint my own reality,” The Futurist quipped with little kidding. “Move…a step to the side…”

I couldn’t move.

In any voyager’s travels, there comes a time when someone must come along and introduce a new landscape; to make clear where the voyager is standing on that spiraling canvas of reality, so that he might understand where to take the next step. Perhaps this was the reason for the appearance of this strange visitor to my lonely planet.

“You’re making an inter-dimensional shift,” The Futurist interjected. “Change is the only Constant. Feel free to join it. The river flows with or without your consent.”

“Yesterday, I believed the world was flat,” the Priest returned. “I’m having trouble trusting the ground.”

Reality was surely much more fluid here than on earthPresent. Or was earthPresent just a name…for what were actually quite different planets, all existing as each person perceived it to be. What a different place earthPresent had become in the span of what might be considered a single day, much less a single lifetime! Yet the Priest knew, despite the proposed certainty of his convictions, the protests of his culture and intellect, that it was only different on the Inside.

“However much things may have changed,” The Futurist reassured me, “it is still now o’clock. And now is always the right time to begin.”

The Priest paused before the word “BECOME”. Surely, the only way to “become” was to walk right through the walls. And so he did.

The two inner-space travelers found themselves, next, in a room containing nine people, all sitting on toilets. Four men, Five women. Six of the nine sat fully clothed on the open toilets while looking through red plastic viewfinders. Two women and one man sat on the other toilets without apparel, and their thoughts were displayed just above their heads, as though projected from a hidden mind-camera.

“Toilets, digestion. Let me guess,” the Priest quipped, “we’ve entered the Bathrooms of Inner-Space.”

“Let’s just say we’re getting more physically oriented so that you get a better grasp on things,” The Futurist said, with his eyes smiling very brightly. “Will you be needing a viewfinder to see your intentions?”

“They used Red Plastic Viewfinders to see their intentions…”

And with that, he flicked an invisible switch in my mind which allowed me to see with vivid distinction the concerns of all those around me. The screen of the woman closest to me, for instance, revealed that in her inner-space world, she was staring blankly at an avocado.

“Something tells me,” the Priest said hesitantly, peering over at the unclothed woman next to him, “Ce n’est pas un avocado?…”

The Futurist replied again by smiling, as he levitated toward a very succinctly chosen spot, where he began to make rubbing motions as if he was holding a rag and was somehow cleaning his imaginary windows. Not that I doubted he was.

The Futurist chuckled and continued on with the creation of his masterpiece. “That’s because you still don’t know how to see,” he said, once again interrupting my thoughts, which I was beginning to think was a bit rude.

“What do you know?” I thought silently. I could feel him laughing inside of me.

“Well,” The Futurist said, “that is a tricky relationship to figure out. Perhaps it’s really you leading us through this.” The Futurist lifted his walking stick into the air and prodded the sky for answers.

He was talking to me as much as he was addressing the Priest. I wasn’t sure, myself, what we were supposed to be seeing. We were feeling a little disoriented. Perhaps we were looking for the future or better yet the past. On the Priest’s mind-screen was projected an image of the back of his own head.

“earthPresent is no more,” the Priest said to me. He was really getting disoriented, what with all the transformations occurring in such rapidity. It’s very hard to see the basics when reality is shifting under your feet.

“Walking on water is easy,” The Futurist told him. “You are still on earthPresent. Even if it’s not at all what you originally thought it was.”

I stared blankly for a moment, but then became ignited with understanding. I began to illuminate.

A new door materialized on my mind-screen, and I watched as the knob slowly turned and turned. The Futurist smiled wryly at me. I was getting closer to where he was being projected from. Or something like that.

“A revolution is brewing,” The Futurist proposed. “Do you know the source?”

I received his question in the form of a collage, as the door swung open with images, vibrations, and waves of the very distant past, beyond my own memory. From outside my body, I watched the screen that had appeared over my head, like the others in the room. I was not holding a viewfinder (thank God…) and The Futurist was there next to me, watching — or perhaps communicating — with one of my parallel existences, or future rooms. I could see the light shooting from his finger-tips as he weaved some kind of elaborate tapestry.

“Look there!” The Futurist screamed, pointing behind me. As I turned around, the face on the Priest’s mind-screen was unknown to me, yet I instinctively knew the man was somehow myself.

“Unicorns are as real as you,” my voice was saying “and just as visible. People are just short-sighted.”

Around his neck, he wore a pendant of a sunbeam encircled by a ring of moons. The youth to whom he spoke shifted restlessly on the bench, but spoke with a calm older than his years.

“I can’t see Unicorns,” the youth returned, “but maybe being blind has that effect.”

“Ce n’est pas un avocado…”

The man who spoke with my voice waved his paintbrush in front of the youth, whose eyes did not follow. As he realized the youth was blind, I was concurrently realizing that the man with my voice was a Craftsman of some kind. And I wondered if he, like The Futurist, could paint his own reality.

“I noticed that in his other hand, he was holding a chisel. Something told me that the subject matter of his masterpiece remained a mystery, or was at least invisible to him at the moment.

“That’s where you come in,” The Futurist whispered invisibly. “Without him, there is no revolution.”

Searching, the Craftsman sneezed from the anxiety of not knowing his own direction. He looked up at the clouds as if anticipating some kind of visitation. Glancing at his watch, he was getting uneasy.

“Nervous?” the youth asked.

“You’re not so blind, after all,” the Craftsman’s voice replied, pleasantly startled. He smiled widely at the boy, marveling at what a disquieting crutch it must be to lack sight.

“People aren’t really so different,” the youth said slowly, “save appearances.” He looked directly at the Craftsman, who thought he was looking just beyond him. He then kicked his walking stick high into the air, which startled the Craftsman. “In fact,” he continued, “I don’t carry this walking stick because I’m blind, nor as a crutch. I know exactly where I am going.”

“Why do you carry it?” the Craftsman asked, half-humoring the youth, half-humoring himself.

“As a reminder,” he offered, “that life is just a walking stick.”
“A walking stick?”

“The physical world,” he replied, “is the walking stick of the spirit… a tool to enact vision upon.”

The Craftsman looked up from the ground, and the blind youth was now an old man, completely naked, and smiling gently.

“You didn’t recognize me!” the old man sneered, still with the child’s voice, but watching with eyes that could clearly see Intentions.

“Futurist, it’s you!” he yelled, “You’re not dressed. You must put some clothes on! If people see you, you’ll be arrested!”

The Futurist laughed without a trace of panic. He shook his naked body freely, and smiled even harder at the uneasy man before him.

“No one can see me,” The Futurist assured him. “You always take your experiences so literally. Really, it would do you some good to loosen up.”

“We’re not all accustomed to the atmosphere on your planet, Futurist,” he said impatiently.

“Well, who’s responsible for THAT?” was the reply.

“It’s amazing,” The Futurist continued. “People here are so afraid of nudity. Do you think it’s too revealing?” He opened his imaginary cloak, and then closed it tightly, as if to hide his inner-world from sight.

“You know, most people imagine space aliens to be very peaceful and dignified,” the Craftsman scoffed. “If they only knew how sarcastic you can be.”

“ALIEN? Alien to who….” he said, before adding, “Yes, if they only knew we were really there watching, after all…and LAUGHING!” The Futurist held his ribs with the private delights known only to FREE men. “I mean, just you, waiting for me, looking up into the clouds like I was coming from UP THERE, somewhere.”

The Craftsman sighed, pacing swiftly. “Look, there are things that need doing on my planet, as you know–so what’s this all about? I need to get on with it.”

“Your planet, my planet—all your divisions. Well, go right ahead,” The Futurist said, “Don’t let me stop you.” He opened his hands and proceeded to slowly evaporate into the fabric of the future.

“C’mon,” the Craftsman said. “Enough games.”

“It’s actually you who are being so stubborn,” The Futurist said, with a trace of seriousness. “I don’t know how you get on.”

“I do fine,” the Craftsman replied. “Now what do you need?”

The Futurist began illuminating. A light shade of violet surrounded his person, and a tunic materialized, clothing his body. He looked into the Craftsman’s eyes and communicated without words: ’YOU MUST PREPARE YOUR PLANET FOR A CHANGE. A GREAT NEW AGE OF PERCEPTION IS WAITING TO BE RECOGNIZED!’

“How do I accomplish that?” the man asked, trance-like and sounding unconvinced at his prospects of success.

“CHANGE THE SCHOOLS,” The Futurist’s mind energy replied, smiling warmly. “TEACH YOUR FUTURE GENERATIONS ABOUT THEIR ENERGETIC FIELD. TEACH THEM TO BREATH FROM THE PLACE BEYOND DEATH. EXPLAIN HOW THEIR MENTAL PROCESSES SHAPE THEIR REALITY.”

Is that all?” he said, “Is that all I need to do?”

“YOUR PLANET’S ENTIRE CONSCIOUSNESS IS POISONED BY IT’S OWN INHABITANTS. YOUR SOCIETY IS STRUCTURED TOWARD BORING THE PEOPLE; TURNING THEM OFF TO TRULY LIVING AND EXPERIENCING.

THEY ARE DISTRACTED WITH TEDIOUS FACTS AND FALSE COMPETITIONS, GAINING FALSE REWARDS. YOUR PLANET IS A WASTE DUMP!”

“But they are addicted to these falsities,” the Craftsman urged The Futurist to understand, mostly to save himself the trouble. “People can’t handle mind nudity.”

“IT IS ONLY A CULTURAL DIFFERENCE BETWEEN YOUR WORLD AND MINE. PEOPLE MAKE THE LAWS THAT PEOPLE ARE SUBJECTED TO. ADJUST YOUR LAWS AND CULTURE TO SUPPORT YOUR DESIRED FUTURE ROOM,” The Futurist continued without a word. “THE SOCIETY REAPS WHAT THE SOCIETY SOWS.”

“Oh, very religious,” the Craftsman replied sarcastically. “The people will believe it is naive, Futurist. Very naive.”

“SO IS BELIEVING IN UNICORNS,” the Unicorn assured him. Her voice, solid as steel, made me drunk with pleasure. “JUST RELINQUISH YOUR DOUBT AND YOUR FEAR OF THE INVISIBLE WORLD. LIBERATION AWAITS. EVERY FLOWER OPENING IS SIMPLY SAYING YES!”

She shocked me by adding, “YOU’VE ALL BECOME VERY STUPID.”

“Who can find freedom nowadays?” the Craftsman questioned.

“WHOEVER IS HIMSELF FREE,” The Futurist replied. “IT IS SIMPLY A MATTER OF MAKING DIFFERENT CHOICES AND INVITING NEW REALITIES TO EMERGE.”

The Craftsman stood staring blankly into the distance. The wind was noisy as it whipped through the avenues of the city, so dominated by man-made buildings too tall to see past. At first he could not remember why he was standing there. What was he doing?

Slowly he remembered he had been talking with The Futurist, who was now completely outside of sight. Perhaps it had only been the wind.

Could he really change the ways of his planet? He knew he had the skills to construct the Architecture of Places Tomorrow. But the message, the words, the heart of such a place. From where would he get the substance to fill the great structure he was to create?

Misty-eyed, he gazed into the night sky. Usually, the answers of the stars could not be seen, drowned out from the lights of the city. But tonight, there was one incredibly visible star shining brightly. It was all alone—a simple product of itself—yet it held the greatest glory in the sky.

“It is now Time,” he heard The Futurist’s voice rattling eerily through the night, “to meet the Unicorn….”

4:5 – “tHE eVOLUTION rEVOLUTION”

The crowd was getting impatient. It had been billed as a one-time-only performance by the multi-dimensionally famous Galexia.

She was famous for her voice, which it is said, carries the very notes of InfiniteTime. Beauty, itself, was simply a melody in her mind. Many planets were represented tonight, though as always, many would prove to be short of Understanding.

“The Craftsman escapes his gray past.”

“This performance is made available on a frequency which includes your current airspace,” a voice called over the loudspeakers. “So, for once, don’t change —or you may be rendered out of reach of this broadcast!”

The Craftsman was anxious to be a witness. The crowd began pounding in a rhythmic demand for Galexia. The excitement in their distant memories clawed at the walls of the moment, nervously exhilarated.

The lights dimmed, and the Great Lady of Time appeared, with her own emanating light to counter the darkness in the auditorium, spinning like the molecules at her core, a mirror of the spiraling galaxies. The haunt of her appearance was immediately recognizable to all, and many applauded simply by the sight of her. But the audience’s true test still lay ahead of them: Would they know what they were experiencing?

Galexia stepped up to the glowing, holographic microphone, closed her eyes, and slowly opened her mouth to sing. Most of the crowd strained to listen…closer and closer still. They could not Hear. Utter silence fell upon their ears as her lips moved. They became agitated, believing they were victims to some kind of hoax, rather than seeing that they had failed to perceive.

Static.

The Craftsman listened more closely, and at first, could hear only faintly. The seeds of sound multiplied in his awareness, and progressively came in more vividly, more distinctly, though the strength of the signal had remained constant. At first, all he could really hear was The Voice, but soon realized she was speaking in an old language that few understood. Invisibility, in any form, is a distinct way to communicate, and the fact that her sounds were there but went unseen by most on-lookers only magnified his recurring sense that she was some incarnation or projection of the Unicorn. Reassurance of her specific form was becoming less necessary. Magic was present.

The spirals at her core reeled out through her voice, creating the most distinctive of echoing vibrations, which left imprints upon the walls.

The amount of light that crystallized in her tones opened all the doors in the Hall. Looking over the crowd, there were a select few who were receiving her transmissions, holding their heads in disbelief, allowing their tears to flow joyously without resistance. The sound was almost painful, like a terribly beautiful sadness. Yet still, tensions in the hall rose quickly, turning the concert into a small-scale riot. Some demanded their money back, but were reminded that they had not paid. The concert was given freely.

As the sparkling of the stage faded, the doors continued to open down the Craftsman’s long internal hallways, melding with Galexia’s frequencies as if by some sacred, energistic marriage. It was, in fact, a meeting prearranged by The Futurist before the Craftsman had ever been born, and which would exist long after his passing.

He touched the centre of his chest, and noticed a spiral symbol of yin and yang had appeared on his skin. Sometimes the most powerful part of a man is his womanhood, his access to inner-fluidity. He had learned from Galexia the pathway of the stars, and finally understood what form his construction would have to take. Like the unicorn, an artform that cannot be seen or touched…but the more you experience it, the more you believe in it.

Rather than using stone and steel, the makings of The Future Room would need to be built on a sturdier foundation: music. But a music unlike any other.

It would have to be created from particles of the Mysterious. And more than anything, it would need to be made of a Fantasie more real than the Illusions of earthPresent.

As the Craftsman walked boldly down the road before him, his image faded from my mind-screen.

“Galexia’s frequencies meld with the Craftsman’s long internal hallways.”

“If a Magician you want to be,” The Futurist said, “let magic be your making.” He extended his finger towards some type of Abstract Nothing-hood, then seemed to get distracted by his own associations, fancying his turning finger to resemble a swinging doorway.

““You mean to drive me insane by means of illogic,” I heard the Priest say.

“Ah, so it’s logic you’re after,” The Futurist began cackling.

“Is that too much to ask for?” the Priest quipped.

“Logic,” The Futurist scoffed, “which uses a ruler to measure a mile, a ruler to measure an eternity?” His gaze never left his own turning finger as he spoke, fascinated by the prospects of where such a doorway might lead. His eyes grew more intense as he began to ponder how he might walk through it.

The Priest’s desire to escape was suddenly returning without warning. The future seemed too great a challenge, and his faith was waning. He was beginning to sense that some kind of leap would soon become necessary…

“You are a Dreamer, Futurist. An admirable illusionist, perhaps. But where is this all leading? Where is the practicality in all this dreaming?” the Priest demanded, trying to vanquish, finally, this Man of Questions, like a whisper in the back of the mind.

“You must never allow yourself to become so practical,” The Futurist assured with an ease of words. “The urge for Practicality is responsible for all of the world’s Dullest achievements.”

He interrupted his own train of thought, checking the course of his immediate future by testing the direction of the Wind against his upright stick.

“The Winds tell me it is now Departure Time,” The Futurist said with a matter-of-fact nonchalance that stood in stark contrast to the Priest’s sudden change of momentum. “Certain planes are crafted as a Passage for only One.”

Then he produced from his imagination the existence of a small reflecting mirror. “Take this with you.” And as he handed it to the Priest, his image faded into a series of rotating illuminations.

The Priest raised his sword and began swatting at the unwoundable air, striking the poses of a warrior. He screamed helplessly against the oncoming sky, melting across forever.

I knew that the Priest was backing away from this brazen new landscape proposed by The Futurist. And perhaps, after all, it was in part my own fault. Was I failing to provide the necessary support? My many confusions were preventing me.

I wasn’t sure how to reconcile the space between that part of myself that I saw developing in the Craftsman with the person I had come to believe I was, as the Priest of earthPresent. And I began to wonder how my sense of personal identity related to my changing perceptions of the revolution. After all, there are a million blank books with “Revolution” as their title. But they will never become Real. Not without the words to fill the pages. Perhaps that was to be my role in all of this.

5:5 – “tHE bEAUTY bOMB”

All my ideas about what I knew and who I was had become like iron gates, which now stood between myself and The Future Room. But by casting off my Certainties, I could gain access to new Possibilities. Simply in breathing, I could enter the necessary state for change: flux and balance. A sensation of waves raced beneath my toes. And suddenly, I felt how truly important it was to have gained the sacred knowledge of walking on water.

I could see my reflection mirrored in the waves, and somehow, I knew all at once that the answer to my search lay right here. This place I was seeking was not a place after all, nor was the Revolution an Outer Force.

“The Unicorn was not the Colour of White, but the Colour of Light..”

My search was for a state of Being that would finally allow me access to this larger life filled with rooms without walls…and I thought of The Futurist’s home, with it’s endless hallways, unraveling even into those spaces where there seemed to be Not. Only there in the Unseen spaces, in the Invisible, could I learn what the Unicorn knew.

To manifest pure light—to do the work of the stars—I would have to become emptied of all resistances. I would have to let go of something, perhaps a fear, that had always told me I needed it in order to be “alive”. By letting go of this illusion, I would not only live in a much larger NOW, but redefine what it meant to be living. Maybe, then, even the stones…

I thought of The Futurist speaking from within the stone. Had it simply been a leap of faith that had allowed his transformation? And the Unicorn…she had said that Death would be my final illusion…

Kneeling upon the water, I caressed the shimmering image, as water dripped also from my eyes. I drank of myself fully, as if to kiss what could never be kissed, to believe so fully in the Unbelievable as to sculpt its living presence into form. From what other matrix of inspiration could a Unicorn possibly be borne but from the immaculate irrationality of a love such as this? A love summoned from the depths of such a personal and strange desire?

If the strength of this desire could have broken through the unbearable walls of Time, I would have gladly melted away, into my own formlessness, forevermore. But apparently, some walls were not illusions. And the truth, as always, was greater than mere desire.

There was no way through. The only release was to be found in ripping myself away, just to quell the intensity. I gasped for air and the sky began to tremble, as blue storm clouds collected like tornadoes overhead. The Priest of earthPresent fell backwards onto the mountaintop, and released an awkward groan.

Looking out, he confronted the cost of his awe-inspiring view. I was lost to him, he thought. And what, then, of the Unicorns?

 

Concurrently, I realized that I had NOT lost myself in the separation, but had gained it. Our disruption produced some kind of strange chemical reaction in me. I felt expanded. It was like the same emotion of releasing, in the form of a flooding in. My whole molecular structure was spreading, yet I had no sense that it had an end. I was in the trees that looked over his figure and yet the rock that nestled at his rear. Perhaps “going inward” actually required reaching out…into everything. Perhaps, only then, could the Priest and I truly be as one. And only through that paradox, could we ever connect to the illusive ability we had searched so long to find: to speak the mysterious language of Light.

My disappearing visage appeared to him in waves. Reaching deep into my lungs, I showered wind down upon his tiny little body until he laughed unbearably from the exhilaration of the epiphany, revived by the thought that we would actually find our way to one another. Death was being conquered, and the Oneness of it all was no further than the tip of a Unicorn’s horn.

The Priest stood up and danced gaily with the wind, as if I was the child he’d vowed never to lose, and had somehow lost. Now he could see the Unicorns, recovering for himself the emotional and invisible knowledge of true reality, like a future room in the mind, where a small light was always left on.

The sky began to melt overhead, as earthPresent began to vibrate. The separation of our physical form was causing, or allowing, this vast expression of our infinite variety to manifest so that it could experience itself in endless wonderment. My spirit was being infused within his flesh and his blood was giving breathe to my ghost.

“Had it simply been a leap of faith that had allowed his transformation?”

Once again, I felt splattered across a vast canvas, being too much a part of the thing to be able to see it from the outside. A massive energy expansion was spreading rapidly across my Sky Planes like a Beauty Bomb. I knew without any question—the very structure of my planet was now changing its form.

This divine alchemy was somehow more than anything I could have planned or understood. And the force we were both so in love with was greater still than we, so it was easy to give over our wills, in complete trust, to the strange wisdom of the fates. Only through that trust, after all, had we ever reached such a miraculous state of union.

The leaves seemed to be ringing like bells, calling out across the Sky Planes, announcing the birth of a new star. Here, everything was alive for the first time, and gently dying to it’s past. There was no solid ground, save the lustful flow of molecular impossibilities.

The Priest began spinning like the molecules at his core. Images of Unicorns gathered all around him in every direction as he followed that rhythm down a vast corridor, both tube-like and spiraling, as molecules and atoms always dance, traveling through inner-spaces.

His spinning reeled him further and further inward. His surroundings whirred and blurred until he became a tornado of colours rushing inward towards his centre. To keep from getting dizzy, the Priest found that he simply had to relinquish his sense of attachment to the physical world. Holding on would surely spell disaster for a journey so delicately maneuvered as this.

As the Priest gave way to his spinning, I knelt from within him, animated in this wilderness of consciousness. A small chest with the word “YES” carved at it’s core appeared before me. It glistened from a trick of the light, and somehow I knew that unlocking it would concurrently release me from my past and yet open all the doors to my future. But first, I would have to prove worthy of a great and terrifying gift…my own love.

As I reached to touch the chest, I noticed it was growling. Momentarily I withdrew my hand, but somehow could sense that the growling was my own, and that its unraveling lay not in some outside force, but in a purely inner gesture.

It was as The Futurist had suggested it would be: At the end of Time, nothing else matters. All the approval, recognition and conditionality of planetary living dissolves, and you’re left with only you on judgment day to accept or deny yourself into the Kingdom of your own deliverance. I was all alone with my Self, looking at my reflection and all I had ever been and done. Dare I embrace it all? Was I true? My hand trembled on the box as we prepared to look Inside. The mystery of life is not about our disbelief in Unicorns, after all, but about our disbelief in Ourselves.

All throughout my body, I felt the flower that the Unicorn had spoken of…She had said the flower opening was simply saying “Yes”. As I did that, it allowed light of every colour to emerge from my core. I illuminated.

The Priest continued to spin into himself with greater ease, as my petals opened with all the colours of any full-blooming peacock. Then, the energy redefined its essence into something that resembled the windstorm of a delicate butterfly wing, and the closed chest finally flew open.

The ebbing dream state stormed forward with one final explosive howl, and the Priest fell to his knees from the force of its aggression.

“His watch had lost all of its numbers…”

The wilderness peeled back toward a solid state, which was a relief for the Priest. The trees took on the form of trees, the sky was differentiating itself into an amorphous possibility above him, and I was no more than I had been…a whispering companion in his mind whom he could chose to listen to or ignore, though never again in quite the same way.

As the mysterious clouds bellowed with countless swirling figurines overhead, I noticed that a new star had taken shape in the night sky. It winked as it glistened. And somehow, the knowledge of the existence of this single star caused a stirring in my heart that felt very much like falling…only toward the sky. And I thought that perhaps that peculiar feeling meant that the transformation of earthPresent was finally complete.

“Yes, that’s how Revolutions get their start,” The Futurist assured. “They occur first on the Inside.” He continued to water the plants from his Imaginary Garden, and added, “It is Always Beginning.”

(In the same way, a star never really stops shining… though you may fail to see it.)

The Priest looked at his watch, and marveled that it had lost all its numbers. The changes were not all on the inside anymore, he thought, but had leaked out into life.

The Unicorn laughed at his fancy, and said something he couldn’t hear. But her intelligence washed through his Being, and his body moved to meet her meanings, swaying pleasantly from her intentions.

“Such is a Unicorn’s way,” The Futurist said, chuckling at the Priest’s crude means of comprehension.

“My watch has lost it’s numbers,” the Priest marveled again, not sure how to proceed, as I searched to understand my strange new planet.

I felt the Unicorn laugh. Her uniform of light merely sparkled as she disappeared behind a bank of clouds.

“Yet there is still so far to go,” The Futurist added, “You know, Time takes so long…”

“But Time is No More,” the Priest challenged. “Where could we possibly go?”

“Through the walls,” the Unicorn shrugged. “As always.”

The Priest glanced at his watch again, and the hands turned round and round, searching for direction.

“The answer is always the same,” The Futurist said, laughing at my questions from within my own thoughts. “And it’s time you answered that question…for both of us,” whereupon The Futurist turned, and began walking up a staircase that appeared under his feet as he moved.

Once he had vanished, I still heard footsteps. They continued on until I realized they were coming from behind me. When I turned, I saw a man approaching who I wasn’t sure I’d seen before, but immediately recognized.

“Yes!” I said to the Craftsman approaching. It was one of those rare moments when an artist comes completely face to face with his Purpose.

And with outstretched arms, the Craftsman, the Priest and I passed through each other’s visage, dissolving through the passageways of NeverMore and arriving, at last, through the doors of The Future Room.

Reaching the top of the staircase in his mind, The Futurist then emerged from the Tunnels of Slumber. And he awakens each day, just like this…to work a little more on his Masterpiece… the Creation of an Abstract Future which most closely resembles his Dreams.

§fin§