Shameless Ascension: Creator Joy of Disappearing in Immortal Harmony | Pine Cone

Joy and Harmony; Joy and Harmony; Joy and Harmony Observing Myself from the Observed Perspective, so simultaneously, not a hint of separation stops lilting timeless~reverie Joy-infinity on winged singular eye’s for~every~where in-a-muse of Total Humility, within Mystical Delight Bonding Communion Sweet Beloved’s Intimate Mortal-surprise Perennial-garden Pleasance.

Imagine just, simply imagine seeing back through Mortal Portal from Immortality’s perspective how much we suffer separation Evil without Joy, and Harmony, even possible, just to keep from crushing each other’s Mortal-shadow illusions? Worms chasing our tails in a hurry scattering everywhere in the deafening silence from, so much censuring criminal Evil, not one Mortal dares to lift another’s heart with such, total nonsense as Immortality dancing, so close we drive ourselves crazy, blaming the “Other” for even mentioning what can, never be understood by separatists on a Mortal-survival bender… if we can just imagine this unkind of Joyless Crazy-disharmony Patsy-heretic, so called “Diabolical” Creator Joy of disappearing in Immortal Harmony’s “Bird’s eye view” perspective.

This Mortal has been sick as a dog for it’s whole damned life, yet whether sick or dying many experiences of Joy and Harmony intercede in my Immortal favor as if Time Immemorial remembers my Immortal Love, whether I am here, or I am there looking back at myself, the Mortal barking Dawg-warrior chasing cars with no Immortal teeth from all the dust-to-dusty roads from suffering here Karmic barking back to viral-separation CDC-pretend Nowheresville.

Immortality; Immortality; Oh Sweet Beloved ‘devoid of myself’ devotion to Immortality is not, just a Communion teaser, but seeing Immortal Love as the Mortal-bandit of, all that is visible, as if, as if, as if we can, only fear what’s, never Immortal, unless Mortal-fear stops judging others, as ourselves in the fury from all the Shame-rage, that makes Mortality blind, and deaf to lilting-a winged-muse in the Good and the Bad Ugly-illusion, that makes separation, even possible to suffer any “Other” Physical-way, Butt A-holiness Wormy messes that worship Mortality on a gender Light-warp evil Creation-survival, ridiculously lousy impossible Karmic-addictive Love-dissonant anxiety Light memory-loss shadow-bender.

Immortality dottictocmoc backwards com only communicates separation suffering by its, very carnivorous nature, so here Immortality Joy and Harmony can’t have its lovely way with us any longer than Mortality motives, as long as Time has its hold on us as if, as if, as if Duality’s Unwritten rules hide the secret unconscious Evil, that maintains the ridiculously lousy Mortal-wishy gummy-way we Dog-pile rubber Karmic-bounce back wormy-eat at each other.

Immortality Joy and Harmony; Immortality Joy and Harmony; Immortality Joy and Harmony Observing Myself from the Observed Perspective, so simultaneously, not a hint of separation stops lilting timeless~reverie Joy-infinity on winged singular eye’s for~every~where in-a-muse of Total Humility, within Mystical Delight Bonding Communion Sweet Beloved’s Intimate Mortal-surprise Perennial-garden Pleasance.

When Cars were Black and Dusty 102206

The dust would rise up through the floor boards and float everywhere in the old cars. Roads were dirt and bumpy and huge springs smoothed the ride in these WW II era tanks. Even if we closed our mouths and opened the windows, we choked and gagged as we held our breath on short trips. I came to, in the trunk of an old Chevy, bouncing around with old junk and a jack. I had been knocked unconscious and told to “shut the f*** up”. When the car stopped and the lid opened, I hollered and cried, and was told once again to “shut the f*** up”.

With a gray expression on her face, she slammed the trunk once again. My little five year old body bounced around unable to breathe on every old dirt road in Maine for what seemed forever. I became silent and terrified of annihilation. All I did was cry and tell her to stop playing with me and smothering me with her boobs. Although I did say I hate you, and I did hit her with my fists. I must have waked her up in her shame, because all she repeated was “shut the f*** up”, and oh yeah, she called ‘me’ the Devil.

First thing she did was attach a leather harness and rope to my back and tied me to a tree. She watched as four mean boys teased and beat me, till I passed out. When they had happened by, it must have been quite a spectacle to see a little boy screaming and growling enraged like that. When they came close, I attacked them like a wild animal (I had seen that in a movie). My mother did dishes as she watched them beat me up and knock me out. She kept repeating with such resignation, shut the f*** up.

The second ride in the dusty trunk I went silent; I was almost dead anyway. This is the moment I entered the underworld. That is what it’s like to hold in anger, hide piercing pain and blame our human selves. I still hear her voice “shut the f*** up”, like it was yesterday. God has found me in the trunk of a dusty Chevy. It hurts so much, like a lightening bolt in the darkness of my heart. I have helped hundreds of others give a voice to their pain, and allowed as much nurturing as I could stand, but the Light inside me, still hurts so much.

Spiritual people kept telling me I was special, some say I am One with God, and A Course in Miracles says I can forgive myself and feel better. So here I am getting visible and giving MY pain a voice. Forgive me for killing me. Forgive me for hiding my anger. Forgive me for my shame and hating ‘me’. I picture I have been like a miniature black hole trapped in time in that old Chevy. One moment I went silent and, only survived physically after that. I must have stolen a million peoples’ energy and spread hate all around as I put on my happy mask, and tried to fake life.

That one moment seems like a lifetime. I have been imprisoned in the bars of my shame and rage for almost sixty years. It has been like sixty years on death row, waiting for someone to come and execute me for the bad things I must have done to my MOM. Instead other helpers have opened that lid and told me this was just an illusion and that I am special. Many are like angels to go through this with me and I thank them for expecting the best when I did not understand at all what they meant.

Hairy Cannonball 070107

Big balls a-rollin and-a spinnin to fat bowl pins; three holes make a frown face and-a strike with tumble sound trickling down to the toes; and-a… CRACK! My eyes become two cane holes in a cow turd and my nose smells of death like a black hole, as my heart stops for a minute to consider going on or…not. I was in a suicidal rage on a parents drunken afternoon, and was particularly daring and fleet-footed at the abused-kid old age of just five, when I threw pebbles at the house of Monsters where I slept as a baby. As my step-father muckled onto me in an alcoholic rage, we transformed me together to a canvas bag of baseball bats. So violent were our minds together and committed to the end, that we listened to my legs break to pieces of bats and fat bowl pins, as he grabbed my shoulders and slammed in his imaginary home run at the bowling alley in my mind. My legs flailed and whacked on the edge of the stove, counter tops and table, and must have seemed like watching a mad wood cutter at the chopping block working as fast as he was able.

Bbreaking bbones and feet hanging there by the skin, and another view of my batters eyes in the attitude of sin sent this forever picture of endless pain rolling like a bowling ball up to no grins. Just like in an alley, evil smiles chagrin, and that heavy, noisy black ball gathered size as it approached the pins and needles in my mind. Time is forever when we are waiting for the explosion and, every so many inches the ball seems to double in certainty that it is coming. As the huge ball rolled into my head from way down there in my little boy legs, it grew hair and transformed into a cannon ball, and I fainted under the attack of the pirate ship of my bad dad and his deadly intention. I was never sure what game we were playing until that day when I experienced his colors flappin in the wind, but the broken masts are nothing compared to walking the rest of my life in disappointment and humiliation.

I watched the eyes of a giraffe turn funny just before the lion bit a chunk of his dinner, and I wish I had dissociated just a few moments before I d I d did, so I wouldn’t remember. I believe I was poised with so much rage and curiosity, that I challenged the pirate to see if my suspicions were real; so I could finally rest assured that I was right about his intention. For a long time after, I didn’t remember this battle on the stormy sea, and then I put it in a file in my minds eye labeled: dad broke my legs and he competes hard at different ball games. But, just like the killer faces in the bleachers on any sunny Saturday afternoon, my pirate was a jealous killer and he woke up when my skin and I held on so long in the flippin-and-the-flappin. The biggest part of my hairy cannonball head is the constant reminder of how very painful it is to, NOT have an (Oh my Papa, to me he was so wonderful; Oh my Papa, to me he was so Grand).

No matter what I look like to others I am not what people tink I am. I live inside this body with the continual fear that a bowing ball will come rolling up my body, expand into a cannon ball, and explode again in my hairy head. Another inside unbearable pain is the one of dissociation when the guts of my mind get dragged through a rough hole in a rusty tin can with switching arcing and sparking. One gift that is hard to receive is dissociation, the disappointment of knowing my God-like-Dad wants to kill me, and the continual memory of humiliation. I embrace my intense violent mind modes of interacting and acknowledge my tendency to fear and judge too quickly like my, not so dear old Dad. As I forgive the man who hurt me, I ask God to paint the true grin of Holy Spirit on my old hairy cannonball, and fill in the three holes in the bowling ball with a good smell and twinkling eyes that go well with this true grin. As I turn in more and face the heaven inside me I need to send these old pictures into outer space, and simply…believe in…Christ consciousness at the core.