Writing releases a chemical in my brain; it might be psilocybin.
Spirit morphs immortals from one dimensionality of being to another at will.
Did you know that?
Memoirs of J.D.Saward
Being a quasi-fictional representational interpretation of a life well-lived.
Volume 1: The Black Pages – 1954 to 2013
I know there is a delight in journey where a character overcomes difficulties and in so doing discovers a particular manifestation of strength in himself that takes us beyond the perceived limits of our own constrained lives. We want the character to win. But even if he loses, we are still interested in the fact that he endured the journey and rose above some poor perception of how things are, along the way, and we trust that if we realise the heights of our own consciousness and energy patterns we too will transcend the mundane. This is a story of such a character. Such a journey.
Be told right now. In this story the character does not win the prize. The character put his all into the journey. Nevertheless he has not overcome the very real obstacle that lies in his path. We must be able to accept that, should we wish to proceed to enter deeply into the unravelling of this tale.
Do not join in here if you are seeking some semblance of hope to arrive into your mind from outside yourself. This story conveys no hope. It is a tale from the dark place. A tale told in black pages that reside unflinchingly and without regard for the sanity of their host, in the human soul.
We join this account at the point where the character written into those black pages (or is he in fact the author of such) has exhausted all avenues of appeal. The judgement has come down. He sits in the prison awaiting his fate. While he waits he tell his tales to a spider that has wandered along under the door of the cell.
Perhaps that spider is us. Perhaps we look forward to learning what he will choose for his last meal. Perhaps we join him in that meal. Perhaps we in fact know ourselves as inseparable from him.
Perhaps we wonder if we would have done better than he; made more efficacious decisions along the way; beaten a path around the gallows; and found the way to be free.
This story is my offering as I contemplate the menu I am offered for the last meal. The character, you see, is me. There is no way around that. The writer only knows his own world. Each word he writes reveals his soul. That self-revelation, in the end – and the end will assuredly arrive – or has – is the only gift he has to offer, as he waits for the hangman to arrive.
For now, consider that this moment where the character (me?) sits in the prison sharing his soul with you (the spider?) is way down the line in the future. It is a tale told in past present and future as if they are all one. Be patient with that meandering between the tenses. The wrapping up together of all experience into one moment is part of the tale and perhaps this and even more will become clear as we proceed.
I give you the gift of this tale. The gift of this tale is not given lightly. But it is all I have to give.
[Next: The Black Pages. Entry One: 15/9/14]
“Don’t wait until you have no more suffering before allowing yourself to be happy.”
~ Thich Nhat Hanh”
George A Jenkins: “When you die you will not know it and just keep writing on john.”
True. So true.
I promised my muse I would begin to post a segment of my memoirs regularly. (I might make that daily, or I might not).
She seems concerned I am now almost 62 years old.
She says to tell the people:
“John intends to live forever and thus it is so. However John may not be visible to the people in a particular holographic matrix for any particular length of time. Spirit morphs immortals from one dimensionality of being to another at will. What appears as death of a beloved to one, appears as a train journey to another land for the one who is being bereaved. This at least must be clear to the people from the channelled writings of the last few years. When the morphing happens the writings here may or may not cease. We are wondering the options on that. We just wanted to reassure the people that there may never ever be a book. This is it. This is the collected writings of the one who was known as J.D.Saward.”
Well Musey is in a serious mood today.
More to come…