John Saward – October 18, 2017 at 11:52AM

“There were people at the time who did not recognize or feel the loving radiation of jesus or Buddha……there can always be blocks to feeling love…even when it is surely present……”

— Francis Fran Bennett

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John Saward – October 18, 2017 at 10:13AM

Into the doubling 2022: Inevitable moves in the flow of creative events

(c) 2017 J.D.Saward

Into the doubling:

My life mastery coach asked me to send her a simple 3-point bullet list to help her understand how I want to grow further into the actualisation of my divine purpose.

1. I do not want to persuade.
2. I do want to make inevitable moves in the flow of creative events.
3. I want to be copiously financially rewarded for this.

1. I do not persuade.
2. I make inevitable moves in the flow of creative events.
3. I am copiously financially rewarded for this engineering of vision.

An Episode in one of the constantly arising Domains of Surreal Transpirations self-actualising as if by Divine Intent and transmitted through this Empty Vessel I Am.

I am not a persuader. God knows I’ve tried. I remember the times I have fallen on my face. The innocent ones who have suffered my belligerent posturings torment me as I lay there for a time. Then they fade into the other side of my mind. The side of my mind where the past is no longer and all rests in peace.

And I stand. I stand, and I say, ‘one more time and this time what will be said will be what can be heard.’

There are no remembrances of persuadings that console me at all as I sit in this airport lounge waiting for my flight into exile. The storm outside the terminal building seems to be the voices of all the people who have been relegated to the other side solely through their coming into contact with my mind. I turn to the storm and I laugh. I and my mind are onto your tricks. You don’t fool me any more. There is the present and there is the past and we do not meet in between. My flight is being called, the pretty ladies are saying goodbye to their husbands and poodles and the pilot is probably prostrating himself towards Mecca as he surrenders to the knowledge that the fate of 100 good and fair people are in his hands today. We move as one towards the boarding gate. Nobody is considering my rapturous inner. Nobody knows I am free. The storm has turned. A tea cup is sitting on a side table. It is empty. It is the last thing I see.

19 October 2022 and the year has decided it is time to let go. In the end, it is all posturing, after all. Summer comes then Autumn, Winter and Spring. At the end of the year Summer arrives again. The years roll around. We try to persuade time to allow us some more. Time listens to nobody. As I did find, nobody listens to me. Thus there is no further reason to stay. And yet, also no reason to go. I do not wish to return into the persuading. I only wish to make inevitable moves in the flow of creative events. The events that are pre-ordained to set me free. The year has decided to let go. And so at some time, did I. I enjoy the resonance of all this. What comes around in the macro bubbles up in the micro, and replicates the other way around. In this way Harmony is restored and a life of ease is unwrapped as if it has always been. That tea cup I see. It is so empty. So very empty. I see myself in that emptiness. And then, there is only the free.

An artist does not persuade. Freedom from persuading may be the kindest descriptive for the inner state of the artist absorbed in the play. At a time I lost that marvellous interiority. I became convinced that the lack of bread on my table was telling me to become practical and re-invent myself as a corporate change manager. I put my tools into hock and saddled up my dragons and marched off into workplace war as if all my chickens had come home to roost. A decade or so wearing that crisp linen collar as if I belonged to some hidden hand. Was I good at my core deliveries? I suppose the record would resoundly say yes. But the collar was becoming increasingly tighter and the hand was stroking my beard and the dragon had long ago disappeared into a more magical land. One grey morning I was moving with the throng down Central Boulevarde when I happened to glance in a pawn shop window and recognised the small chest of artist tools covered in dust, with a sign, “Cannot keep any longer, owner did not return, best offer accepted today.” And the tea cup. Behind the counter of the shop a wrinkled old man sipping a small cup of tea.

I push open the shop door and release my collar and whisper, “I can offer my soul and my inherent design, is that the best offer today?”. The old man seems to smile but then I see in fact he is me. And the young buck coming up to the counter is holding out a crisp white linen collar and asking me if he could pawn it for a few dollars so his soul could find a morsel to survive.

A dragon is stirring in the back room, I can hear. I reach for the dusty box of tools. There is only me and those tools now. I see myself in those tools. I walk towards the back room. I see the tea cup on the counter. It is empty. It is the last thing I see.

The inevitable moves come softly. The flow is ecstatic. The creativity is barely recognised outside of its origin until a quorum establishes itself in the social sphere.
A fragility of consent temporarily delegating credibility, value and thus influence to the artist who is manufacturing the events.
That social sphere recognition is perhaps only necessary to the artist when the artist somehow falls into the position of inciting financial payback for his work.
The inevitable moves, after all, are complete and rewarding in themselves.
We know this. An artist who does not yet know this is not an artist at all. A technician perhaps. A persuader. And God knows I do not want to persuade.
The work we do is easy. So easy. We know. We just allow the inevitable moves.

There came a time in my corporate change work when I began to question even the wisdom of change. Perhaps wisdom is not quite the right word. I began to question the honesty of it all. I began to see the whole game as a subterfuge. As a red herring in an eagle’s nest. As a pious pompous mechanism to keep the profits rolling. As a card trick performed for the masses for a fee. And I was hooked on that fee. My $10,000 a month from each customer was buying me the lifestyle of my dreams. And really. What was actually changing?

That guy with the sorrow in his eyes was still sitting asking for money for a meal on the steps of the corporate building each morning as the change-managed workers arrived. The foyer was glistening and warm. The sign on the outside doors read, “Building entry after 6pm by access code only.” I began to bring this guy locked out in the cold every night, into the change management rhetoric and evoked a wondering in the team as to whether or not, in change, the corporation is a separate entity to the society it derives its income from. The team resoundly said yes, “We must have a social conscience.” But when I suggested the foyer be opened up each night for the homeless to bed down in, the mutterings of impracticality and ‘Those people will trash the place’, and ‘We think dispensing soup on the steps each evening is a much more workable idea”, swirled around in my head and I felt. Yes, I felt. I felt this homeless guy as I. And I looked at the fee I was receiving and knew I was the same as the change managed workers, no different, hanging onto my fee. I noticed my credibility slowly dissolving. A customer broke contract, another one just couldn’t make it to progress review meetings for a year. The guy outside the foyer mumbled to me one evening as I was leaving, “Sir, can you spare a few dollars for a meal?”. I handed him a hundred dollar note and replied, “Feed your mind.” He looked at it in disbelief. “My mind?” “Yes your mind,” as I vaguely recalled a refrain that had began to liberate me in my youth. I determined to google the words and remind myself of the tune. I smiled at the brother on the steps and handed him an empty tea cup that just happened to be in my coat pocket. A dragon could be seen briefly, high high high up in the sky. The world dissolved and a voice called out to me, “Change is for workers, not for the artist, the artist seeks the never changing, and it is found.”

It was the very next morning that I came across the pawn shop in Central Boulevarde.

It is good to get the train of events down so we do have an understanding of how it all happened.

It is impossible though. The events that transpired are being rolled into this moment as a pile of possibilities forever being thrown onto the canvas as art.

That guy in the news who got a million dollars for his painting of a pole. It may be the same guy who I gave the hundred dollars to last evening. I am not sure of these things. I am sure though that as I stand behind this pawn shop counter the guy coming towards me with sorrow in his eyes is me. “Is mine the best offer?”, he implores. And I hand him an empty tea cup.

It is the last thing he sees.

We move as one towards the boarding gate. My flight has been called. My box of redeemed artist tools is in my cabin baggage. I am fortunate it was allowed through the security machines and checks. I believe the dragons helped in this.

There is a magnificent fee blowing away in the wind across the tarmac.

I do not care.

I enter the boarding gate. The dragon is waiting to fly me on its back. “Feed your mind”, he hisses and I mount. “Destination: Exile” is the sign projected in front of my eyes. “Expected arrival: Whenever.”

I sip on the free Cool-aid provided by the hostess. She smiles. Her smile is the last thing I see.

We move together we do, imagining there is something other than, the inevitable moves in the flow of creative events. I do not want to persuade you of this. I only seek to be paid for my vision.

The dragon smiles, “Vision?” “Vision is for mortals, we will be flying well beyond that realm, by the seat of our pants.” And he laughed (or laughs, I am not ever sure quite which) for dragons do not wear pants and he knew that well.

A cliche is not a cliche when it is spoken by a dragon.

I remember my mother telling me that.

Her smile is the last thing I see, as the dragon ascends into the mystic. With me.

3. Are you with me so far? It dos not matter if you are or are not. God knows I am not a persuader. You are as free as I to feed your own mind in the way the appearance in your own realm of inevitable happenstances have ordained. There was this song you know. Feed your head. And it did stick in my mind as a feeding of mind. But really, one must ask, as one does, is the head, the mind? I began to ask such questions the day I retrieved my box of artist tools from the little pawn shop on central boulevard, behind the counter of which I am standing right now as I begin to reply to the young man who is me who is offering his soul for the return of his spirit-tools, as my flight is being called and we move as one towards the departure gate behind which the dragon awaits to fly us by the seat of its pants into exile. I trust you are perhaps a little more with me now. But it does not matter. Go where you will with your own head. There is no other choice you see. We move in the happenstance as events arise that appear to be motivated by choice and intent but really all is inevitable movement in an incessant play that is being performed in the same fashion as a street busker might deliver his art as we move with the throng down that boulevard on our way to our workplace where we are anticipating being blessed today with a diversion in the form of our monthly change and innovate session that lets us out of the drudgery for a time. We think today we may sign up for the mindful yoga sessions. That would be good. And as we enter the foyer we do not notice the man with the dull eyes as he politely asks us in passing, “Sir, can you spare a few dollars for a meal or so?” And the dragons are all fried and for sale as mince meat, in that little boutique butcher’s shop on the corner of central and exiled. We walk and talk but there is nothing inside. We are as hollow as the sound of the wind. We are even more hollow than that. Our soul has been sold. Our light has been extinguished and the end of all times is upon us. ‘Armageddon’ we call. Armageddon is here to relieve us of our painful journey in time. We smile. It will be so fine not to exist any more. We perhaps notice an empty teacup on our desk. Perhaps that emptiness is the last thing we see. Are you with me so far? For we now must proceed. There is inevitable engineering of vision to be performed and there is, I am wanting to say, an invitation to you right now to support in a grand financial way the outworking of this busking in bullet point form that had turned into another Domain of Surreal Transpiration self-actualising as if by Divine Intent and transmitted through this Empty Vessel I Am. Please understand, life master coach, if you attend deeply to this, my offering, you will absorb the bullet points as if they are one. There is only one flow. There is only one move. That is the movement that is happening right now. And that movement is now terminating this show. This text. This wonderful outpouring of rap spirit as play. This rap, that is you. Your soul is as wonderfully empty in the infinite fullness as mine. And our soul is the last thing we see. The dragons are alive. Oh! They are alive. Please click on the donate button and support this text. I am not a persuader. I only make inevitable moves in the wonderful flow of creative events. And this engineering of words is my art, and I am happy to be financially rewarded for this. I need to be financially reward for this. Thank you. Thank you all, for coming to this spontaneous rap in spirit, show today. The donation link is available. Donate. As you will, in the inevitability of that happenstance in the flow of mystic surreal transpirations self-actualising as write-busking events.

Donate here please, kind sir. Feed your head.

10% of all donations goes to the mystic who transmitted the wonderful phrase to me: “Inevitable moves in the flow of creative events”, That phrase has inspired this outworking of vision today. Donate here kind sir. The dragons await.

Donate here kind being of love and delight. It may be the last thing we see.

Feed your head.

Thank you.

Come again next time to the next Episode in one of the constantly arising Domains of Surreal Transpirations self-actualising as if by Divine Intent and transmitted through this Empty Vessel I Am.

This work is totally supported by your donation.

But hey, I am not a persuader. God knows I’ve tried. I only make inevitable moves in the flow of creative events. And I am copiously financially rewarded for this engineering of vision.

Donate here.

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