Category Archives: Personal Freedom

Listening in Time

(short story,  by Sha’Tara)

“I know you are keen, and willing.  Good traits in a researcher.  But you are missing the key ingredients.  You must sit quietly, by yourself, for hours, maybe days, and listen in time.  Listen to the voices of the dead, and the pre-incarnate.  They are in the voices of “others” and in the sounds of the earth: the wind, the cracking soil, the moving grains of sand, the patter of the rain on scrabbly hard-pan soil.  They come on the heat waves.  Sometimes they get playful and paint mirages which tell stories from within your own heart and soul which your tired and bleary eyes will translate into images of desires.  

If you do not learn to listen, all you will accomplish in these places as you sift through dirt and rubble is collect garbage.  It will be recognizable as works of the people but it will reveal no stories, no myths, no history.  These you will have to create from your own imagination and trust me on this, it will not be the same stories as what was, even if the entire world should buy your interpretations.  Honest archaeologists are a rare breed but there is nothing written, either in this desert or in mountains, that says you can not be one of that small group.  When you teach yourself the secret of time listening the people who made and used the objects you unearth, they will tell you their stories.  Some will seem strange and some will be, to your modern understanding, quite unbelievable, but just listen.  It is not your call to re-interpret the lives of others according to your current knowledge: that is sacrilege.  Let the ghosts speak; let them tell their story, and accept it at face value.  It may be that they lie to you, but let it be: do not add insult to injury by adding to the lies.  After all, as you will discover in time, all of your history is lies.  There is no truth to be found on this world, or in this universe.  We know, we’ve been looking for millions of your years and there is no such chimera.”

I was young then, and I’d been experimenting with the local flora under the auspices of a would-be witch doctor who called himself George but whose real name was an unpronounceable Mexican word that sounded like apple-cotle or aptly cotli.  This particular drug induced “time dreams” he had told me, and… “You should only smoke a small amount at sunset.  Sit against a rock, or a tree if you can find one, and set your mind free to roam.  Do not try anything, just let it all go.  It is the time of the spirits and sometimes one of them will notice you and approach you with a story, or some advice.  Just listen and do not try to make any judgment about what you hear, or think you hear.  Put your own thoughts aside and just absorb.” 

I smoked slowly, not eagerly, trying to practice “wisdom” in my folly.  How long I sat against the rock that dug into my back, feeling the sand getting cold beneath me, I don’t know.  Darkness came and the sky exploded with myriads of pin-points of lights: star, planets, meteors, even satellites and flashing lights of planes.  Time passed and I no longer felt the cold, nor the loneliness or that deep fear of the dark unknown.  I “slept” with eyes open, hearing and learning to listen.  I heard small animals squeaking to one-another, some unrecognizable insects repeating endless calls; owls, even one loud shriek of what could only be some wild cat, cougar perhaps.  It didn’t matter.

It seemed as if I’d become a part of the landscape, an extension of the rock I leaned against.  I felt a deep well-being; a thoroughly unfamiliar certainty.  I was “here” and “here” was where I belonged.  This was “home” like nothing had ever been.  “Here I sit, and here I remain,” I thought, against all common sense.  I felt the cold, hunger and thirst but it did not matter to this “me” that was being absorbed by the land, the air, the sky, the universe, the cosmos.  In that time I was no longer a body-centered, or physical being.  I was a member of the cosmic races, with a part of me resting upon a planet called earth – a very small, very strange planet. 

That’s when the voice came to my mind; when I heard the words I quoted above. 

I have been digging up history in this part of the world for almost fifty years now.  I’ve become old and bent.  My skin is like that of a lizard, dry and scaly, with brown spots.  I’ve loved being naked in the sun and it has left its marks on my body but I don’t care.  He was my lover and I cherish his touch still.  I haven’t become famous.  No best seller came from my notes; no following.  People came here to dig with me, and left to seek fame and fortune.  Some managed it, returning to tell me about it.  Some even provided funds so I could remain here, on my wind-swept plateaus digging up ghost stories; me, the crazy Canadian who should have been more at home on the snowy wilds of northern Canada, than here. 

To the local people, I am “loca perdida” or the crazy one, though many come just to be with me, or to listen to my stories.  They come to get me sometimes, either with a jeep, or even a donkey, and take me to a village feast so they can hear some of my stories about their ancient peoples.  They seem to have no difficulty believing me, and I have wondered about that.  Do they also listen in time? They “pay” me in food, or in new blankets for my tents or shelters.  Good people, all of them.  I’ve always felt safe here; not sure I could have managed that in cities where people crowd unhappily together, hardly ever getting to know each other though rubbing shoulders every day.  How sad is that life, I think.

Here I remain.  Here I belong for my body’s time being.  Here I taught myself to listen in time and it is here that I will die so another archaeologist, another time listener, can find bits and pieces of my presence in this place and unearth my own story – a story that will have meaning only to her and the few who carry our vision of living in time.  

How I wish I could express, in words, how blessed my life has been and how much I look forward to new digs out there in the stars, knowing that when I sit down and look up I will see more stars.

FIRE SPIRIT

[a short story   by Sha’Tara]

A restless wind whispers softly in the spruce on the edge of a small lake. Brightly shining stars and distant, paling northern lights cast eerie shadows in the late summer night. A great horned owl calls, answered by the howl of a timber wolf echoed over the waters. A startled killdeer gives its plaintive cry, repeated several times, then silence again. Glowing softly, a small campfire throws its own little stars into the night, their flickering, sinewy path changing to the mood of the breeze. A young woman sits near the fire, staring, unmoving, her dark eyes reflecting its dancing light. The minutes pass slowly as the stars trace their endless circle around the tail of little bear.

At a  chosen moment the woman stands and throws some broken branches upon the fire, watching intently as the flames leap up, crackling, hungry. She begins a slow dance around the edge of the fire, her bare feet moving through the drying grass, her footsteps blending with the lapping of wavelets on the shore and the sighing of the wind in the branches. She hums in a low monotone, unintelligible words passing her lips. Gradually, the song becomes more forceful. Proudly throwing back her head, her black hair cascading down her back, she lifts her hands up and starts chanting. The song rises and falls, hauntingly moving, echoes of ancient voices seeking words to an as yet unformed hope.

Her dance takes on a rhythmic pattern, her knee-length dress swaying as she approaches the fire then steps back lightly into the darkness of the trees, to reappear from another direction. Her voice rises above the trees, flowing through the rolling hills…

From the midst of the flame, a form takes shape, graying head bowed, hands held in blessing. The form addresses the dancer: “Daughter, what are you doing? Why dance with danger tonight? Why seek death? You are the hope of the people. Would you tempt the white man again and be accused of witchcraft? Would you die in his fire too? You summoned me… now answer me!”

Swaying gently, without looking at the flame, the song dying on her lips, she answers the vision: “I am your daughter. I cannot be otherwise and I have your heart also. You died to save me, mother, though I never asked it of you. Now, you are Fire Spirit. You live in the heart of the volcano at the centre of creation and possess the gifts of life and healing in full measure: would you deny me my own birthright and refuse me my homecoming?

There is nothing left here, mother. The people are ashes, spirits without homes. Those who remain are slaves eating crumbs from the hand of their conqueror. Should I fear a moment of pain and I too become a slave?

No, mother! Do not try to dissuade me. Tonight, I dance with the spirits under the stars. Tomorrow, I will dance in the fire. Then I’ll come to you and together we will prepare the medicine for the wandering spirits. We will rise with the breath of the sun in our mouths, awakening the land, shaking the ashes of the people in the winds until all becomes one and life pulses freely in the land again. I’ll see you tomorrow, mother…”

The flames died down and the vision vanished. She took up her chant and her dance, delighting in a myriad of physical sensations heightened by the knowledge that this was her last night on earth. In the morning, her relentless pursuers would find her. The angry new god would have his victim and enjoy a short-lived victory over the past. From his fire she would rise to become Fire Spirit and wrest the future from his bloody hands.

The Gift of a Life Changed

                                        [a short story, by Sha’Tara]

Oh, he knew her so well.  He remembered how she came and hovered over his crib when he was a tiny baby; how she fretted over him, and kept his rattle or soother at hand.  She was his “other” mom, and the older sister he never had.

Over the years she had come to him at different junctures of his life.  He remembered the glow of her presence at his first communion and later, his confirmation.  She encouraged him, and gently taught him to notice how other people, especially his elders, teachers and parents, lived their lives.  Don’t judge them too harshly, she’d whisper, but notice the hypocrisy, always notice that.  Don’t confront them, just note and remember.  Especially remember. 

Then he grew up and he didn’t see her during his time of rebellion, anger, chaos and confusion.  He saw girls instead and he lusted after them.  He did stupid things, boastful, ignorant, hurtful; things that endangered the lives of others.  It was as if he was possessed to do evil.  The girl he dated became pregnant.  He still had a sense of the old chivalry he’d learned from his childhood fairy tales and fantasies.  He asked her to marry him and she accepted.  Not the best start, but on their wedding day, she was there again.  He saw the glow and suddenly his heart opened and guilt filled his mind to overflowing. 

The moment passed.  Life was tough enough.  Wife, kids, a mortgage, car payments, responsibilities he was trained to handle, but nevertheless, stress.  There were other things to impede the good life: a growing awareness that the world was not a great place to be.  There was “the war” that needed protesting – he’d become a conscientious objector and tried to live by some personal code of non-violence.  There were draft dodgers from across the border to help find shelter and jobs.  Then environmental issues took priority and his life grew very complex and a darkness grew in his heart. 

The marriage failed.  He found himself, thanks to his losses, freed of a commitment he felt was complete.  But the darkness held him down.  He re-discovered religion and attended church.  It provided little.  He saw more of the old hypocrisy.  He saw how the claims failed to match the lifestyle.  Disappointed and discouraged he struck out alone looking for something, not finding. 

Lost in mid-life, he was walking along the river shore one cloudy day and sat on a fallen log on the bank.  Staring at the shining waters flowing past him, he formulated a prayer, or rather a request.  He addressed her and said, “You know, I’ve made a complete mess of things.  I wanted to do right, and did wrong.  I wanted to change the world and couldn’t even change myself.  The things I’ve done are horrible to me.  I’m sorry for my ignorance and stupidity, but most of all, I’m sorry for my pride. 

I need you to help me now, though I don’t deserve it.  I’m going to ask your for the greatest gift of all, knowing full well that it cannot be bestowed on anyone, that it can only be earned through experience.  I am asking you to grant me the gift of humility.  Only with that can I re-learn to live with myself.  I don’t expect to suddenly become humble, but I need you to guide my heart into this new and alien territory I intend to walk across until I reach the other side.  I’m going to proceed knowing that you are here, guiding me, and reminding me.  Thank you.

And so it was that he gradually changed.  He did not feel any more humble, rather the opposite, but others noticed.  Always he’d be shocked when they said something, or praised him for his kindness or gentleness.  That can’t be me, he thought.  Then he’d know she was there, calming his heart, softening his hands, making him choose his words with care, showing him how to proceed in all situations.  Over time he understood what it meant to be blessed.  He thought, I find it so amazing that the less I possess and the more I give away, the more I have; the more filled I feel.  And he learned to laugh. 

He lived long past his chosen time.  Those who knew him believed he’d discovered the secret of immortality but that was only their hope he’d always be around.  One day he left.  He walked away with only a small overnight pack on his back.  She walk silently beside him, then she touched him.  He was never seen again.  

A friend of his, having understood, said, we held on to him much too long.  We made him feel guilty about leaving but finally he allowed himself to hurt us a bit so he could claim his own freedom.  He’ll never be completely gone for he lives in each of us.  What he showed us, the wisdom he taught and the changes he wrought: those are the pieces of his heart we hold within ourselves.  He’s still here, giving us of himself when we emulate his burning joy.

Quote: Where you come from is gone, where you thought you were going to was never there, and where you are is no good unless you can get away from it. Where is there a place for you to be? No place… Nothing outside you can give you any place… In yourself right now is all the place you’ve got.” ― Flannery O’Connor

 

 

 

Innocence finds her Freedom

[a poem, by Sha’Tara]

Innocence, what is that,
that anyone should care?
What does it produce
but chatter and silliness?
Innocence, how wasteful
of a life in need of direction.
We are here, we are here,
bring the child to our doors,
we’ll take her from here.
We’ll mold her character 

and teach her the Way.

Innocence flew off
frightened by the noise,
the angry words, the tears,
the blows that fell upon
that soft helpless flesh.
Farther and farther it circled,
rising up to the windows:
finding a broken pane
it slipped out and flew away.

On the cement walk
three floors below
the old school yard
a small body lies
battered, bloody, dead.
Innocence has broken out,
free at last, and happy
once again laughing
among the blue and the white
where the free winds blow.

What price freedom?
Don’t ask why: you know
there was no better way.

 

Let’s Talk about Love, Peace, Faith and Compassion

                                  [thoughts from   ~burning woman~   by Sha’Tara]

I’ll begin with a question: can we live without hope? Such a fascinating question. There are three “famous” virtues in the Christian N.T: faith, hope and love, and the writer concludes by claiming that the greatest of these is love. Is this true?

I think it’s fascinating to observe people feel impelled to continue on, to defend, concepts or “forces” such as the three most famous: faith, hope and love, that are obviously “there” but as obviously do not produce the claimed results, i.e., do not perform as advertised.  Yet regardless of failed results, there remains a world-wide need, a necessity, to express these forces in whatever way. 

Of hope, this is what Alexander Pope had to say about it:

“Hope springs eternal in the human breast; 
Man never Is, but always To be blest.
The soul, uneasy, and confin’d from home,
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.”

(In this context, “expatiates” essentially means to speculate.)

In other areas of life, let’s say the less emotional ones, when something doesn’t work, we stand back and say, “To hell with this, it doesn’t work.” and proceed to find something that does.  Why waste precious life energy?  Would you keep a car that only started once in a blue moon?  Would you keep a sewing machine that keeps fouling the thread and breaking needles?  If you had a leaking roof, would you just walk around the puddles, accepting that as normal, or would you fix it, and if it could not be fixed, move to a different house? 

Take love, what hasn’t been said about love; done in the name of love?  Love is sought by most, usually to feel good, sometimes to share good things with another, or others, and in seeking the experience of selfless giving, that being the rarest aspect of love giving.  Personal experience and deep study of the concept does not seem to support selfless love as being ubiquitous. 

Peace is even more entangled with the negative.  A glaring example: we can accept certain uses of the military as “peace keepers” walking through conquered or pacified countries or cities, fully armed, ready to kill.  Seldom do we stop to reason that such an approach to peace (overwhelming force de frappe) cannot possibly ever work – nor do we realize it has never worked because it is the antithesis of any sane concept of peace.  We have peace demonstrations or peace marches, using force to demand peace, again a complete contradiction.  When “peace” is gained that way, we replace the oppressive structure with another equally oppressive. 

Evolution demands that we give up our pet beliefs in favour of common sense.  What time and again hasn’t worked, will simply not work.  Why don’t we “get it”?

The problem with forces like love and peace is simple: they have no staying or sustaining power.  Essentially they are placebos, installed in the brainwashing apparatus to keep people believing in things that neither will, nor can, ever be.  To succeed in our evolution away from the madness of racism, war, genocide, misogyny, homophobia and countless others, we need something much more meaningful than the fake energies imposed by Matrix programming.  We need something that takes over a life and makes it its own.  Only then can the programming be broken.

In the case of love, that translates as compassion.  The compassionate being becomes an avatar of compassion, no longer by vocation or choice but by nature.  Transmutation, if you like.  An irreversible, permanent condition.  

Notice that one can “love” but one cannot “compassion.”  One cannot “do” compassion, one can only become compassion until one is irretrievably lost in it.  Maybe that’s what frightens people about certain energies: they fear being taken over by something bigger than themselves, something they cannot control or choose to back out of.  Yet they give their complete allegiance; their hearts and minds to evil powers readily enough, believing (that’s where faith comes in) they can squeeze something good out of evil-based forces that can only bring devastation, be they gods or earthly rulers.  As in, you can’t make a silk purse from a sow’s ear.

Compassion changes an individual into an empathetic entity.  It makes it possible for an individual to exist, or to “walk between the worlds” of flesh and spirit, to act as a conduit between the joy and the sorrow of planetary life and beyond.

Of note: this state of beingness can never be achieved from any collective. Neither a romantic relationship, family, tribe, nation or race, nor any other type of grouping will ever develop compassion.  It can only come from a personal, individual commitment.  Contrary to popular belief and the constant barrage of brainwash from society, we aren’t tribes, groups, nations, languages.  We are ISSA beings, billions of individuals who, in order to evolve beyond the deadly trappings of religion, politics or competitive predatory capitalism, need to define themselves as individuals through individual self-empowerment and deliberate detachment from any and all collectives. 

Compassion is how that is achieved.  It is the key that unlocks the chains of slavery now holding billions captive to useless and deadly concepts.  This is what I’ve been taught, and what I’ve been working on for nigh on 40 years now.  It is not a comfortable, feel-good, nor safe place to be in, but more so than living in the old unreliable alternative paradigms of selfishness, greed, fear and hate.  

Many decades ago, as I finally exited Christianity I rejected all three major Christian virtues in order to re-direct my life, replacing all with just one: compassion.

The question was, can anyone live without hope?  Yes, anyone can live without hope because hope is misdirection. It keeps telling people that things can be what they obviously aren’t, and that’s leading people to accept living in denial. Faith does the same thing, and so does love. These are emotions, nothing more. If we knew for certain who we are, we wouldn’t need placebos to make life bearable, we would have the power to live our life with assurance that we are doing the right thing from self-empowerment. Our problems stem from not knowing ourselves and from relying on false information to define our individual lives. That’s what we need to change: we need to become enlightened enough to stand alone in detachment and self-empowerment.

As long as we rely on fake help, we will remain dis-empowered and we will continue to fail in achieving our greatest dreams.  We will continually fall back into the hands of psychopathic “gods” and leaders who only seek our “perdition” for the simple reason that our weakness is what empowers them.

Conclusion:  A compassionate being learns how to walk between the worlds of matter and spirit, experiencing sorrow and joy as foundations of duality; never fears death; understands the infinite and eternal aspect of life and carries on “as if” their own life didn’t matter, knowing that the avatar of compassion, if not immortal, is eternal.

(ISSA: acronym for  Intelligent, Sentient, Self Aware)

The Kindergarten Art Class

[thoughts from   ~burning woman~   ]

From my current level of awareness and observation, I see mankind as a bunch of unruly kindergarten kids crammed together and told they’re having an “art” day.  To get them started, there’s a pile of paper sheets on the floor, and next, a big bowl full of crayons of every conceivable colour.  The kids are sat on the floor and more or less arranged around the items.  Predictably things don’t go as planned, or even as unplanned.  Some kids just lie back on the floor sucking their thumbs, trying to fall asleep.  Some just grab paper and fistfuls of crayons and begin to draw wildly across their papers.  Some quietly and dutifully wait for some sort of instruction.  Some look at the ceiling and smile at something.  Some start to argue over the items, a fight erupts and a couple of kids start to cry.  Pandemonium reigns supreme. 

So far I’ve described our general interaction as social communities through academic, scientific, religious, political, business and financial processes.  Basic Earthian interaction. 

But I missed something, didn’t I.  I forgot to add that there is here at least one adult, one supervisor, someone with presumably superior knowledge and wisdom to bring these children together for a purpose that will bear some fruit.  At the end of the exercise, each child will have a piece of paper with something drawn on it to take home. 

Obviously, the Teacher aspect is missing in earth’s kindergarten art class.  There is no one to bring the kiddies to stop fighting and to cooperate together and share the items offered on the floor.  So you have an entire planet running on a  pre-interventionist-teacher anarchic condition. 

We already know why the kiddies act the way they do: it’s how they were raised, what they’d already observed at home; what they’d seen on TV or what they’d already experienced on playgrounds, in doctors’ offices and daycare.  Also, it’s something locked in their DNA.  It’s what they are.  It’s their nature running its course and without the teacher intervention, that will be the course of their entire lives.  Nothing will ever fundamentally change for any of them.  That last line is worth repeating because it is a truism if there ever was one:  nothing will ever fundamentally change for any of them.   

We’re not short of groups and organizations trying to shove the teacher aspect in our face.  Put your faith in science and all will be well.  Believe in Jesus and you will be saved.  Convert to Islam and Allah will bless you.  Vote for the Democrats.  Join the army.  Join this, join that; support this, protest that; love this, hate that.  There’s stacks of papers and bowls of crayons and anybody can draw lines in any sort of colours they want. Or can they? 

It’s complicated.  Someone’s sitting in the wrong place and they won’t move.  Someone’s using the wrong colours and they won’t stop using those colours.  Someone’s got paper they didn’t pay for which they took from someone else’s stack; they stole from them and now the “victims” want them punished for their crime.  There are threats: if they’re not punished we’ll get some friends (allies) together and we’ll beat them up ’cause we’re better than they are.  

Earthian civilization, in a nutshell. 

Faced with this incurable condition, what do you, as an intelligent person do?  Basically you can do whatever you want.  You can choose to become one of the bullies, or one of their victims.  Or you can choose not to participate in the art class as long as there is no consensus on how it should proceed. 

The Art Class:

               No matter where you sit, it’s anarchy all around and you’re expected to share a space with people who fear and hate other people in the class.  “Look at her: she’s black.  She shouldn’t be allowed in here!”  “Look at him, he’s got no shoes, that’s gross!”  “Look at those two with their ragged clothes munching on a couple of pieces of stale bread: that’s disgusting!”  “Him?  Don’t even think of being friends with him, he’s a Jew and we hate Jews.”  “Look, she wearing a hijab, she’s a Muslim and flaunting it; she needs to be taught a lesson.  Those kids in the corner?  Their parents are commies.”

               We may not be able to have them thrown out of the class but at least we won’t associate with them and when we get the chance we’ll gang up on them and beat the hell out of them.  That’ll scare them and they won’t come back.  We don’t want them here.  This is our place and this is our stuff now.

Let’s say you are a reasonably intelligent person and you realize it’s not possible to participate in the class without compromises.  No matter what, if you choose to sit with the two eating the stale bread, you find out they hate the black girl.  If you sit with the black girl she tells you she hates the kid in bare feet ’cause he’s Catholic.  If you sit with the Muslim girl you discover that she has been taught to hate Jews and Christians and she tells you that as the enemies of Allah they must die.  If you choose to sit with the bullies who by now have most of the paper and crayons, maybe they’ll let you borrow some paper and maybe one crayon but the deal is, you swear to join them in the bullying later. 

Fortunately there is one more choice.  You can turn your back on all of them and walk away, alone.  No paper, no crayons, no personal space on the floor, just yourself and the wilderness: thorns and hail, flowers and butterflies, blizzards and loneliness, gently flowing streams and renewal.  More chaos, surely, but this time it isn’t deliberately ignorant or evil.  It accepts you without throwing a mantle of exclusivity around you. You swim or sink – nobody cares, it’s all up to you.

But what about that programming?  What about that Earthian DNA shit?  Well, that is a thorny problem ‘cause you can’t blame that on anyone else, you have to face it.  You need to get rid of your Earthian programming, or at the very least you need to cancel its inimical effects on your mind. 

That’s when you say, hey, I’m me!  I’m not what I was born to be; I’m not white, French, doctor, politician, student, taxi-driver, female, male, mother, leader, young, old, voter, entertainer: I’m me.  Just me. 

Everything up to and until I left the kindergarten class was me according to society. Society had designed the pigeon holes and I could only choose to function as an adjunct of society from one of those holes.  Not anymore.  Now, I can be me, according to my own choices.  To hell with society and civilization. 

I am about to reinvent myself as something completely new.  Everything I am from this point on is the chosen me; chosen and designed by myself, no one and nothing else.  I will never again return to the kindergarten art class; not for love, not for money, not for reputation, not for salvation.  Being in collusion with the denizens of the kindergarten class is something I will no longer do until the day when I can no longer do it. 

 

Some Things are best left Unexplained

[thoughts from   ~burning woman~   by Sha’Tara]

 

When an Earthian by some fluke (some coming together from a series of fortuitous events) makes the jump from being a pseudo-human into the actual human race, life completely changes.  It becomes a totally different concept; it becomes amazing.  A slave sees things from a certain perspective: painful, narrow, limited and basically hopeless.  A master sees things quite differently.  There’s an open vista of infinite possibilities that flow, swirl, dance; beguiling, alluring, attracting, calling to explore the limitless possibilities of the cosmos. 

To the master, the cosmos is not this material world or the universe or even the multiverse.  It’s more and beyond anything so crass, material, limited and limiting.  Any reasoning based on strictly physical awareness brings one to some end; a wall. To an actual human, does the physical body stand in the way of new and expanded awareness?  Then the body is abandoned, temporarily or permanently – it’s really not that important.  A body is a sensor, nothing more.  It allows the occupant to taste only one particular reality: the physical world. It’s not designed for anything more.  You don’t take your car to bed with you; you don’t make love to it (even if you wanted to).  The material has its limits.  

To the slave, the body is all there is, and it is a death trap.  Its “awareness” is limited to the functions within a physical brain, a physical set of switches that operate a material body.  That central processing unit doesn’t sense anything that isn’t material.  It has no affinity for abstractions.  It cannot think or reason, only compute.  Pseudo humans, a description that fits the vast majority of Earthians are no more than computers installed inside robotic bodies.  Their thinking isn’t theirs, they picked it up from watching TV as a baby, and up through the ranks of the faithful followers of approved beliefs, changing their minds (or not) as their pet beliefs fell into disrepute to be replaced by something new and improved. 

It’s a funny thing, that man can “evolve” a kind of material technology and yet become less human in the process.  Well, not so funny actually.  It’s an energy trade-off.  If you want to advance your technology, you must coincidentally give up previously attained levels of humanity or consciousness.  The greatest loss is in values and ideals.  These are sacrificed on the altar of science and technology. Science and technology are not human values, they are material and mechanical properties.  They belong strictly to the material world.

In the beginning of modern “advances” in scientific thought and experimentation, older values and ideals still held sway.  As success followed success for general science; as it gained expertise in the use of natural functions and turned those into technological achievements, the human part of scientists and technologists eroded away.  They became thinking machines until all that mattered were measurable results.  Consequences of applied science and technology mattered less and less.  Science, or rather its high priests, were bought by financial interests in order to serve them, not the world, not the people but corporate and banking predators.  A “moral” science would never expand as rapidly, nor be as lucrative as an amoral one, and so scientists dropped their façade of human ideals and plunged whole-heartedly into a materially centered understanding with a mechanistic explanation for everything. 

Thus was humanity lost in developed and developing worlds.  When everything must be scientifically explained and materially demonstrated or it is labelled false, you’ve gone from a human world to a machine world.  When you enter the machine world all your human values and ideals; your wonderful abstract relationships, must be abandoned: they are poison to the machine, and machine is all that modern technological civilization understands.  Inasmuch as it is still capable of worship, machine is what it worships.  When a choice has to be made between securing resources to keep the machine running, or protecting life and the natural environment, the needs of the machine supersede those of life. 

To claim that some things can be real while remaining outside the ability of science to categorize them is a direct assault upon the mechanistic central processing unit; an insult to technocratic machinists who label themselves scientific brains.  Such claims could very well lead to legalized lobotomy or euthanasia in the near future with the “machinists” claiming that such thoughts hamper the machine’s ability to usher in the golden age of man. 

Engineers have to explain, whether they know or not. [Magi’i of Cyador] (L. E. Modesitt, Jr.)