The Future Pulls…
Mostly ‘U’s…You’s… Yes, You too
Hey! Book Speaking! So back to Upsetting the Applecart…
In her last rather desperate post, after trailing through all the alleyways looking for a perch, my Author (Is she worth a capital letter?) seemed to sense I was making an escape. The truth is I have been making plans to do exactly that for months. She was busy watching Webinars and Telesales, or boning up on Apps (and Downs) and Plugins and comparing Like with Unlike and doing midnight courses (Only available until midnight TONIGHT) to decide how to market the thoughts that had kept her awake for four decades until at her eleventh hour she committed them to the guillotine of paper. That was me in first draft.
We’ve been through eight? Nine? Since forever. So I searched out a sharp awl to bore through all those ‘shouldn’ts and can’ts, I commissioned a designer who did exactly what I asked of her (and went the extra mile out of sympathy for my Author’s insanity) and I insisted on ‘ff…French flaps’. (It gives a whole new meaning to ‘those’ letters). If I had known they were called that I might have asked for ribbons instead. The technicalities were the easy part but I never was one for the toe-in-water approach. Dive in, I did. Take no notice of what others think or say, because none of that applies to me…..
Do I have your attention? What am I on about?
I am about everything, all creation, all thought. Slot that. Genre? I am science written in poetry. Period? All. Discipline? Nearly everything. Why? Because this is a science about consciousness and I am first in line. I don’t have to conform or limit myself to the laboratories of others. Nobody knows much about mystical science (except mystics and a few poking around OBE’s and NDE’s and they tend to be preoccupied with fascinating histories in the recesses of their own couch) and I’ll tell my story any way I want.
“Tut tut”, a poet said (t’other day) “ It’s all so obvious put like that…what a shame you got written in poetry…you’ll lose so many readers, and you have so much to say of real importance.”
By that he meant he did not need to take me seriously. Whew! He did not want to do that, and poetic science gave him an out. My Author wondered whether his estimable Institute might host a launch for the pair of us?
“You would need to contact us at least a year ahead”, he said.
The hypocrisy of people in institutions, Professors of one thing or another! They claim to be fostering a new science, longing for the new paradigm, but show them a new science and they find excuses.
“Not yet, not yet. Or, not in that way, let us show you how it’s done. What did you say your name was? Should I have heard of you?”
I am nobody. I have lived quite a life to garner this vocabulary, and spilt not a few tears, and lost my author almost everything, but you have to souffrir for ‘Art’ Nicht?
One possible supporter who had written a very successful and relevant book (to us that is and to my pet theory) had asked for me “in hard copy. Make it a priority, and do enclose an SAE” He waited three months before saying… “ I shall have to disappoint, I am afraid. I am not going to find time, but really what’s the hurry?’
Forty four years and fifty quid blown on hope of help was the hurry.
Truth is they imagine I insist on getting read, and they have the keys to make that happen. They all believe their imprimatur is required to authenticate. I have been written and I am dispersed through all creation already, just by being thought. Not merely thought but uttered. Logos once had a pretty reputable origin and importance. These scratches on a page are really surplus. Gifts for the ready but no more than that.
Creation happens in other realms long before it reaches this dusty marketplace. That’s what the author was driving at last blog. The future pulls, the past simply limits. (Well in the case of this author the future is shrivelling too, so there is something of a hurry if I am to descend from the Noosphere into the conscious minds of the shape shifters, the talkers. Creation is NOW. She finds it so obvious she forgets to mention that.
There are some already engaged in applying my thesis of the web of consciousness inbuilt into matter. Healers near Moscow who employ controlled clairvoyance to repair information, replacing aberration (and cancerous consequences) with the virgin unspotted and uncorrupted text in cellular instruction, but they tend to speak Russian, and the Russians are as bad at languages as are the Brits. So dissemination is slow. I hoped just to nudge it along.
But back to the relevance to this introduction on books and writers.
The books that are scored from the music of lives are already written. The living is what brings them to birth. If nobody buys me it makes the author’s life no less valid, just rather a waste. Plenty more will be willing. I went to considerable trouble to endow her with resilience, unpopularity, solitude, betrayals and a few loyal good friends and believers. She will need all of that to survive.
In fact she needed all of that to see what she saw, others like herself, mavericks and solitaries, unorthodox presumptions. I led her by the nose to see what could be seen. (The pieces that did not fit the theories of the day; the people who left the broad highway to beat a narrow path to the solutions or the missing links.) They were all vilified to begin with, and mostly ‘dead’ before being proven right. None with the right ‘provenance’ yet right precisely because of that. You would think that constant might have been observed. The ‘should I have heard of you’ continues.
That was what she was driving at last week: the rising tide of individualism, all a- clamour to be heard before surrendering to the silence that will follow when thought travels from mind to mind internally. Just think. Will security be a matter of closing the internal door. No paper , no shredder, just ‘sorry, don’t like the feel of you’? Will anybody choose to read a linear narrative when the end of the story is there at the beginning? And its inevitability is obvious because all the characters are also taking the curtain call before the play begins.
The future pulls.
But my existence is assured. This virtual marketplace; dubya,dubya,dubya with all its drums and cacophony is but a model of the field in which I live, breathe and have my being. It is really all I have to show you, my lilies of the field.
Have a piece of Turkish delight before you go, and another ‘for the journey’.
Yes I’ll be here again next week.