With the entry of the New Year, many are cursing 2020 with the hope of a better 2021. With the deep wish to be seasonal, we’re going with the flow with this sneak preview of the prologue of Georgi’s upcoming book in the Nondual Therapy series: Nondual Purity. It’s A wake-up call to move beyond the superstitious agenda to get away from suffering through the magical thinking of curses and blessings – and to meet the miracle of our experience in openness and purity.
Here it is. The presence of pain and the pain that is intimately present. It’s a fate worse than death. This horror, the billowing core of fear, the pelvic scream from the tendons, loins, and bones, wasting the muscle and devouring the will to live. Here it is, sacrificing each false flag of good intent to the eternal wrong.
Here, the “Yes” to life becomes a reluctant, self-devouring, indefinite “No”. It’s the space of immersion in unveiled aversion, hatred of hostility, exhausting disgust at this shameless, intolerant, exposing, light of consciousness.
Here it is. The carnal imperfection, the crack in plain sight, the dark, shadowy fault concealed in the rank night at reality’s lethiferous postern, appearing as the true face of the despicable, unwelcome, toxic, malevolent essence of all we are. Matricide, infanticide, patricide, the betrayal in the fool’s gold of suicide. It’s all here at the threshold of living and wanting to disappear from sight into the disavowed, invisible night.
Here it is, the fallen archetype, the broken. unreachable ideal that deals, steals and somehow tries to heal. Here we are, in the ghettos of the mad, lost in the forsaken sweep stakes of the bad.
And God felt that it is sad.
Even rejection can’t touch this untouchable. It cannot belong here enough to be banished. Unqualifiable, unjustifiable, alive enough only to be tortured by immortality.
Even humiliation will not hold it, as this wrongness is unembraceable. It’s size-less, incomparable, infiltrating the hollowness within the defense and pretense of life. Here it is: overwhelmed and overflowing with an insatiable sense of lack.
No form or norm can notice it – this wrongness we nurse within the secret trimmings of the psyche. It’s so imperceivably at odds with habits and rituals of togetherness, it defies admission. It’s blanketed by conversation, commerce, compliance, conformity, and witless uniformity. All that contextual stuffing of consensual sanity that we’re groomed to consume makes us dumb and numb to its range of fire – the fire of purity that could release us from this unending game of shame.
Here we are – the jewel within the frown – glittering as the deplorable, endarkenment within the ocean of crime. This is the pure badness of being, evil embodied, the voiceless scream, the error, the treacherous charm within the universal harm. Unwanted, unlovable, un-mixable, unconvertable, valueless, senseless, rotten, wasted, and irredeemable. So very, very dirty. The end of agenda. The lost cause.
Here we horribly are – impure as the venereal mud blushing the fresh snow; spurting the salacious dissonance of original sin; a manifesting mistake; a shadow of death; a noxious defilation of sacred form; the sick scent of carnal shame; and the uncleanable, eternal stain.
Happy New Year.
Will you greet me with the purest, unadulterated touch of truth?
Here it is: the horror, deep in the emptiness. An unparalleled poison seeping out of pelvic precincts where angels fear to dread. It’s the essence of worthlessness; the pillager of promise; the humiliation of hope; the degrader of truth, the rape of beauty, the scorn of innocence, the cursing of the light.
I am the final nail of impurity. Hammered in coldest steel, even my machine-driven spine is twisted. My very existence casts the shadow of death. My laughter insults civility. My smile is a lie. I am infectious, nasty, demonic, and unspeakably foul.
Where will you find my face?
On the dark widow that opens only to despair, as she punishes a stolen trolley full of other people’s neglect through the rift-lands that time and space forgot. Here, pain is more true than planetary conjunctions, but she is a speck of dust, lost in the blind-spot of the public eye, present enough to irritate the holy sight.
On the criminal, the bad guy, the wrongdoer, the convict, the one condemned for untold crimes like theft, molestation, murder, and the creation of the whole human shit show.
On death rows, you’ll find me in stillness, with many blank expressions, silently shifted behind measures of right and wrong. They’ll send voltage through this flesh, but the crime is immortal, enshrined in human fantasies of time.
You’ll find my face on the hapless addict that claws for the next shot, out of the fortress of the forsaken, as she carries the dispossessed of generations in her liver, her lungs, and in the compulsion of her beating heart.
You’ll find me on the child that never became the abortion – unwelcome, unwanted, denied before the first breath.
You’ll find me dumbed within the secrets never to be told – the incestuous wall hangings watching the child’s shame.
You’ll find me in the disowned wishes for another’s death, those casual murderous thoughts to inherit relief from the eternal lack.
You’ll find me in the lost, the forsaken, the forgotten, the invisible, the unwitnessed spaces of life where we could never be, and forests of thorns grew wild around a cursed sleep of the infinite possibilities born in absence.
You’ll find my face shrouded in the loneliness of the predator’s heart, in the perpetrators of death, in the cold steel of inner negation.
For this is how I am managed – forged by hot-cold flames into a sword to dismember all manner of life, wielding excess pain in the name of shame, while bowing to the antichrist of blame.
I disrupt the heavenly flow of the niceties of power, for forgiveness is given by the grace of the unforgivable and I am That.
Without the lostness of the soul, no one could be found. Without the unforgivable, forgiveness would die. All forgiveness depends on me in order to be.
Here, dutifully bound by pain, I am the unforgivable fulfillment through which evil innocently turns to the insouciant sun.
Where souls get ripped asunder, I am the rift between them, the unending scream of division. I am the bright light of violence in the split of infant from mother. A split they call an earthly birth.
Where earthquakes rupture the earth, I am the rapture.
Where volcanos turn life to statues of ash, I am the lava. I am the unconscionable heat rising in a flash in the veins, crystallizing pain, and fossilizing fury. How the immutable forms of Pompei families finally, choicelessly testify to the horror that I am.
Trust me, I am all ways wrong
It hurts, this horror, this quintessential wrongness, this evil within. Here is the furious anguish of the unlovable, irredeemable, unworthy soul, stained beyond cleansing, unforgivable.
I am the fount of all malevolence, the original sin, and the final non-solution. It burns the limbs and the inner flesh with subtle poisons. To sense the incarnated foulness of the inner child, to feel the despising, despicable filth of being alive. Impure as hell it lives in the boundless, embodied nightmare of all hells combined and all hells betrayed.
I too, am That.
Conscious as this defilation, as a pulsating atrocity, I break the truce of generations, speaking the lie hidden in plain sight that whatever is born, must die.
Conscious as the essential horror within the nightmare which must never be named. In the pit between superlatives, be still, for I am here, as your deepest concern.
Yet in this horror there is no you or me, no self or other, no slave, no master. There is just this – the purest impurity of being alive.
Let’s open this formless breach of trust that is life in motion.
And as we gain sight within this intimate, inner hell, and hell looks back into us, we might glimpse the whole shebang of seer and seen. And all we are, and all we have ever been, and all we will ever be, is the purity of this seeing.
Let me close these eyes and rest now, as the throbbing, undulating, cursing, dying liquid curls of pain swim around this existential core right here, right now, and I am perfectly still. Conscious, perceiving, a pure light of intimate being illuminating the ache of undulating form.
I am purely conscious. Pure within and without all limits, pure of restraint, pure of any intent to distract, deny, defy, or occupy the unbridled space of lack, and in this purity I am whole.
No thing can hold me, I am unpossessable, undistracted, untamable, unknowable, indistinguishable. Liberated from the devastating desire to undo, un-see, un-live, understand, or uncreate that which is momentarily and eternally forsaken, I fly upward in wonder at the pure blue of an unfiltered sky.
Unconditionally conscious, purely awake – beneath, before, behind, within, without – even the erroneous flavors of transformation. I am purity perceiving.
I am dissolving into pain as the stain becomes the pure seal of life, and I am here, the co-creator, perfectly broken, purely impure, helplessly moving as the flow of life.
Please handle with care.
