Lampion K : PeSla Confined in the Badlands

Lampion K : PeSla Confined in the Badlands L. Edgar Otto 29 February, 2012


Confinement, to be bound as if in a bubble or a cave- why does the human spirit react strongly against it? We know that we can go from some volume to another and if we have that view no space can contain us. It is the triality non-linear and multiple that makes the idea of motion possible for we three dimensional beings. It makes a difference in what is to be viewed through the interior of an object like the sun or a gravitational lens.

We may continue to shout our views and being to the universe, renew them as life renews itself each moment keeping the destruction near but no closer that we can breathe in an endless internal space unconfined and at a distance that the prison walls go no further. But the universe does not shout at us its ground and laws for it is beyond ideas of confinement and that unbound.

To move through such space without a limit to velocity, to the span of distances to regions repeated or one and all the same, is to stand on oneself as if within one they are confined.

Our monad while windowless the great Leibniz conceives from his home of bricks and a thousand windows

Our mortal plight aware in rehearsal to the effort to move, to know a place as truly new, if confined in space or time will likely dream as to escape into soul travel and the comforting denial in the acceptance of our own place exploding in creation, all arrows in upon ourselves the more we speed that as in our dreaming we can watch ourselves in the remote view.

So to we make the myths of science that if we look deeply enough, even to dig through the walls with dull tools taking a long time, or if some sympathetic soul brings us files in cakes that we can cut through the bars let alone consider we can flow through then without touch like waves on water, that we will find quite a different place where reality is not as we now have learned to see it.

Or in the essential question as to why rather than why not the universe is here, we then to think there is no escape from this dream beyond horizons that plays God, albeit so much the lesser one, a God perhaps that like we paint our struggles on the universe may confine us to some peace or punishment. This landscape at the limit of our imagination as all there is with limits confined or with a wide expanse itself becomes and remote and distant view to which we do not really know what is at the ends so bound save something different in time, initial conditions.

Only the lesser spirits can inhabit such a world of imperfect intersections as souls are confined to their own paths and lonely centers, the old we die alone. We cannot show if such are separate visitors, the subtle conjuring and materialization of parallel spirits- the spirit seen as if in the old trinity of mind, and soul, a third thing that imagines when it moves through sacred space is at best a visitor, not sure to where to go or of any escape including vanishing or the rewinding the heat and noise we gather back before time itself began. But in this sharing of mental space we can dwell as distinct and yet one being as is love but this is not necessarily the case for as Plotinus noted Eros was a shabby and lesser god peeking through houses of the sky circle of the others. Love that strives to become the center of this universe that higher passion grounds all things.

The PeSla runs free in the landscape of the Badlands where the gathering is there in the maps of the sky at the center, Old Baldy, the vanished once nova star duly recorded by the tribes so much closer to the sieve of fire and water and milk in the clockwork canopy of the sky. One day I will visit this idol and if there are more I will take home a copy- not because as I have learned when you know the gods are not appeased nor eat your sacrifice, just the priests and virgins, that the human heart in distress returns to idols. Some work of clay, a lady on a swing with billowing dress and smile, pure and distant but intelligent, that warms you up and cheers you up when you are in the windchill walking all night before you can sleep.

Somewhere between the real and the dream I crash in the house of a lady with a thousand little statues of the Oriental gods, I cannot sleep for in each of them their eyes stare at me and suggest some evil to which I had not learned to fear such as campfire tales of a black panther. No wonder Bonpa is possessed by a thousand spirits but they shall not win.


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