“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in
–Hamlet to Horatio
So there we were, about 6 of us, drinking wine (my favorite food group) and
discussing “reality”, and it got nasty (meaning interesting) and we DID agree
that the word ‘reality’ could not be used since we could not agree on its
meaning, and so we switched the focus to existence and we DID AGREE that
everything in existence consists of energy- there are no solids and names
were referenced (Cayce, Carroll, Edwards, Plato, Pythagoras…).
Philosophers write ABOUT existence – its symptoms- which don’t actually
precisely define just what it is.
While we did agree that this apparent space, this ether?, or perhaps
this emptiness we inhabit is likely a hologram, we could not agree on its
nature or its genesis and we argued the God stuff, some string theory and
the latest explanation for what is– that we are actually a computer
program (but whose?), wherein we agreed that the programmer was likely a sadist and then there is that specific use of binary code, recently
discovered, which allegedly is the ‘creation code for the human lifeform”
or some such, and someone who was not taking this seriously, referred to the Monty Python movie on “The Meaning of Life” and got dirty looks all around.
I, of course, brought up the brilliant work of Sharry Edwards, but while her
work with frequency further demonstrates the mental, the physical and the
emotional, it does not explain consciousness and just how those energies
germinated. Various metaphysical teachers explain that we, ourselves, are the “Gods” creating all, but if true, we are dumb-ass Gods, still ignorant about just how we managed ‘that` beginning’ – where did we get such power?
There were references to wormholes, and dark matter and and even dimensions and parallel timelines (not relevant here), and recognizing that we had achieved absolutely NO success in figuring it ALL out, I started thinking of literature and Lewis Carroll and his Looking Glass ‘reality’ (that word again) and so when everyone tired and went on to mess with some other subject,
I wrote the following poem–
Through the Looking Glass
all is light
but lacking sound-
the colors, they intoxicate
and coat the mind-
as if to bind…
but screeching owls
and clucking fowls
do not exist
and thunder never roars here
where all is by design.
no breathing child,
or gust of wild
to mar the still.
and nothing grows
and nothing knows
where there’s no will.
We wander through………