Tag Archive: shamanic

To Infinity and Beyond: This Is the Afterlife

 To Infinity and Beyond

This Is the Afterlife 



Turning inside out, the young shaman falls though a long swirling tunnel formed of his inverted self, his unbodied mouth and eyes agape in a primal rush toward extinction.

He accelerates through a tightly wound vortex that shifts and bends to accommodate his course, always centred in the swirling tube which never touches his falling, disembodied perspective. The tunnel is made of light, and of his own bloodstream, and of all the memories and unremembered details of materiality and personality that made up his life – yet not merely ‘his’ life.

Every human, fish, bird, animal, insect, cell and blood corpuscle that has ever lived is there with him, all at once – the dying shaman can feel their bright fear and ecstasy pouring through him as they all rush toward an unseen destination around the curving, translucent bends of the primal vortex. Even though every being dies alone – no matter if a multitude of witnesses is present – the moment of death itself is one great screaming orgasm experienced simultaneously by every one, every single thing that has ever lived – all our eyes and mouths and ganglia agape at the same simultaneous culmination of our material existence.

The tunnel is an eternally vivid living record of past events and future dreams, all memories and visions embroidered into the seamless fabric of its swirl – and Ram’yana’s private past and the panoply of his personal memories are displayed most prominently to him, brightly livid episodes which emerge from the tubular walls as he passes. His strongest experiences – the most impressive ones, that imprinted themselves most brightly into the palimpsest of his being – leap out at him in high relief as he turns and twists and falls and flies, a singular eye of consciousness accelerating toward the endless end of the convoluted time tunnel that’s leading him home.

As the world we experience slips past us at the periphery of our sensoria, an ongoing tunnel vision moves with us at the extremity of our perceptions, whether dying, dead or alive. Journeying out of the physical plane, outside the material matrix of the world, Ram’yana is beyond time and the ken of time-bound beings; as he leaves four dimensional Timespace and approaches the speed of light everything twists into a tunnel which lengthens fore and aft.

He sees his grandfather and grandmother, Mickey Mouse and Pluto, all the dogs and cats and mice and goldfish that shared his boyhood years, the smells of his houses and the flavours of his lovers. He hears the laughter of his kindergarten friends, their bright faces visible all around him singing ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’, while pretty little Abigail jumps over a spinning rope twirled by Gina and Hannah, her long blonde pink-ribboned pigtails rotating around the sides of her head.

He holds his mother’s huge hand, grasping her finger through the wooden bars of his bassinet while she sings to him in the sultry evening air. He witnesses the expression of semi-resigned shock on his father’s face during the Cuban missile crisis and again when Kennedy was shot, sees the squashed remains of mosquitoes on the wall above his crib, watches the strange lights moving in the sky while all the neighbours point and speculate, sinks again with a collapsing sandbank on Bondi Beach, swept away with hundreds of panicking faces being pulled out to the deep sea along with him, while hundreds of man-eating sharks are driven off by the beating, splashing oars of desperate lifesavers.

He sees his mother’s eyes for the first time all over again and screams at the hard slap on his bottom as he hangs before Doctor Traub’s thick-lensed glasses in the bright, antiseptic birth theatre. His paternal grandmother smiles at him as she leans over and obscures his view of the magnificent giant yellow flowers of the magnolia tree while she wheels him in his pram; he can still smell the cloying fragrance of the flowers. His mother’s mother screams as he holds a dingo puppy up for her inspection and she tumbles over backward in her bedroom, breaking her hip while his eight year old eyes wash the scene away with tears that burn through the illusory years.

The Cat in the Hat and the Mighty Thor; the smell and Hungarian accent of alcoholic Uncle Tony, putting him off beer for years with his first taste of bitter ale at the age of six, and the bright laughing face of his babysitter Wendy by the blazing wood fire; the spray of blood when he cut his wrist falling onto a broken bottle at the age of three and the dizzying view from the emergency surgeon’s high private balcony; the first time he kissed a girl and the first time he dreamed of kissing a girl, all bound up together; flying through the sky in a propeller-driven passenger plane, watching circular rainbows following him in the clouds below.

White sulphur-crested cockatoos and sparrows circle his yard while kookaburras laugh in the gum trees; the first terrifying time his father holds him up high in the air to place him in the fork of a tree; his first night after he ran away from home, reclining on a beanbag in a Kings Cross commune reading Philip Jose Farmer’s pertinent To Your Scattered Bodies Go – everything is there, each scene and sensation embedded within and revealing a multitude of others. Everything. His dying mind seeks out everything he’s ever experienced, seeking a way back into the womb of living as he falls through something else entirely, riding a rollercoaster beyond the imagination of the most topologically tormented tycoon.

As Ram’yana falls he flashes before the eyes of his whole life – as others fall with him, many others, all others, sharing the time tunnel with his self-judging awareness. In the eternity of the Fall everything hidden or repressed is exposed in the Divine Light of clear sight and each being is their own Judge, emerging from the blindfold of their material existence to weigh their own soul on the ineradicable scales of justice and mercy. Conscience is the soul and the soul is immortally, inescapably honest with itself when released from the fetters of self-deceit and delusion.

Beyond time, at the singular moment of the great primal rush that is the birth and death canal leading from one world to the next, everyone experiences the same thingat the same time. We all come and go together in a mind-blowing orgasm; dreaming or screaming, laughing or crying, all emotion quails and pales before the rush of unstoppable motion that dwarfs any and every trivial concern.

No thought of gods or devils, life or death in the primal scream toward the Light at the end of the tunnel – the only thing that matters is holding onto your headless hat and the wordless regrets felt toward all the people, animals and conscious entities you ever knew deeply, or ever loved – and still love, deeply, tenderly, with a perspective of forgiveness, understanding and compassion never vouchsafed to your flesh-bound, in-coiled, emotion-embroiled mortal personality.

Ram is every human who ever lived and died, every fish ever caught in a current to swirl down into lightless depths beyond its control, every bird caught in a whirlwind that flings it to flinders, every animal diving for cover into cloaking vegetation from an inescapable predator, every individual blood corpuscle flinging itself on the way to the crushing pressure at the heart of its warm, pulsating cosmos. As he pours through the end of the world the tunnel twists and whirls, always hiding the point of it all, the point of no return, the heart of the matter, the source of every thing and being – and his mind expands to simultaneously see his spiraling course as a single thread in a vast interwoven image.

The tunnel is one thread among myriad drab and colourful strands in a great uncharitable tapestry, an inextricable part of its intricate pattern. The dying shaman follows the course of his life along its undulating strand and sees that his thread rises and falls above and beneath uncountable other interlocking threads, a spectrum of hues and textures in the enormously unfathomable tapestry. As his thread rises above another he is ‘conscious’, while the thread it occludes is ‘dreaming’; where his strand is covered by another thread, his mortal body sleeps and dreams while the other strand lives their waking life. Everyone and everything is there, all at once, simultaneously, lain out and displayed before him with no need for the flow of time to elucidate the infinite multiplicity of being.

Turn the tapestry around. The thought comes unbidden and the cloth reverses itself around him in a loopy topological twist; the implicately shared complementary nature of consciousness becomes apparent to his blown mind as he sees himself dreaming the lives of others, and others dreaming through his waking eyes and flesh. The intermingling pathways wind around the curving delineaments of their divine co-creation, which turns into itself like a Moebius strip until the beginning of one thread seamlessly winds into the end of another. The falcon is the hunter is the arrow is the feather is the truth. All is alive and whole; nothing is partial or frayed.

The tapestry is vast, but he’s able to follow his individuated thread through the colourful patterns and sees that the enormous conglomeration of dreams and lives is incomplete – not completed by the path of the single thread that is his experience of existence, rising from the tapestry to enter him as him. At the same timeless moment, Ram’yana approaches the plexus of light that is the destiny of all nations, women and men – the future and past of all that are born to fall along with him, minds blown in the blinding light of the immortal portal.

An immaculate blazing white-hot sun glows at the end of the tunnel. He can see it ever more clearly through the transparing walls of the vortex, thinning and fading in the face of the overwhelmingly brilliant source and core of existence. Ram sees the arcs of a trans-finite net spreading outward from the source, sees an infinitude of other vortices approaching its plexus from more angles than he can wrap his bodiless head around. They pass through each other in ways that defy and tease his mortal three-dimensionally entrained mind – but the arrangement makes subtle sense to a higher form of his being, trembling on the edge of an unchartable metamorphosis into something so much greater as to be intrinsically unimaginable. Simultaneously, on another level, the individual personality of the shaman approaches its ultimate rebirth and transformation in his flight toward the blinding light of the central sun.

The source of all is the hot, bright core and central axis of the centreless multiverse, the eternal end of every tunnel; the maw of a transdimensional creature about to swallow him up, the Infinite Light of God and his own silent heart gently glowing in timeless repose. He flies around a final bend in the dissolving tunnel, surging toward the arcane net that veils the core – which flares into him as the tunnel widens, opening into the final straight.

Ram’yana flashes toward the weave that’s flung to the ends of the cosmos, spreading himself to embrace the Light – and as he reaches it, he encounters the safety net. A web-like sieve is strung across the open maw of All, and as Ram’yana passes though it a great, resounding BOUMMB fills the boundless universe – the sound of one heartbeat, as loud as the boom that eternally creates the unborn, ever-living universe; the sound of Shiva’s eye opening and of one hand clapping.

Before your time, he hears and feels, not ready, not yet – unfinished – and he feels himself shrinking toward an infinitesimally small spot in the multitude of multiverses – back into the weave, where plan net X marks the spot where all things meet in his current-bound primate life.

Boumb… Boom…. Boom!  



That’s why I’m here, writing this to you ‘now’ – the same ‘now’ that you are reading it in, really. I and eye remember it all vividly, not as something to slowly forget or avoid in the unfocused mind’s eye, but as an ongoing experience that is with me now, always, dynamically imprinted. It is with me as it is with you, when you close your eyes and open your memory to see truly through the waters of forgetfulness, to the infinite waters of eternal life.

Life and death, sensory wakefulness and supersensory dreaming are the same thing, appearing as the warp and weft of the reversible tapestry of existence. And everyone, each of us, is the whole tapestry, inextricably interwoven – everyone is everyone, and that’s about as close as this constraining corsetry of early third millennium Inglesh needs to get at this point in infinite time – xcept, perhaps, for the most important thing of all -

Every one you truly touch and are touched by, in every way, leaves the deepest and most prominent engravings in your heart, mind and soul. What we do unto others is what we do to ourselves – and other living beings are more than mere memory mirrors or handy usable tools. That’s what draws us back for more, and more again – the need to do better by our selves – over and over, until we do it right. Then we get another choice – or another chance to ride the carousel Wheel of Fortune again, if we so choose.

The multiple layers of ascendant consciousness are a self-filtering system of co-evolution – a system of slowly developing focus and perspective that leads our awareness to other dimensions, already inextricably interwoven with the relatively ‘familiar’ bounds of our largely unknown but ever-present reality. There’s no dim-witted hierarchy of order-givers or sword-wielding guardians barring the doors of higher perception – the gateway to Heaven on Earth. There’s just you – and me, and all of us, together. We all have our time to shine, and that time is always now.

Yet Death is not Dying. In the Bardo spaces between thy flowering carnations of existence, all the bright religious hopes and turgid superstitious terrors await the untrained monkey mind in its ongoing fall toward dissolution or reintegration. The Bardo Realms are entire worlds or pocket universes as apparently solid as the full-blown reality ye imagine around thee, right where thou art sitting, right now. How do ye know thou art alive, not dreaming this experience, right here and now? Do ye think that’s air you’re breathing?





A true story


By R. Ayana



From Shaman of Centraxis 4 @ http://centraxis.blogspot.com.au/2008/03/to-infinity-and-beyond.html



Images – author’s


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Return to the Dream – Mysterious Totemic Creatures Traverse Realities

Return to the Dream

Mysterious Totemic Creatures Traverse Realities

Python Pattern by you.

The dream had been so intriguing that I resolved to re-enter it once again the very next night. Although the scenery had been vaguely familiar during the astral transport, the events had occurred in a place that was difficult to pinpoint. There is always away to return to a place if you can recall a single detail of the landscape with sufficient clarity, for the universe is a hologram and all of spacetime is interlinked in a unified whole – even if that wholiness can never be entirely seamless, as all apparent reiteration is fractal in nature.

The extraordinarily large black snake was entirely jet black; it wasn’t a red- or yellow-bellied black snake, but a very different creature indeed. It was around seven feet long, thick as a slender human’s arm, thoroughly black and preternaturally aware. I’d been forewarned of the serpent’s presence by a darkly tanned woman with auburn hair who lived in the general vicinity, and hadn’t given the matter much thought until I encountered the massive snake in dappled shadows beneath a sparsely treed canopy.

As I live in a forest without fences, the sight of walled enclosures and fenced-off ‘private’ land is an unusual sight, but nowhere near as strange as the snake which darted back and forth like a playful dog engaged in a game of fetch, daring me to fear its impressive size and unusual shape each time it slithered toward me at a pace that would have been impossible to outrun even had I so wished. So I stood ‘my’ ground while it snaked hither and yon within the fenced-off enclosure, approaching to within inches of my unshod feet. The fine hairs on my arms and on the back of my neck rose like the hackles of a cornered cat, but the frisson of fear soon subsided.

I’d been seeking another route to a cleft in a mountain that had figured so prominently in many recent dreams, but all thought of that highland coign of vantage was dispelled as I watched the huge black snake slow its ongoing approaches and finally accept my presence. Unlike the sidewise stare worn by others of its ilk, this snake’s huge head regarded me front-on, staring into my eyes with both of its own.

Recalling it was springtime, I wondered if the creature was a female guarding its young with all those vociferous wardings, as such snakes are wont to do. Poisonous black snakes usually rear up to an impressive height when they do so, displaying their raging red or yellow underbelly colours to their intended victim, but this snake behaved differently; most of its underside never left the ground and its expressive features seemed to portent silent laughter and playful glee.

When it paused in its dance I continued walking through the enclosed strip of recovering forest, skirting the small clearing where it eyed me from tufts of tall grasses. Then, as I circled its position, the snake reared at last – yet it turned away from me, balancing upright on the last section of its muscular tail, and I watched a stranger scene unfold. It vibrated in place while a surprisingly large baby snake slowly dropped from its cloaca, birthed into the daylit realm of this strangely familiar new world.

Though all are reptiles, some snakes don’t lay eggs but rather give birth to live young and often protect them while they’re small; this was one such snake, and the fact that it allowed me to see the birth process seemed an honour indeed. When the youngster dropped to the ground the mother circled its baby and stared right into me without hint of threatening territorial or maternal angst.

After a time I continued onward toward the spiralling cleft in the mountain.

When I returned to the waking world, aspects of the dream lingered longer than usual in the bright sunny morning and fragments continued returning through the rest of the day – while I travelled a couple of hundred klicks to a relatively nearby village and back, updating the New Illuminati at an internet access point en route (In a particularly pleasant hippified town full of cool, diverse and tolerant people – unlike the closest village which is filled with redneck bumpkins, lowlife crims, resentful laid-off timber workers and conservative retirees; I avoid it whenever possible, preferring to donate my money to more deserving shopkeepers in the more distant township. Besides, my two youngest children live in the vicinity with their respective mothers and I’m there twice a week to fetch and return one or both boys, depending on the whims and exigencies of fate, weather and motherhood).

Every few minutes a different aspect of the intriguing dream would return to overlay the ‘real’ world. It slowly dawned on me that the poison from my last black snake bite had only recently left my body, and my leg and hip joints had only just relaxed from being tightly contracted into their sockets. * A dark line had slowly travelled outward, travelling from the quick of both big toenails after I was bitten a year ago, and these crescent ridges had only recently reached the end of the nails, quietly and neatly breaking away. The internal bleeding has finally ceased.

I’m in no rush to be bitten again soon, and took the dream to be a warning of potentially potent springtime encounters, among other, more spiritually inclined (or self-aggrandising shamanic) interpretations. Black snake bites are more potently poisonous in spring and sting like a horde of hornets for weeks, if you’re lucky enough to survive.

I picked up Beamish Boy and took him back home to the forest for the weekend. On the way back a kangaroo paced the van, eyeing us off as it hopped parallel to our course. When we arrived I insisted we pick (and eat) crisp fresh apples from the trees we planted years ago, and we tasted the sweet wild raspberries, strawberries, kumquats and mouthwatering mulberries. We explored rivulets plashing though the recovering rainforest, enjoying the planet while the world remained perfectly still and the sky deep and clear; as deep a shade of blue as the vault of heaven displayed when I was a child in the Emerald City, seemingly a long time ago – and, on the other hand, no time at all. The sky is usually a far more pallid and unimpressive shade in most other places these days, like a watercolour left out in the Sun; filled with the bright blinding glare and noxious hot air smog spewed on us all by industrious blowhard busynestmen and self-serving politicians.

It’s hard to realise how much has been lost in humankind’s mad rush toward self-impoverishment in the name of progress, but unlike younger (or more forgetful) people I at least know what the sky ought to look like – and out here in paradise it’s still often a deep vasty blue.

When recurrently recalling aspects of the portentous dream, I assumed (at first) that the scene must have been located on the other side of the world; after all, it had taken place in full daylight and half the world is awake while the other, sleeping half oft lives through the lives of their waking cousins in the far-flung lands of antipodean Earth. Yet the locale didn’t seem to have been North or South America, and certainly wasn’t in Europe. Much of Asia is shrouded in darkness at the same time as Oz, where we live; maybe it was in Africa, I ruminated. Then I recalled the particular species of plants in the dream, and realised the place of the snake must have been far more local than that.

When the day was done I decided to return to the same dream.

Inside  the Tree of Life by you.

It isn’t that hard to return to a place if you can recall it with enough clarity. This is as true of successive incarnations as it is of each night or day in the microcosm of the present life time. Each night we disappear, go away, dissolve and drift into nether realms in a true representation of death – and each morn we return, whole and complete, no matter how far we’ve travelled; a true petit mort that provides a perpetual clue to the nature of our immortality.

Loosing the bonds to body and ego I fixed on the scenery I recalled most clearly, and unerringly returned to the world of the black snake.

The totemic creature seemed to be awaiting my return. When I looked around to get my bearings it soon became obvious its home was on the outskirts of a slowly expanding coastal settlement of dreamy sea changers, all awaiting a soporific death in colourful new little boxes, lulled into somnolence by the hypnotic anaesthesia of the endless rolling waves. The Pacific can sometimes be peaceful. The black snake, on the other hand, was utterly alert and responded to my return with a renewed flurry of darting motions, repeatedly dashing toward my bare feet, only to retreat before racing back again like the nearby salty waves.

I stood motionless, smiling and talking to the wondrous beastie and the mother snake soon tired of her funny little game. She rose and spoke into my mind, and while we communed I realised her head was far too spatulate, diamond-shaped and wide for a normal black snake of any description; far more like a pythonic constrictor than a poisonous adder. Both black eyes – bulging but not beady – remained focused on the centre of my mind.

The dream continued, but I shan’t bore you with further details.

A couple of days later, when Beamish had been delivered to the new old stilt-walking house his mother had decided to rent (with a friend of mine who’d been lately her lover and is now her cohabitant), perched on its high poles smack dab in the middle of the flood zone, I visited the Diamond Miner. The perceptive reprobate lives in the same salubrious little town, just across the recently rebuilt bridge that has flooded an unprecedented six times this year, having been rebuilt no higher than the stupid old bridge that had finally succumbed to endless assaults by the raging river. Today’s idiots build all the river crossings no higher than before, even when their level has proven inadequate to cope with the floods of yesteryear – let alone those to arrive in the oncoming greenhouse era.

One of the first things the Diamond Miner mentioned when I arrived at his home was the unusually huge black snake he’d seen at the land of a mutual acquaintance (hi, Brewster!). It had been big, jet black, and surprisingly unperturbed by human beings. “Was its head far too large for a black snake?” I asked. “How did you know that?” he replied. “Shaped like the head of a python?” I inquired. “Funny you should mention that,” he confirmed. “All black?” I asked. His suspicious stare was adequate confirmation.

When I arrived back home in the forest I was greeted by the shack’s resident python (which politely moved away from the cupboard door when I asked it to, only to return to the same guardian position when I finished stocking the small larder). I was particularly pleased to see that the peahen had returned from a long sojourn next door. A monstrous Wedge-tailed eagle was catching pink eyed mullet in the eternal pool out in front of the cabin and a family of surprisingly large skinks – communal land mullets – had moved into a gap beneath the small veranda.

It’s gratifying to find a place you’ve seen in your dreams. But then, as Omar Khayyam insisted – “All that we can see or seem is but a dream within a dream.”

You don’t think I’d bother to make this stuff up, do you? Time appears to flow onward…

Hermit   Tree by you.

- R.A.

* See God, Judge or Architect?

Images – author’s

“I always wondered whether god really existed and if he did is he everything or did he create everything?”

- Wonder Boy at the Age of 8

For further enlightenment see –

The Her(m)etic Hermit – http://hermetic.blog.com

The New Illuminati

(These sites have been locked by Today.com and this author no longer has access to his own blogs – Enlightenment Today

Imagine Nation – Artwork & Images )

The Prince of Centraxis

This material is published under Creative Commons Copyright – reproduction for non-profit use is permitted & encouraged, if you give attribution to the work & author – and please include a (preferably active) link to the original along with this notice. Feel free to make non-commercial hard (printed) or software copies or mirror sites – you never know how long something will stay glued to the web – but remember attribution! If you like what you see, please send a tiny donation or leave a comment – and thanks for reading this far…

From The Rainforest Home of the Her(m)etic Hermit – http://hermetic.blog.com

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