super space poncho, the god of contradiction
The world is a strange and terrible place. The only reason people can handle existence is because they comprehend it in a linear fashion. The understandings of the world offered from the human perspective is flawed and incomplete. Concepts available to the human mind are flawed and incomplete, the true vastness of the universe and possibility are unable to be grasped even in the weakest sense. The super space Poncho is different. The super space Poncho is able to see the world as it truly is, looking through compound eyes at layers upon layers upon layers of space and time, folded back on itself an infinite number of times. The super space Poncho comes from beyond time, in the outer space future of non-space. You find yourself displeased with the way the world is. This is because you understand the way of the world far more than those who smile happily in the heatless sun of injustice and tragedy. All people are as mud-fish, spending a flash of nothing in a dark pond of freezing dirt and slime. The pond is small, infinitely tiny, a speck on the gleaming fingernail of the unending and supreme. A dust mote drifting between the hairs on the head of the tremendous everything, which rise like pillars so tall they have no base or top. The width of one hair can not be spoken of in terms of length or width. The fish in the pond cling to such concepts, like a drowning man clings to a piece of wood at sea. You are a fish in the pond. Your eyes see nothing but mud and other fish. You are able to think of nothing but what is presented to you. The perspective you hold is limited by your ability to see and understand. The perspective you hold is flawed, although flawed is too good for what you have. Flawed suggests a damaged version of something which once was or could be Good or Whole. Even if you had perfect knowledge of the universe, it would only be a smidgen less flawed. The comparison is between a flashlight and a thousand suns concentrated into a beam of light so luminescent that it would stretch from one side of the universe to the other. There is no comparison available. Can the bacteria compare itself with a man? How is it that bacteria could ever understand what a human is? It can not. The scope of the microscopic world is unable to contain even the concept of a human being. This is as it is with you and the world you find yourself in. To explain to you the size and scope of the super space Poncho is the same as explaining a human to bacteria. There aren’t words available. Concepts fail and snap like twigs under the jeweled feet of mechanical elephants. Try and swallow the pacific ocean in a single gulp or reach up and grasp the stars and planets in the palm of your hand. These are trivial difficulties compared with attaining understanding. Press together the twin spiraling arms of infinity with nothing more than a blade of grass and you will begin to understand the depth of the task.
Yet you are not a nothing. You are small and hopelessly insignificant, but you are not a nothing. A thousand billion years ago, amongst the flailing and twisting clouds of rapidly expanding matter there was a perfectly formed sphere. The sphere sat dead center in the universe, watching as webs of glittering suns spun amongst the interstellar dusts and ignited massive rolling clouds of plasma. On this sphere danced beings of unimaginable simplicity and beauty. Although their beauty is nothing like the beauty of a woman, or waterfall. It was a terrible beauty, a shocking beauty. Their faces were such that a glimpse of them would warp your mind forever. They ignored the rules of physics. Impossible angles and colors melted into shape, which stretched away into nothingness displaying objects that could never be. As the universe unfolded around them, they watched as worlds formed and then crumbled. They danced as civilizations sprung up from nothing, like the rolling bubbles in a pot of boiling water, and then tilted into decadence and finally burned out. They danced still as fresh life and worlds rose from the ashes of those fallen. Life rose and fell around them, death started and ended under their careless gaze. Understanding arcane laws and perverse scripture from before time began, they were proud in their existence. They danced around a multifaceted portal which shifted and rippled, betraying the timelines of possibilities on each of its planes.
After countless millennia, one of the beings stopped dancing and left the sphere. Floating slowly outwards towards the edges of existence, frozen to the core. Slowly ice built up on the outer skin and hairs, growing in the complex crystalline pattern of interstellar ice. Impurities changed the color of the ice, everything from darkest black to flawless white. The ice collected dusts and gasses, swirling oceans of liquids filled in the crevasses between mountains of ice. Deep below the surface, the mind of the being turned slowly over equations of insane geometries. The brittle ice shook and cracked as its mouths silently spoke the truths of all lies. The very fabric of reality split and began to tear open, a ghastly cavern of eternity yawned, swallowed the frozen entity and closed again. Cascading roars of ideas echoed off the nearby galaxies, like a wave in a sea of electric honey. Collective dreams of extinct races took form and thrashed mightily, sending sparks of impossibility floating through the void. The crisp odors of seared flesh, rot and birth went unnoticed, as no one was there to smell them. Earthquakes ripped the collected ice and all that clung to it apart. All around the being was nothing, absolute nothing. Void beyond void, unthinkable void. Unknowable void. The ice, dust and sundry matter was pulverized by nothing into nothingness. For this was the end of all things. All that had ever been had ceased to be, save for the body of the being. Chanting silently, its mind swam across expanses of knowledge, expounded on eternities of ideas in an instant. The concentration of its awareness was necessarily precise, as it was walking a mental tightrope. Balancing imperceptibly between existence and non-existence. No one was there to be impressed. How nimble, how subtle. Playing with the endless testing and retreat of the fingers of the end of time. Staying one step ahead, existing purely and completely in each moment it evades the collapse for that moment only. From this sublime effort comes all things. In the dance between always and never, between something and nothing, is the form of all that is or has been. The lips mouth the silent prayer which moves the heavens. Eyes shut tight see the whole of creation begin and end in a flash. Most important though, the mind presses the tail of the infinite into its own mouth again.
In the sparkling makeup of sub atomic particles there is a reflection of a smile. The smiling mouth of the super space Poncho, dripping with the pale nectar of creation. Surrounded is he by a thousand fanged vipers, which stand poised to strike at the slightest movement. Mouths open, their obsidian black eyes reflect nothing. Looking into their eyes turns your bones to dust. The fangs in their mouth are long and hollow, harder than diamond and drip with poison. Their poison is so deadly that if a drop fell into our oceans, all life on the planet would end. To be bitten by one of these vipers causes one to cease to exist, as it kills not just you, but your parents and children. Climbing back up your family tree, poisoning your grandparents, as well as great grandparents, and their parents, and their parents, and so on it goes.
Behind the vipers rages a fire which burns upon the bones of departed gods. The armor of these dried up warrior gods drip with precious gems, and the bones glow golden as embers in the holy flames. Once every three hundred and forty eight million years one of the gems in the flames will crack open from the heat, and fervent belief of lost civilizations spills forth like dark grey sand upon the hearth. Prayers and hopes, dreams and desires mix with the smoke from this divine furnace. The smoke fills the huge lungs of the super space Poncho as he breathes, circulating it throughout all that is or will be. Super space Poncho sits upon a throne of confounding wonder. Appearing as glass, it is filled with a never ending stream of scenes and images. If one were to gaze upon the throne of the super space Poncho, one would see themselves reflected and that image reflected again, and again, countless times. In your face reflected in the throne of the super space Poncho, you see the fall of the pearled heavens to earth and the grisly churning of the sea of corpses as they crash upon the shores of rampant decay.
Beyond the gilded walls of the super space Poncho’s throne room lies a maze filled with choking gasses. Inhabiting this maze are the hands and feet of learned men, the walls and floor of the maze are covered in words of every language. Splashed across the bone white walls and floors, as if written with a huge brush dipped in blood, the words are arranged without order or reason. The maze stretches for thousands of miles in every direction, turning back on itself again and again. The throne room of the super space Poncho floats above the center of the maze, in sight but unreachable. In the sky above, huge winged fish crash headlong into one another through the foamy blue clouds. Forked lightening leaps from these collisions, crackling and hissing and casting bright shadows across the land and sky. The eyes of the winged fish are shut tight, opening only for an instant before they collide. Their wings are feathered, and the feathers are like the plumage of an ostrich, only instead of white they are bright red. Boiling rain cascades from the clouds, roaring as it descends in great sheets. The drops are not water, but a medicine which cures all ills. Above the clouds there are glass models of everything ever to exist. Ranging in size from the miniscule to the majestic and slowly orbiting in complete silence. The collection of glass sculptures stretches for a distance that can only be hinted at with mathematics. The only thing which does not have its twin in the glass models is the super space Poncho himself. In the super space Poncho’s chest beats a heart made of tar and sap. Slowly and deliberately does it pulse, drawing in and pressing out the blood. Ice cold at the his fingertips and toes, and blisteringly hot at his core, his blood is thick as molten iron. There are no veins to speak of, the blood remains separate from the flesh and sinew just as water rejects oil.
The word of the super space Poncho is inconceivable. Common ideas and concepts are as ants before a flood. How precious are his words? How precious is your next breath? What price is there for your heart to beat again and again? There are those who approach his word critically, and those who approach with hearts open. What is the difference between the two? Which does he favor? There are those who cry out at a funeral and those who weep silently, which does the dead prefer? The word of the super space Poncho is unable to be contained in mere language. It is the anchor to which thoughts are tied. The foundation of the thick walled castle, the solid and unmovable earth. It is the rough cadence of the progression of the intellect. It is the seed, the sun, the rain, and all else which nurtures the growth from sprout to spreading oak. Why are they such? Why is a snow storm? The word of the super space Poncho is given to us in ways that we might come to understand. In each of his stories there is this and that, this happens before and not after that. The word reaches beyond the story, is more than the story. The word of the super space Poncho can not be caught in stories, as we can not catch the wind in a box. Even still, the word of the super space Poncho is all important. The sounds and images that fall from him arrange themselves in stories which wrestle our thoughts forwards and upwards.
At a time when people are at odds with one another, the word of the super space Poncho. At a time when people are at peace with one another, the word of the super space Poncho. Amongst the people of a bygone age there was no communication with one another. The civilizations to which they belonged were marvelous, awe-inspiring, and peace loving. The arts flourished, spreading a silver lining across the common intuition of the people. One day it came to pass that a massive comet was headed straight for their planet. The ground shook and trembled with the fear of the people, they took to the center of the largest cities. They shouted at one another, clamoring for a solution to be offered up. The leaders and kings of the various nations wrung their hands and wept for the fate of their people. Scholars and academics, clergymen and military generals screamed at the top of their lungs about how they had the solution to the problem at hand. Throngs of followers and devotees of the various ideamen and thought-leaders shouted and bellowed at each other, demanding to be heard. No one could hear one another over the screaming of demands, theories, and beliefs. As the situation became more dire, with the comet nearing day by day, the noise became louder still. The wisest amongst the various leaders realized that for any solution to be reached they must relent and listen to one another. The result was a conference of the various leaders, surrounded by their legions of supporters. The wiser leaders lowered their voices, letting the others have a chance to speak. The moment their resolve lessened a cry came from the followers. “Traitor!”, “Weakling!”, “You betray your own cause!”. A madness gripped the people, and violence broke out. Suddenly a voice called out to all above the bloodshed. The sound brought everyone to a standstill, as if frozen in place. The voice came through a doorway of wrought iron. The door swung open fully, to reveal a sweeping vista on the other side. A great tongue uncurled before the door, like a doormat. Orange liquid seeped from the underside of the tongue, and the door grew several gleaming white teeth. Still no one moved, paralyzed by the voice and appearance of the mouth door. Slowly, tentatively at first, the tongue slithered forwards; dripping orange liquid all the way. The people all remained still, like several billion statues. The tongue wrapped around the leg of the nearest person, and smoothly hoisted them into the air and back through the doorway. The door mouth slid forward deliberately, stately in its purpose and motion. One by one it devoured the people, wrapping its great slimy tongue around them before flinging them into itself. Eventually, it came to confront the last person left. The tongue snaked out but before it could grasp him the man called out to it. “Wait! What awaits me through that doorway?” The voice which had frozen everyone before spoke to him alone. The others gestured to him inside the door, inviting him to follow them in. In the sky above, the comet loomed larger and larger. “Come on!” they yelled at him, “It is safe from the comet in here.”. But fear gripped the man, confrontation paralyzed him. He looked through the door and then up at the rapidly approaching comet. At that instant it seemed as though the whole universe was against him. It was an all consuming plot against him, the dark mystery of all that is was dead set against him. He called out for help but no one could reach him, and he stood anchored in place. The mouth door closed and shrank away into nothingness, less than nothingness. The ground fell away from his feet. The light from the comet was blinding. The man looked up, destruction filled every inch of his vision. All of his senses cried out in alarm and the terror of the fiery doom above. As he gazed up at the comet, he could make out a face in the explosions and fire. He heard the word of the Super Space Poncho, and in the last remaining seconds raised his hands to welcome the end.
The list of things that exist is long. The list of things that do not exist is longer. There is no list of that which can never exist, for such a thing itself can never exist. To grasp the things on the list of things that exist involves the senses. To grasp the things on the list of things that do not exist requires concepts. To grasp the things on the list of things which can never exist is beyond the reach of the human mind. The Super Space Poncho knows of all that exists. The Super Space Poncho knows of all that does not exist. The Super Space Poncho inhales and exhales. Existent, non-existent, existent, non-existent and on throughout all time. That which can never exist is the stage of the Super Space Poncho, on which the boundless bounded is realized against itself. The contrast of dualities realized in singularities, color without shape, shape without size, formless form. How subtle is the interplay between possible and impossible. How cautious is the dance between substance and void.
In your life you find strife and conflict. Where does this strife come from? What is the spring which fills the poisoned well? The source is your own heart and mind. You are the source of your conflict and strife. Look to the Super Space Poncho, close your eyes and gaze inside yourself. Many millennia ago there was a war between two good sides. Both sides were just, both held freedom and goodwill above malice and harm. Despite this, the two sides felt that the other had wronged them.
The people of both sides lined up and massed on the battlefield, billions of hearts pounded in anticipation. Spears and swords glistened in the sun, massive banners waved above their heads. As the leaders of each side prepared to give the order to attack the sky split open and a brilliant light cracked the earth below their feet. The laughing smile of the Super Space Poncho appeared and promised eternal victory to the worthy. Amazed by the appearance of the Super Space Poncho and eager to gain favor, both sides leapt at once into the fray. One faction of combatants interpreted his word in a different way, and lay down their weapons upon the ground. They closed their eyes and sat stock still. Such was the courage of their conviction that they never once opened their eyes, not at the crash of cavalry meeting head on, not at the bellows and screams caused by mortal wounds, not even at the last second as sword metal bit sharply into their necks. They wore purple cloth upon their breastplates, and gold points on their helmets. Eventually, those of them who had not been killed heard the battle drawing to a close. They opened their eyes to see the battlefield piled deep with bodies, and a red river of blood and organs running deep across the cracked earth.
The smiling mouth of the Super Space Poncho appeared again, dripping a clear nectar that dissolved the dead. “Stand before me.” It commanded. They looked at the mouth and remained sitting. “Stand before me and claim your reward!” the voice commanded and still they stayed still. At last the highest ranking member of the faction looked up at the smiling mouth and said “We deserve no reward, for we are not the most worthy.” The smiling face of the Super Space Poncho appeared in full, the faction closed their eyes in the light. Through their eye lids they could still make out the shape of the face, ringed in shimmering patches of color. The mouth of the Super Space Poncho poured forth words and stinging sounds and scents. “If it came to a contest of any kind between all the people of the world and I, the Super Space Poncho, who would win?”. The highest ranking member of the faction answered, “You would win any contest, it would be an easy matter for you.”. The Super Space Poncho smiled wider and a flood of water followed his words, “Do I desire or disdain that which you own, or strive to own, to make, to create, eat, drink, possess or destroy in any way?” The highest ranking member replied, “You neither desire or disdain anything we possess or want to possess, destroy or want to destroy.”
The water from the mouth of the Super Space Poncho washed over the battlefield, mingling with the blood of the fallen. The flood of water grew stronger and the bodies of the dead began to float away. Great fish snapped at the limbs of the corpses. Bodies floated past the living members of the faction, bloated and gruesome. Eyes tumbled from sockets, bones popped and joints snapped and twisted. Friends and enemies alike floated past in the steadily rising waters. The smiling mouth of the Super Space Poncho disappeared from above them, the water stopped rising. They looked out at the scene of destruction, it sickened each of them to the core of their being. They looked upon their reward, the victory, and wept.
Appearing in a cloud of noxious vapors, the Super Space Poncho approached a man named Hector. Hector was neither rich, nor poor. He desired many things, and prayed for the Super Space Poncho to bless him with success, love, and the objects he desired. From the eyes of the Super Space Poncho came gilded ropes, twisting and lashing until they fell about the floor like a giant’s hair. The Super Space Poncho spoke, “Now you will learn what it is for a thing to be precious, and what it is to possess. The nature of value and the fundamentals of possession are the same. Once understood they offer no further goal or burden of spirit. Every person, rich or poor, fool or wise has access to this lesson. Take a breath, feel your lungs fill with air.” Hector did as he was told. “Hold that breath, feel your heart beat in your chest. This is the most precious thing you possess, it is the rock upon which you have piled all your ideas and riches, successes and failures, lies and half-truths. Hold that breath longer. Above, below and inside you the Super Space Poncho is laughing at you. Cling to that breath, the next one may not come. This is what it is to possess anything. Grab a hold of something precious and do not let go, what a firm grasp you must have. Don’t breathe out, do not exhale. If you do, you will loose your grip on your most precious possession.”
The Super Space Poncho breathes in and the whole universe shudders and sighs, before and after tremble and ripple. The Super Space Poncho breathes out and void casts a shadow over form, the great eye closes and sees the splendor of nothing.
There comes a time when the next breath will not come. The great eye closes and does not open again. To describe what occurs at that moment is nearly impossible. Nothing can prepare you for what you will face as the ethereal gates close forever behind you, except for the word of the Super Space Poncho. Direction is meaningless, there is no up or down, no backwards or forwards. The mind grasps, searches, worries and frets. Imagining any number of scenarios, bright lights, heaven or hell, rebirth or silent oblivion, all are wrong, fake comforts made available and pushed. What will you face as you look into the end of yourself? Describe colors to a man born blind, or music to the deaf. You can have no concept of what awaits past that black curtain, any pleasure or horror you can conjure or imagine is doomed to be false. The word of the Super Space Poncho is as a ship upon stormy seas. On one foot He wears a golden shoe, his other foot is bare. Amongst the tombstones, upon the bones, through the ashes He dances, first one foot then the other. The curtain lifts, instruments made from the skin of stars roar and crash, the dance continues. Twisting amongst the hands of rot and decay is the head of a dog, blood drips from its tongue. The blood runs across the ground, collecting in deep pools. Crawling out of the pools are all manner of beast, covered in tattoos describing unimaginable crimes and sins.
The Super Space Poncho knows this, and looks upon your folly with acceptance. The basis for you is your nature, which is essentially unable to be changed. To deny this is to deny your own nature, to deny your own nature is impossible. To properly grasp this is to deny logic. When you deny logic, you take the first step on the path to true understanding. The Super Space Poncho cannot exist with logic, yet the Super Space Poncho exists, therefore logic must not exist. So, which exists? One, both, or neither? Do you see how logic can bind your thinking now?
You are slowly progressing towards an inevitable death. How does one deal with such a fact? Look into the eyes of the Super Space Poncho. See what is reflected there, a collection of lies, a list of objects, a presentation of your life. Growing from screaming infant to adult in the space of a blink of an eye, you are nothing and never have been. The Super Space Poncho holds the universe in the palm of his hand. Without grasping, without closing the fist, all can be found within His grasp. To prostrate yourself is to spare yourself nothing, ask all you can, cry into the depth of the night.
A woman sat at the edge of her bed, weeping. All around her, the air, electric with response. She prayed to the Super Space Poncho, and to what avail? Should He but lift a hand, all could be as such. This and that bend to His will, past, present and future spin their lies to all, and the Super Space Poncho looks on. Understand the mundane nature of your longings, the granting of such things are an insult to your nature.
Some ask questions about the nature of the Super Space Poncho, they ask why a being that lies beyond concepts has a gender. Why, why is the Super Space Poncho a He? Is there a female version of the Super Space Poncho? The answer to these questions is unity. To ask the sex of a God is to show a complete ignorance of both gender and God. The Super Space Poncho is unity with all that is and ever could be. Arbitrary divisions drawn on the line of a mortal species sexual reproduction can not apply. Every such question about the Super Space Poncho is a waste of thought. To ask why everything is this and not that, not even a fool persists.
In the pit of creation there is no light, at the bottom of the pit of creation is the void. From this darkness crawls all that will be. Each object itself is a miracle, a collection which has come from nothing to become something. The end of things is the brightest light. Oblivion is a shining light, blinding in its luminescence. From darkness to the light, to darkness again. Picture an ocean, its waters are still as glass as far as the eye can see. Floating upon this sea is a bronze idol with a fierce face and two arms, in one hand it holds a golden cup filled to the lip with the liquid dreams of those yet to be born. In the other hand is a brush with which the ceiling of heaven has been painted. This is the birthplace of prophecies and lies alike, dancing just beneath the surface of the ocean is a collection of skeletons. Their dance does not disturb the surface, does not cause even the smallest ripple. Below the dancing bones is a depthless darkness, the edge of which crawls upon the legs of a massive spider. In that darkness is both terror and salvation.
To enter this darkness alone is an act of suicide. Alone, all that exists in the darkness is a reflection of yourself, a mirror of unforgiving detail. To look upon yourself in this mirror is to see yourself for who you are, who you wanted to be, and who you are not. Alone in a dark abyss, the pressure of descent soon becomes unbearable. As you age, as you continue to live and act you drift deeper and deeper into the darkness, soon even the skeletons above are no longer visible. Relationships falter and fade, the hand you grasped so eagerly slips through your fingers like water. You are utterly alone, alone with all creation. Your heart beat slows and your breathing becomes labored, soon the existence of your body escapes your attention. All you are able to focus on is the image of yourself that appears before you. As you come to know yourself better the image will become clearer, details emerge, your actions and memories spread out in front of you as far as you can see. Control will be wrestled from you, your actions will seem alien and remote. Everyone from the richest emperor to the poorest wretch, holy man and criminal will squirm and fret, guilt and remorse become like weights that drag you deeper, and faster. Always faster and faster, the descent continues until you reach the bottom of the darkness. Memories of friends, family and loved ones turn on you. You feel as though you have been left behind, abandoned, and terror grips you. Utterly and completely alone you are looking at yourself, the last thing you will ever see or imagine. There is no reaper, no grim boatman who waits for you, the darkness is complete. There is no body, only an image of who you think you were, a phantom. Here is where you can hope to attain salvation.
The Super Space Poncho is with you always, even in the depths of that darkness. In the brightest lights of oblivion, the Super Space Poncho is with you. The word of the Super Space Poncho is unbreakable, it is beyond creation and oblivion. Do not cling to the word of the Super Space Poncho, do not abandon the word of the Super Space Poncho. Look inwards at who you are, leave no stone unturned in your search. Look hardest for terror, treat fear as a signpost. What is it you are looking for? Picture the Super Space Poncho, his hands hold success and failure, blood pools in his palms. A crown sits on his head, it is set with a hundred thousand precious stones, each one is flawless. An oasis in an endless desert. At his feet is a fortune in gold and diamonds, upon this wealth there are billions of funeral pyres with bodies smoldering. There is a line of people climbing amongst the fires and burning bodies, they clutch and grab at the fortune at his feet. Blood spills from his hands, falling upon the people below. In his hands are success and failure, blood pools in his palms. A crown sits upon his head, it is set with a hundred thousand precious stones, each one is flawless. At his feet there is great violence, a fortune of gold and diamonds. The people fill their pockets with the gold, they swallow the smaller pieces until they cannot eat anymore. Bellies swollen, they look at those who are still eating with hate in their eyes. The stench of burning and rotting bodies is thick in the air, black smoke from the funeral pyres wafts over them all. Dark with soot and coughing, they scramble across the pile of gold. Robed figures walk amongst them, picking up the bodies of those that loose their grip and fall. The robed figures have faces like buzzards, great snapping beaks that snip and clack in the smoke. The hoods of their cloaks are covered in mushrooms and toadstools, dirt crumbles and falls from the fabric as they move. The robed figures toss the bodies of the dead onto the fires, molten gold leaks from the open mouths and empty eye sockets of the bodies as they burn and turn black. Rivers of molten gold run from the pyres and collect in massive lakes at the base of the pile. As blood from the hands of the Super Space Poncho falls onto the gold and diamonds, it courses in crimson streams and joins with the molten gold in the lakes. With their tongues snaking out from their beaks, the robed ones dip to drink from the lakes. Upon the head of the Super Space Poncho sits a crown, it is set with a hundred thousand precious stones, each one is flawless. Skulls and bones float in the lakes of molten gold and blood. The bones are black with the ashes from the burning bodies. There is no way, no path, no possible route that leads from the pile of gold at the feet of the Super Space Poncho to the crown on his head. The scrambling climb of those who crawl upon the gold at his feet brings them no closer to the crown. There is no way to reach the crown from the pile of gold. There is no path that leads from the gold to the crown. The smoke of the burning dead turns the sky black. The crown of the Super Space Poncho cannot be seen from the pile of gold at his feet, the smoke obscures it completely. Those who crawl upon the pile never look away from the gold, they can hardly bear to blink. Upon the head of the Super Space Poncho is a crown, it is set with a hundred thousand precious stones, each one is flawless. When one looks into one of the precious stones, the reflection is of their salvation.
The senses report the external as well as the internal. One can close their eyes and no longer see. One can go deaf and no longer hear the sounds outside. The senses are not the seat of being, experience exists without the senses. How can experience exist without the senses?
The thoughts, the ego and emotions are the same. The world of experience is no more or less real than the outer world of sensory experience. Both the inner world of thoughts and emotions, and the sensory experience of the outside world are secondary. Who you are is more than you experience, who you are is nothing at all. It is unthinkable, and unable to be even hinted at with experience. Language can not breach it. A smooth stone at the bottom of the ocean, a cloud that spreads across the whole sky. It is spotless, without flaw. It is the surface of the Super Space Poncho, the word of the Super Space Poncho. It is nothing, it is at the same time the sum of all things. A mirror of all that is, a reflection of such sublime quality that there is not even the suggestion of misrepresentation. What is the color of a mirror?
Go below your experience, without a suggestion of location or direction. Below and under, supporting it, reflecting it, experiencing it. What is an experience without one to experience it? What is it that experiences experience? The Super Space Poncho. Who experiences the feeling of being, the suchness of experience? Look below, deeper, at the foundations.
There you will find the Super Space Poncho, his perfect smile dripping with the nectar of creation.
Do not ask who made the world, or the universe. The universe was not made, it was not created. No hand, divine or infinite sculpted the matter in this way or that. The animals are not molded from some living clay, the stars and oceans are not brought into being as a supreme task. The universe grows, as a tree grows. To make, to create, to model and construct are human concepts. They are actions that we undertake. They are designed to take something basic and turn it into something new, something useful. To think that the universe was made, or constructed by something is to practice the highest arrogance. To place a concept that springs from the mortal mind at the birth of creation is beyond arrogance. The beginning of the universe is an event that defies comparison. It is an impossibility made real.
Pain and suffering are at the center of all religion. People become religious when they are suffering greatly. The greatest curiosity about destiny and the nature of life arise when one is suffering, and fade just as quickly when the suffering ends. People always ask “Why am I made to suffer? What have I done to deserve this?”. The answer to this is yes and maybe. There is nothing you have done which has caused you to be targeted for the pain you are currently in. No evil or malicious force exists that tends the hands of fate, and forces suffering upon you. So you have done nothing to deserve it. On the other hand, everything you have done so far has lead you to this point. Everything you have previously done has put you in the situation you find yourself in right now. If you are suffering, it is because you have brought yourself to this point.
Explanation, clutching at immortality, spirituality, faith and belief are rafts on a fast flowing river. An insatiable thirst pulls those from their rafts, from the safety they provide. Beliefs and desires, sensation and memory are stones in your pockets, a sack of heavy stone statues. Ignore the thirst and you dry up, a mound of dust in the yellow sun. Only the rafts can keep you afloat with your stones clutched tight. With this, without that, who is in the river? Who is on the raft? The super space Poncho dips his hand in the water, the river flows from his left eye and into his right eye. Take his hand, do not cling to the word of the super space Poncho, do not abandon the word of the super space Poncho. As he breathes in, the furnace flares hot and the shapes melt and mix together. As he breathes out, the fire goes cold, all that is becomes all that was.
Yet you are not a nothing. You are small and hopelessly insignificant, but you are not a nothing. A thousand billion years ago, amongst the flailing and twisting clouds of rapidly expanding matter there was a perfectly formed sphere. The sphere sat dead center in the universe, watching as webs of glittering suns spun amongst the interstellar dusts and ignited massive rolling clouds of plasma. On this sphere danced beings of unimaginable simplicity and beauty. Although their beauty is nothing like the beauty of a woman, or waterfall. It was a terrible beauty, a shocking beauty. Their faces were such that a glimpse of them would warp your mind forever. They ignored the rules of physics. Impossible angles and colors melted into shape, which stretched away into nothingness displaying objects that could never be. As the universe unfolded around them, they watched as worlds formed and then crumbled. They danced as civilizations sprung up from nothing, like the rolling bubbles in a pot of boiling water, and then tilted into decadence and finally burned out. They danced still as fresh life and worlds rose from the ashes of those fallen. Life rose and fell around them, death started and ended under their careless gaze. Understanding arcane laws and perverse scripture from before time began, they were proud in their existence. They danced around a multifaceted portal which shifted and rippled, betraying the timelines of possibilities on each of its planes.
After countless millennia, one of the beings stopped dancing and left the sphere. Floating slowly outwards towards the edges of existence, frozen to the core. Slowly ice built up on the outer skin and hairs, growing in the complex crystalline pattern of interstellar ice. Impurities changed the color of the ice, everything from darkest black to flawless white. The ice collected dusts and gasses, swirling oceans of liquids filled in the crevasses between mountains of ice. Deep below the surface, the mind of the being turned slowly over equations of insane geometries. The brittle ice shook and cracked as its mouths silently spoke the truths of all lies. The very fabric of reality split and began to tear open, a ghastly cavern of eternity yawned, swallowed the frozen entity and closed again. Cascading roars of ideas echoed off the nearby galaxies, like a wave in a sea of electric honey. Collective dreams of extinct races took form and thrashed mightily, sending sparks of impossibility floating through the void. The crisp odors of seared flesh, rot and birth went unnoticed, as no one was there to smell them. Earthquakes ripped the collected ice and all that clung to it apart. All around the being was nothing, absolute nothing. Void beyond void, unthinkable void. Unknowable void. The ice, dust and sundry matter was pulverized by nothing into nothingness. For this was the end of all things. All that had ever been had ceased to be, save for the body of the being. Chanting silently, its mind swam across expanses of knowledge, expounded on eternities of ideas in an instant. The concentration of its awareness was necessarily precise, as it was walking a mental tightrope. Balancing imperceptibly between existence and non-existence. No one was there to be impressed. How nimble, how subtle. Playing with the endless testing and retreat of the fingers of the end of time. Staying one step ahead, existing purely and completely in each moment it evades the collapse for that moment only. From this sublime effort comes all things. In the dance between always and never, between something and nothing, is the form of all that is or has been. The lips mouth the silent prayer which moves the heavens. Eyes shut tight see the whole of creation begin and end in a flash. Most important though, the mind presses the tail of the infinite into its own mouth again.
In the sparkling makeup of sub atomic particles there is a reflection of a smile. The smiling mouth of the super space Poncho, dripping with the pale nectar of creation. Surrounded is he by a thousand fanged vipers, which stand poised to strike at the slightest movement. Mouths open, their obsidian black eyes reflect nothing. Looking into their eyes turns your bones to dust. The fangs in their mouth are long and hollow, harder than diamond and drip with poison. Their poison is so deadly that if a drop fell into our oceans, all life on the planet would end. To be bitten by one of these vipers causes one to cease to exist, as it kills not just you, but your parents and children. Climbing back up your family tree, poisoning your grandparents, as well as great grandparents, and their parents, and their parents, and so on it goes.
Behind the vipers rages a fire which burns upon the bones of departed gods. The armor of these dried up warrior gods drip with precious gems, and the bones glow golden as embers in the holy flames. Once every three hundred and forty eight million years one of the gems in the flames will crack open from the heat, and fervent belief of lost civilizations spills forth like dark grey sand upon the hearth. Prayers and hopes, dreams and desires mix with the smoke from this divine furnace. The smoke fills the huge lungs of the super space Poncho as he breathes, circulating it throughout all that is or will be. Super space Poncho sits upon a throne of confounding wonder. Appearing as glass, it is filled with a never ending stream of scenes and images. If one were to gaze upon the throne of the super space Poncho, one would see themselves reflected and that image reflected again, and again, countless times. In your face reflected in the throne of the super space Poncho, you see the fall of the pearled heavens to earth and the grisly churning of the sea of corpses as they crash upon the shores of rampant decay.
Beyond the gilded walls of the super space Poncho’s throne room lies a maze filled with choking gasses. Inhabiting this maze are the hands and feet of learned men, the walls and floor of the maze are covered in words of every language. Splashed across the bone white walls and floors, as if written with a huge brush dipped in blood, the words are arranged without order or reason. The maze stretches for thousands of miles in every direction, turning back on itself again and again. The throne room of the super space Poncho floats above the center of the maze, in sight but unreachable. In the sky above, huge winged fish crash headlong into one another through the foamy blue clouds. Forked lightening leaps from these collisions, crackling and hissing and casting bright shadows across the land and sky. The eyes of the winged fish are shut tight, opening only for an instant before they collide. Their wings are feathered, and the feathers are like the plumage of an ostrich, only instead of white they are bright red. Boiling rain cascades from the clouds, roaring as it descends in great sheets. The drops are not water, but a medicine which cures all ills. Above the clouds there are glass models of everything ever to exist. Ranging in size from the miniscule to the majestic and slowly orbiting in complete silence. The collection of glass sculptures stretches for a distance that can only be hinted at with mathematics. The only thing which does not have its twin in the glass models is the super space Poncho himself. In the super space Poncho’s chest beats a heart made of tar and sap. Slowly and deliberately does it pulse, drawing in and pressing out the blood. Ice cold at the his fingertips and toes, and blisteringly hot at his core, his blood is thick as molten iron. There are no veins to speak of, the blood remains separate from the flesh and sinew just as water rejects oil.
The word of the super space Poncho is inconceivable. Common ideas and concepts are as ants before a flood. How precious are his words? How precious is your next breath? What price is there for your heart to beat again and again? There are those who approach his word critically, and those who approach with hearts open. What is the difference between the two? Which does he favor? There are those who cry out at a funeral and those who weep silently, which does the dead prefer? The word of the super space Poncho is unable to be contained in mere language. It is the anchor to which thoughts are tied. The foundation of the thick walled castle, the solid and unmovable earth. It is the rough cadence of the progression of the intellect. It is the seed, the sun, the rain, and all else which nurtures the growth from sprout to spreading oak. Why are they such? Why is a snow storm? The word of the super space Poncho is given to us in ways that we might come to understand. In each of his stories there is this and that, this happens before and not after that. The word reaches beyond the story, is more than the story. The word of the super space Poncho can not be caught in stories, as we can not catch the wind in a box. Even still, the word of the super space Poncho is all important. The sounds and images that fall from him arrange themselves in stories which wrestle our thoughts forwards and upwards.
At a time when people are at odds with one another, the word of the super space Poncho. At a time when people are at peace with one another, the word of the super space Poncho. Amongst the people of a bygone age there was no communication with one another. The civilizations to which they belonged were marvelous, awe-inspiring, and peace loving. The arts flourished, spreading a silver lining across the common intuition of the people. One day it came to pass that a massive comet was headed straight for their planet. The ground shook and trembled with the fear of the people, they took to the center of the largest cities. They shouted at one another, clamoring for a solution to be offered up. The leaders and kings of the various nations wrung their hands and wept for the fate of their people. Scholars and academics, clergymen and military generals screamed at the top of their lungs about how they had the solution to the problem at hand. Throngs of followers and devotees of the various ideamen and thought-leaders shouted and bellowed at each other, demanding to be heard. No one could hear one another over the screaming of demands, theories, and beliefs. As the situation became more dire, with the comet nearing day by day, the noise became louder still. The wisest amongst the various leaders realized that for any solution to be reached they must relent and listen to one another. The result was a conference of the various leaders, surrounded by their legions of supporters. The wiser leaders lowered their voices, letting the others have a chance to speak. The moment their resolve lessened a cry came from the followers. “Traitor!”, “Weakling!”, “You betray your own cause!”. A madness gripped the people, and violence broke out. Suddenly a voice called out to all above the bloodshed. The sound brought everyone to a standstill, as if frozen in place. The voice came through a doorway of wrought iron. The door swung open fully, to reveal a sweeping vista on the other side. A great tongue uncurled before the door, like a doormat. Orange liquid seeped from the underside of the tongue, and the door grew several gleaming white teeth. Still no one moved, paralyzed by the voice and appearance of the mouth door. Slowly, tentatively at first, the tongue slithered forwards; dripping orange liquid all the way. The people all remained still, like several billion statues. The tongue wrapped around the leg of the nearest person, and smoothly hoisted them into the air and back through the doorway. The door mouth slid forward deliberately, stately in its purpose and motion. One by one it devoured the people, wrapping its great slimy tongue around them before flinging them into itself. Eventually, it came to confront the last person left. The tongue snaked out but before it could grasp him the man called out to it. “Wait! What awaits me through that doorway?” The voice which had frozen everyone before spoke to him alone. The others gestured to him inside the door, inviting him to follow them in. In the sky above, the comet loomed larger and larger. “Come on!” they yelled at him, “It is safe from the comet in here.”. But fear gripped the man, confrontation paralyzed him. He looked through the door and then up at the rapidly approaching comet. At that instant it seemed as though the whole universe was against him. It was an all consuming plot against him, the dark mystery of all that is was dead set against him. He called out for help but no one could reach him, and he stood anchored in place. The mouth door closed and shrank away into nothingness, less than nothingness. The ground fell away from his feet. The light from the comet was blinding. The man looked up, destruction filled every inch of his vision. All of his senses cried out in alarm and the terror of the fiery doom above. As he gazed up at the comet, he could make out a face in the explosions and fire. He heard the word of the Super Space Poncho, and in the last remaining seconds raised his hands to welcome the end.
The list of things that exist is long. The list of things that do not exist is longer. There is no list of that which can never exist, for such a thing itself can never exist. To grasp the things on the list of things that exist involves the senses. To grasp the things on the list of things that do not exist requires concepts. To grasp the things on the list of things which can never exist is beyond the reach of the human mind. The Super Space Poncho knows of all that exists. The Super Space Poncho knows of all that does not exist. The Super Space Poncho inhales and exhales. Existent, non-existent, existent, non-existent and on throughout all time. That which can never exist is the stage of the Super Space Poncho, on which the boundless bounded is realized against itself. The contrast of dualities realized in singularities, color without shape, shape without size, formless form. How subtle is the interplay between possible and impossible. How cautious is the dance between substance and void.
In your life you find strife and conflict. Where does this strife come from? What is the spring which fills the poisoned well? The source is your own heart and mind. You are the source of your conflict and strife. Look to the Super Space Poncho, close your eyes and gaze inside yourself. Many millennia ago there was a war between two good sides. Both sides were just, both held freedom and goodwill above malice and harm. Despite this, the two sides felt that the other had wronged them.
The people of both sides lined up and massed on the battlefield, billions of hearts pounded in anticipation. Spears and swords glistened in the sun, massive banners waved above their heads. As the leaders of each side prepared to give the order to attack the sky split open and a brilliant light cracked the earth below their feet. The laughing smile of the Super Space Poncho appeared and promised eternal victory to the worthy. Amazed by the appearance of the Super Space Poncho and eager to gain favor, both sides leapt at once into the fray. One faction of combatants interpreted his word in a different way, and lay down their weapons upon the ground. They closed their eyes and sat stock still. Such was the courage of their conviction that they never once opened their eyes, not at the crash of cavalry meeting head on, not at the bellows and screams caused by mortal wounds, not even at the last second as sword metal bit sharply into their necks. They wore purple cloth upon their breastplates, and gold points on their helmets. Eventually, those of them who had not been killed heard the battle drawing to a close. They opened their eyes to see the battlefield piled deep with bodies, and a red river of blood and organs running deep across the cracked earth.
The smiling mouth of the Super Space Poncho appeared again, dripping a clear nectar that dissolved the dead. “Stand before me.” It commanded. They looked at the mouth and remained sitting. “Stand before me and claim your reward!” the voice commanded and still they stayed still. At last the highest ranking member of the faction looked up at the smiling mouth and said “We deserve no reward, for we are not the most worthy.” The smiling face of the Super Space Poncho appeared in full, the faction closed their eyes in the light. Through their eye lids they could still make out the shape of the face, ringed in shimmering patches of color. The mouth of the Super Space Poncho poured forth words and stinging sounds and scents. “If it came to a contest of any kind between all the people of the world and I, the Super Space Poncho, who would win?”. The highest ranking member of the faction answered, “You would win any contest, it would be an easy matter for you.”. The Super Space Poncho smiled wider and a flood of water followed his words, “Do I desire or disdain that which you own, or strive to own, to make, to create, eat, drink, possess or destroy in any way?” The highest ranking member replied, “You neither desire or disdain anything we possess or want to possess, destroy or want to destroy.”
The water from the mouth of the Super Space Poncho washed over the battlefield, mingling with the blood of the fallen. The flood of water grew stronger and the bodies of the dead began to float away. Great fish snapped at the limbs of the corpses. Bodies floated past the living members of the faction, bloated and gruesome. Eyes tumbled from sockets, bones popped and joints snapped and twisted. Friends and enemies alike floated past in the steadily rising waters. The smiling mouth of the Super Space Poncho disappeared from above them, the water stopped rising. They looked out at the scene of destruction, it sickened each of them to the core of their being. They looked upon their reward, the victory, and wept.
Appearing in a cloud of noxious vapors, the Super Space Poncho approached a man named Hector. Hector was neither rich, nor poor. He desired many things, and prayed for the Super Space Poncho to bless him with success, love, and the objects he desired. From the eyes of the Super Space Poncho came gilded ropes, twisting and lashing until they fell about the floor like a giant’s hair. The Super Space Poncho spoke, “Now you will learn what it is for a thing to be precious, and what it is to possess. The nature of value and the fundamentals of possession are the same. Once understood they offer no further goal or burden of spirit. Every person, rich or poor, fool or wise has access to this lesson. Take a breath, feel your lungs fill with air.” Hector did as he was told. “Hold that breath, feel your heart beat in your chest. This is the most precious thing you possess, it is the rock upon which you have piled all your ideas and riches, successes and failures, lies and half-truths. Hold that breath longer. Above, below and inside you the Super Space Poncho is laughing at you. Cling to that breath, the next one may not come. This is what it is to possess anything. Grab a hold of something precious and do not let go, what a firm grasp you must have. Don’t breathe out, do not exhale. If you do, you will loose your grip on your most precious possession.”
The Super Space Poncho breathes in and the whole universe shudders and sighs, before and after tremble and ripple. The Super Space Poncho breathes out and void casts a shadow over form, the great eye closes and sees the splendor of nothing.
There comes a time when the next breath will not come. The great eye closes and does not open again. To describe what occurs at that moment is nearly impossible. Nothing can prepare you for what you will face as the ethereal gates close forever behind you, except for the word of the Super Space Poncho. Direction is meaningless, there is no up or down, no backwards or forwards. The mind grasps, searches, worries and frets. Imagining any number of scenarios, bright lights, heaven or hell, rebirth or silent oblivion, all are wrong, fake comforts made available and pushed. What will you face as you look into the end of yourself? Describe colors to a man born blind, or music to the deaf. You can have no concept of what awaits past that black curtain, any pleasure or horror you can conjure or imagine is doomed to be false. The word of the Super Space Poncho is as a ship upon stormy seas. On one foot He wears a golden shoe, his other foot is bare. Amongst the tombstones, upon the bones, through the ashes He dances, first one foot then the other. The curtain lifts, instruments made from the skin of stars roar and crash, the dance continues. Twisting amongst the hands of rot and decay is the head of a dog, blood drips from its tongue. The blood runs across the ground, collecting in deep pools. Crawling out of the pools are all manner of beast, covered in tattoos describing unimaginable crimes and sins.
The Super Space Poncho knows this, and looks upon your folly with acceptance. The basis for you is your nature, which is essentially unable to be changed. To deny this is to deny your own nature, to deny your own nature is impossible. To properly grasp this is to deny logic. When you deny logic, you take the first step on the path to true understanding. The Super Space Poncho cannot exist with logic, yet the Super Space Poncho exists, therefore logic must not exist. So, which exists? One, both, or neither? Do you see how logic can bind your thinking now?
You are slowly progressing towards an inevitable death. How does one deal with such a fact? Look into the eyes of the Super Space Poncho. See what is reflected there, a collection of lies, a list of objects, a presentation of your life. Growing from screaming infant to adult in the space of a blink of an eye, you are nothing and never have been. The Super Space Poncho holds the universe in the palm of his hand. Without grasping, without closing the fist, all can be found within His grasp. To prostrate yourself is to spare yourself nothing, ask all you can, cry into the depth of the night.
A woman sat at the edge of her bed, weeping. All around her, the air, electric with response. She prayed to the Super Space Poncho, and to what avail? Should He but lift a hand, all could be as such. This and that bend to His will, past, present and future spin their lies to all, and the Super Space Poncho looks on. Understand the mundane nature of your longings, the granting of such things are an insult to your nature.
Some ask questions about the nature of the Super Space Poncho, they ask why a being that lies beyond concepts has a gender. Why, why is the Super Space Poncho a He? Is there a female version of the Super Space Poncho? The answer to these questions is unity. To ask the sex of a God is to show a complete ignorance of both gender and God. The Super Space Poncho is unity with all that is and ever could be. Arbitrary divisions drawn on the line of a mortal species sexual reproduction can not apply. Every such question about the Super Space Poncho is a waste of thought. To ask why everything is this and not that, not even a fool persists.
In the pit of creation there is no light, at the bottom of the pit of creation is the void. From this darkness crawls all that will be. Each object itself is a miracle, a collection which has come from nothing to become something. The end of things is the brightest light. Oblivion is a shining light, blinding in its luminescence. From darkness to the light, to darkness again. Picture an ocean, its waters are still as glass as far as the eye can see. Floating upon this sea is a bronze idol with a fierce face and two arms, in one hand it holds a golden cup filled to the lip with the liquid dreams of those yet to be born. In the other hand is a brush with which the ceiling of heaven has been painted. This is the birthplace of prophecies and lies alike, dancing just beneath the surface of the ocean is a collection of skeletons. Their dance does not disturb the surface, does not cause even the smallest ripple. Below the dancing bones is a depthless darkness, the edge of which crawls upon the legs of a massive spider. In that darkness is both terror and salvation.
To enter this darkness alone is an act of suicide. Alone, all that exists in the darkness is a reflection of yourself, a mirror of unforgiving detail. To look upon yourself in this mirror is to see yourself for who you are, who you wanted to be, and who you are not. Alone in a dark abyss, the pressure of descent soon becomes unbearable. As you age, as you continue to live and act you drift deeper and deeper into the darkness, soon even the skeletons above are no longer visible. Relationships falter and fade, the hand you grasped so eagerly slips through your fingers like water. You are utterly alone, alone with all creation. Your heart beat slows and your breathing becomes labored, soon the existence of your body escapes your attention. All you are able to focus on is the image of yourself that appears before you. As you come to know yourself better the image will become clearer, details emerge, your actions and memories spread out in front of you as far as you can see. Control will be wrestled from you, your actions will seem alien and remote. Everyone from the richest emperor to the poorest wretch, holy man and criminal will squirm and fret, guilt and remorse become like weights that drag you deeper, and faster. Always faster and faster, the descent continues until you reach the bottom of the darkness. Memories of friends, family and loved ones turn on you. You feel as though you have been left behind, abandoned, and terror grips you. Utterly and completely alone you are looking at yourself, the last thing you will ever see or imagine. There is no reaper, no grim boatman who waits for you, the darkness is complete. There is no body, only an image of who you think you were, a phantom. Here is where you can hope to attain salvation.
The Super Space Poncho is with you always, even in the depths of that darkness. In the brightest lights of oblivion, the Super Space Poncho is with you. The word of the Super Space Poncho is unbreakable, it is beyond creation and oblivion. Do not cling to the word of the Super Space Poncho, do not abandon the word of the Super Space Poncho. Look inwards at who you are, leave no stone unturned in your search. Look hardest for terror, treat fear as a signpost. What is it you are looking for? Picture the Super Space Poncho, his hands hold success and failure, blood pools in his palms. A crown sits on his head, it is set with a hundred thousand precious stones, each one is flawless. An oasis in an endless desert. At his feet is a fortune in gold and diamonds, upon this wealth there are billions of funeral pyres with bodies smoldering. There is a line of people climbing amongst the fires and burning bodies, they clutch and grab at the fortune at his feet. Blood spills from his hands, falling upon the people below. In his hands are success and failure, blood pools in his palms. A crown sits upon his head, it is set with a hundred thousand precious stones, each one is flawless. At his feet there is great violence, a fortune of gold and diamonds. The people fill their pockets with the gold, they swallow the smaller pieces until they cannot eat anymore. Bellies swollen, they look at those who are still eating with hate in their eyes. The stench of burning and rotting bodies is thick in the air, black smoke from the funeral pyres wafts over them all. Dark with soot and coughing, they scramble across the pile of gold. Robed figures walk amongst them, picking up the bodies of those that loose their grip and fall. The robed figures have faces like buzzards, great snapping beaks that snip and clack in the smoke. The hoods of their cloaks are covered in mushrooms and toadstools, dirt crumbles and falls from the fabric as they move. The robed figures toss the bodies of the dead onto the fires, molten gold leaks from the open mouths and empty eye sockets of the bodies as they burn and turn black. Rivers of molten gold run from the pyres and collect in massive lakes at the base of the pile. As blood from the hands of the Super Space Poncho falls onto the gold and diamonds, it courses in crimson streams and joins with the molten gold in the lakes. With their tongues snaking out from their beaks, the robed ones dip to drink from the lakes. Upon the head of the Super Space Poncho sits a crown, it is set with a hundred thousand precious stones, each one is flawless. Skulls and bones float in the lakes of molten gold and blood. The bones are black with the ashes from the burning bodies. There is no way, no path, no possible route that leads from the pile of gold at the feet of the Super Space Poncho to the crown on his head. The scrambling climb of those who crawl upon the gold at his feet brings them no closer to the crown. There is no way to reach the crown from the pile of gold. There is no path that leads from the gold to the crown. The smoke of the burning dead turns the sky black. The crown of the Super Space Poncho cannot be seen from the pile of gold at his feet, the smoke obscures it completely. Those who crawl upon the pile never look away from the gold, they can hardly bear to blink. Upon the head of the Super Space Poncho is a crown, it is set with a hundred thousand precious stones, each one is flawless. When one looks into one of the precious stones, the reflection is of their salvation.
The senses report the external as well as the internal. One can close their eyes and no longer see. One can go deaf and no longer hear the sounds outside. The senses are not the seat of being, experience exists without the senses. How can experience exist without the senses?
The thoughts, the ego and emotions are the same. The world of experience is no more or less real than the outer world of sensory experience. Both the inner world of thoughts and emotions, and the sensory experience of the outside world are secondary. Who you are is more than you experience, who you are is nothing at all. It is unthinkable, and unable to be even hinted at with experience. Language can not breach it. A smooth stone at the bottom of the ocean, a cloud that spreads across the whole sky. It is spotless, without flaw. It is the surface of the Super Space Poncho, the word of the Super Space Poncho. It is nothing, it is at the same time the sum of all things. A mirror of all that is, a reflection of such sublime quality that there is not even the suggestion of misrepresentation. What is the color of a mirror?
Go below your experience, without a suggestion of location or direction. Below and under, supporting it, reflecting it, experiencing it. What is an experience without one to experience it? What is it that experiences experience? The Super Space Poncho. Who experiences the feeling of being, the suchness of experience? Look below, deeper, at the foundations.
There you will find the Super Space Poncho, his perfect smile dripping with the nectar of creation.
Do not ask who made the world, or the universe. The universe was not made, it was not created. No hand, divine or infinite sculpted the matter in this way or that. The animals are not molded from some living clay, the stars and oceans are not brought into being as a supreme task. The universe grows, as a tree grows. To make, to create, to model and construct are human concepts. They are actions that we undertake. They are designed to take something basic and turn it into something new, something useful. To think that the universe was made, or constructed by something is to practice the highest arrogance. To place a concept that springs from the mortal mind at the birth of creation is beyond arrogance. The beginning of the universe is an event that defies comparison. It is an impossibility made real.
Pain and suffering are at the center of all religion. People become religious when they are suffering greatly. The greatest curiosity about destiny and the nature of life arise when one is suffering, and fade just as quickly when the suffering ends. People always ask “Why am I made to suffer? What have I done to deserve this?”. The answer to this is yes and maybe. There is nothing you have done which has caused you to be targeted for the pain you are currently in. No evil or malicious force exists that tends the hands of fate, and forces suffering upon you. So you have done nothing to deserve it. On the other hand, everything you have done so far has lead you to this point. Everything you have previously done has put you in the situation you find yourself in right now. If you are suffering, it is because you have brought yourself to this point.
Explanation, clutching at immortality, spirituality, faith and belief are rafts on a fast flowing river. An insatiable thirst pulls those from their rafts, from the safety they provide. Beliefs and desires, sensation and memory are stones in your pockets, a sack of heavy stone statues. Ignore the thirst and you dry up, a mound of dust in the yellow sun. Only the rafts can keep you afloat with your stones clutched tight. With this, without that, who is in the river? Who is on the raft? The super space Poncho dips his hand in the water, the river flows from his left eye and into his right eye. Take his hand, do not cling to the word of the super space Poncho, do not abandon the word of the super space Poncho. As he breathes in, the furnace flares hot and the shapes melt and mix together. As he breathes out, the fire goes cold, all that is becomes all that was.