On July 31st, after performing the EBR, intoning the 19th Call, & vibrating
the Governors' names, I skryed ZIP:
The howl of wind as through a narrow defile, or corridor, cries in a plaintive
voice, "Oh, oh, your battlements are covered with thorns; thorns, dust and
lizards are the victors here!"
Then multiple voices of woe: ritual wailing like I heard first in Istanbul;
stylized howling; or just grief, mourning for the lost, the people lost, the cities
lost, the dreams and values forsaken. Almost all are women's voices, though
some men cry aloud for fallen comrades, or to warn the denizens of the other
world, "A Warrior is about to arrive."
And I am in an office in a tall building in a dark and stormy city late at night. I
have been receiving messages here and want to start a non-profit
organization for the purpose of deciphering their meaning and educating the
public about their significance. But I am bogged down in paperwork, most of it
having nothing to do with the Work. For example, I am required to have a
proposal for "office design" approved by a committee. I have tried two
designs and have been informed, by a committee composed entirely of
female prospective employees, that the first was "stiflingly sexist" and the
second "culturally colonialist".
Tonight, while working very late, I surprised one of the messengers. He was
wearing an ornate face mask. I leaped on him and tore the mask off. He had
no face, just bare metal. He was not human; he was a robot, a machine. I
have been pondering the impact of the revelation that the messages are
coming from a race that at the very least employs androids for various tasks;
they may themselves be machines. Their values, goals, their agenda would
then be entirely non-human, so much so that humanity may be entirely
irrelevant to them. Why then would they contact us except to use us. So, for
the first time, I am a bit paranoid & begin to question my previous enthusiastic
Just then a very beautiful young woman comes in unannounced. She is
quite striking, especially as her eyes are glowing red. She lays down and
unflolds a huge blueprint of a triangle atop a square. Pointing to the square,
she says, "This is the foursquare masculine, the principle that makes things
work. It is called Dipamkara, the Holder of the Light." And, pointing to the
upright equilateral triangle, she says, "And this is the feminine, the principle
that rises ever upwards, whose many voices you sometimes hear mourning
the loss of Her Own; the Wisdom triangle that is the source of all. It is called
Sri Jnana, Noble Primal Awareness. Join these two together in partnership,
and everything works out."
Then she tears the paper in two, feeds both halves to me and, as I am
chewing and swallowing them, melts into light and dissolves into me.