Do you want to know where I found my model?
An upright tree; it bears its branches and these, in turn,
their twigs, and these, in turn the leaves.  And every
individual part has been growing harmoniously,
magnificently, ever since God the artist created it."

Antoni Gaudi


"We're basically rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic."  ~ Terrence McKenna

"Our modern society is engaged in polishing and decorating the cage in which huwo/manity is kept imprisoned."  ~ Enlightened Anarchism



my words are like the stars***

adapted by William Arrowsmith
from Chief Seattle's speech as recorded by Dr. Henry B. Smith

Brothers:  That sky above us has pitied our fathers for many hundreds of years.
To us it looks unchanging, but it may change.
Today it is fair.
Tomorrow it may be covered with clouds.

My words are like the stars.  They do not set.
What Seattle says, the great chief Washington can count on
as surely as our white brothers can count on the return of the seasons.

The White Chief's son says his father sends us words of friendship and good will.
This is kind of him, since we know he has little need of our friendship in return.
His people are many, like the grass that covers the plains.
My people are few, like the trees scattered by the storms on the grasslands.

The great - and good, I believe - White Chief sends us word that he wants to buy our land.
But he will reserve us enough so that we can live comfortably.
This seems generous, since the red man no longer has rights he needs to respect.
It may also be wise, since we no longer need a large country.
Once my people covered this land
like a flood-tide moving with the wind across the shell littered flats.
But that time is gone, and with it the greatness of tribes now almost forgotten.

But I will not mourn the passing of my people.
Nor do I blame our white brothers for causing it.
We too were perhaps partly to blame.
When our young men grow angry at some wrong,
real or imagined,
they make their faces ugly with black paint.
Then their hearts too are ugly and black.
They are hard and their cruelty knows no limits.
And our old men cannot restrain them.

Let us hope that the wars
between the red men and his white brothers
will never come again.
We would have everything to lose
and nothing to gain.
Young men view revenge as gain,
even when they lose their own lives.
But the old men
who stay behind in time of war,
mothers with sons to lose -
know better.

Our great father Washington -
for he must be our father now as well as yours, since George hs moved his boundary northward-
our great and good father sends word by his son,
who is surely a great chief among his people,
that he will protect us if we do what he wants.
His brave soldiers will be a strong wall for my people
and his great warships will fill our harbors.
Then our ancient enemies to the north - the Haidas and Tsimshians -
will no longer frighten our women and old men.
Then he will be our father and we will be his children.

But can that ever be?
Your God loves your people and hates mine.
He puts his strong arm around the white man
and leads him by the hand,
as a father leads his little boy.
He has abandoned his red children.
He makes your people stronger every day.
Soon they will flood all the land.
But my people are an ebb tide,
we never return.
No, the white man's God
cannot love his red children
or he would protect them.
Now we are orphans.
There is no one to help us.

So how can we be brothers?
How can your father be our father,
and make us prosper and send us dreams of future greatness?
Your God is prejudiced.
He came to the white man.
We never saw him,
never even heard his voice.
He gave the white man laws,
but he had no word for his red children
whose numbers once filled this land
as the stars filled the sky.

No, we are two separate races,
and we must stay separate.
There is little in common between us.

To us the ashes of our fathers are sacred.
Their graves are holy ground.
But you are wanderers,
you leave your fathers' graves behind you,
and you do not care.

Your religion was written on tables of stone
by the iron finger of an angry God,
so you would not forget it.
The red man could never understand or remember it.
Our religion is the ways of our forefathers,
the dreams of our old men,
sent them by the Great Spirit, and visions of our sachems.
And it is written in the hearts of our people.

Your dead forget you and the country of their birth
as soon as they go beyond the grave and walk among the stars.
They are quickly forgotten and they never return.

Our dead never forget this beautiful earth.
It is their mother.
They always love and remember her rivers,
her great mountains, her valleys.
They long for the living,
who are lonely, too,
and who long for the dead.
And their spirits often return to visit and console us.

Day and night cannot dwell together.
The red man has ever fled the approach of the white man,
as the changing mists on the mountin side
flee before the blazing morning sun.

No, day and night cannot live together.

The red man has always retreated before the advancing white man,
as the mist on the mountain slopes runs before the morning sun.

So your offer seems fair, and I think my people will accept it
and go to the reservation you offer them.
We will live apart, and in peace.
For the words of the Great White Chief are like the words of nature
speaking to my people out of the great darkness
- a darkness that gathers around us like the night fog moving inland from a midnight sea.

It matters little where we pass the rest of our days.
They are not many.
The Indians' night will be dark.
No bright star shines on his horizons.
The wind is sad.
Fate hunts the red man down.
Wherever he goes, he will hear
the approaching steps of his destroyer,
and prepare to die,
like the wounded doe
who hears the step of the hunter.

A few more moons,
a few more winters,
and none of the children
of the great tribes that once lived in this wide earth
or that roam now in small bands in the woods
will be left to mourn the graves of a people
once as powerful and as hopeful as yours.

But why should I mourn the passing of my people?
Tribes are made of men,
nothing more.
Men come and go,
like the waves of the sea.
A tear, a prayer to the Great Spirit,
a dirge,
and they are gone from our longing eyes forever.
Even the white man,
whose God walked
and talked with him
as friend to friend,
cannot be exempt from the common destiny.

We may be brothers after all.  We shall see.

NO TIME.  Are we ready to relegate our traditional concepts of time to status of organizer?  Are we ready to let time be the pure motion that it is?  Why is this important?  Because in no-time we have access to all of creation.  In no-time scripts and contracts can be rewritten.  In no-time we can step through the doorway that separates our reality from the All. 

In no-time, we can only live in the moment-the point of pure creation-since no other moment exists.

The divine feminine.  As we awaken to the truth that we now live in a post-shift world, notice what changes have resulted from all of this work.  For instance, time has become a tool of freedom rather than a constriction;  reality is being manifested consciously and with pure intent;  critical mass has achieved harmlessness; telepathy  and intution have opened to most; and our world has shifted to the loving and compassionate energies of the divine feminine.

If we doubt this changing of the guard and wonder what a new matriarchal alignment would inspire, probably the most obvious effect is the worldwide movement to live GREEN.  This flows from new depths of compassion and expanded interest in guaranteeing that the world will still be around and healthy for future generations. 

As we contemplate the feminine face of God, and who the divine feminine - the Goddess- is to us, we open our hearts and allow ourselves to feel the pure and truly unconditional love that has waited so patiently to be noticed and welcomed.

Our success in this post-shift era will transpire in direct proportion to the love we give it.  Let's give it a lot.  Namaste.

~ Daniele DeVoe/Sarrin & the Ancients



...By way of summary, a higher system can incorporate a lower one into its service and can transform the lower.   Or the converse can happen-the higher can be incorporated into the lower and the transformation is reversed, inverted, with the lower transforming the higher.  In our legends and fairy tales, the magnificent king makes an error or acts in a base manner and is turned into a beast, or the handsome prince is made a frog, and in both instances their high human cortexes are incorporated into their animal brains-and lord help us! 

Or rather, lady help us, for she alone, through her nurturing kiss and inherent wisdom, can bail out the male from the predicament his intellect constantly brings him to.

The creator-created dynamic of our nature centers on two pivotal areas of evolutionary development:  the heart thumping away in our chest, one of nature's prime and primary achievements;  and the prefrontal cortex, there behind our brow.  The solution to our violence and our key to transcendence lies in translating nature's newest creation and most fragile experiment, our fourth brain, into our own experiential venture.

To give us our worldy experience, this vastly complex brain, itself an intricate balancing of frequency fields, translates from even vaster fields that are infinite in extension and dimension.  More and more, all experience is being interpreted by the new science and an infinitely interwoven complex of resonant frequencies that selectively modulate to form worlds, bodies, thoughts, emotions, rocketshps, and sonnets.  More and more researchers say in a mounting clamour of consensus:  "It's all just frequencies!"  If they are right-and they seem to be-our mystery has just grown immeasurably deeper.  Follow the dynamic of  creator-created long enough, however, and a workable solution to this mystery will emerge, along with a key to transcendence of its dark opposite-violence.

Joseph Chilton Pearce