The Man From The Future

 

“It’s all either in God’s hands or it’s only matter in motion, and matters of chance,” declare the falling dice.

“Die! Die!”, the falling dice scream to each other.

The Man From the Future came to our time to tell us the true story of our time, as he understood it.

The man from the future, a White man, comes to our time, and tries to explain our time to us from the perspective of his future and his explanation is a very interesting picture of our time, but years later we discover he was not a man from the future, this white man, but a man of his time, and his time is up. 

This Future Man, says his adversary, is a tedious but sometimes amusing old beatnik who smokes weed and listens to old music on a cd player while wandering the labyrinth of his soul.

“Wandering the labyrinth of the soul” — his soul and our soul, Future Man claims, the macrocosmic soul.

It is great to live in historical times because he can write about his own experience and it was great to be writing his own experience as history until he comes to what he believes to be the end of history. 

“The sharp point of the NOW touches the page of the HERE,” he writes. What comes next? — how does this sentence end? — what is the pen point trying to say? Words, sentences becoming thoughts — not detached from thought, but handling thought, doing things with thought, considering what it is that the point of the pen has been saying to him.

He has no idea if history has an end or has already ended or if history even exists or even if the cosmos exists.

Some claim that the cosmos — the Universe we pray to — does not exist and they pray to what is called an abyss because ultimate reality is inconceivable for our nervous system — aka “soul” — and beyond definition and conception, so they pray to a contraception of God, to a God who is not ready to be born in the collective mind.

It’s all matter in motion, this ink I push around the notebook pages, praying to the abyss, spilling signs on the blank paper cosmos. I wish I could believe what it means, but this pen-pushing isn’t only a matter of belief or wishing, and all intentions are hidden in the abyss.

This void at the center of my self is talking to himself, again,

but it’s only another one of his attempts to adopt a God’s eye view of his life, and our lives, and our history, so-called.

To have a true conception of God, he wrote, is to be unable to conceive of God’s nonexistence. 

“Does being unable to conceive of God’s nonexistence prove that God exists?” his inner adversary asks.

The only absolute proof would be a Mount Sinai face to face Here I am, Lord encounter and in such a case one wouldn’t be examining hypothetical arguments about whether meeting one’s Creator was really taking place and if you really were still doubting that this moment before the throne of God was happening, then no Absolute Proof would ever be possible until your ego and cogito together are annihilated in the One.

“You will not become God,

God will become you in eternity,” he wrote.

“Where did that sentence come from?” he asks.

You have not been annihilated in the Eternal. 

You are alive in the HERE and NOW with no choice but to make choices, CHOOSE your words carefully, and determine what your work is, or where your love is, and where you are and so on — to respond to others and your environment, build community, and create happinesses.

Now this little homily is getting too sweet, he wrote. 

I am running out of time.

Time passes. 

It is Ash Wednesday. 

He opens his notebook and writes:

“The dust of death is the soul in which life germinates.”

He meant to write “soil” and wrote “soul” by mistake.

This sort of slip of the pen is exactly what I’m talking about.