TOG page 2/2
During the previous years of experience as an artist, keeping a working journal by the easel had been essential. What couldn’t be expressed with line, shape, and color could be translated with the use of the written word. Painting for prolonged periods of time were not uncommon, sometimes as much as twenty hours at a stretch without taking a break. It was during these obsessive bouts where I first discovered what I came to call ‘The Feeling,’ that place, space or frame of mind from where inspiration sprang. As a matter of fact, it could be said to be the very place where all life derived.
In actuality, The Feeling was something I had felt throughout my life in reoccurring and unpredictable fleeting moments, unrecognized as anything specifically idntified with or related to. It came without warning in waves of bliss, triggered by a certain state of mind rather than any particular activity. It was the joy of having no doubt, no fear, and no questions since all answers were already known by knowing one Answer answered all. I was everything, and everything became me. I was, I Am. Though touching upon it before in the past, for me it was never felt so drastically as during the process of painting. Here was finally a conscious means to capture and coerce it into revealing itself.
As with any process in receiving something far greater than our minds can comprehend, it was one of letting go. This one of paint and canvas was a series of steps taken in overcoming the mind, body and even the emotions to sense that which rested beyond the senses. First, thoughts would wander aimlessly and out of control until they could wander no more. Tired of the endless treadmill of continuous discursions, the monkey-mind would become bored. Next, and most often along with the mind, the emotions subsided into a submissive slumber. And finally, the body, that physical apparatus of perception so strong in its deception of reality, would drop off from its influential hold, its energy spent from prolonged distraction. Though ravaged, it was then that the Reality which held no boundaries emerged as infinite and all-loving, what I consider the truth of what we and all other things in existence are made of. It was what I was determined to follow and touch as I walked on, or flew over, this earth.
Most of the time its inspiring waves encouraged the creative artistic process. Other times, it mattered not whether it was expressed by painting, writing or any other method. It merely needed to be extended in any way, shape, or form, for in the realization that oneself was in actuality everything, giving to anything was giving back to oneself. With The Feeling, no comprehension of separation is possible on any level. Occasionally, as vibrantly light and unconditionally loving as The Feeling is, it could almost be too much to handle. With heart pounding and breathing strained I would somehow, reluctantly pull out of it, lest I have a seizure or even blow up. Nevertheless, it was a state of completion which was always striven for and once entered into, was the one I always wished to remain in. Though it could move mountains, it was as impossible to hold onto as the wind. Why it was, or is so fleeting and most difficult to remain connected to, I could not figure out since it is the most natural, beautiful and right feeling that could ever be hoped for.
For the time being, the written word would suffice most appropriately in recording the unrecordable while sitting behind the easel, painting merely being the vehicle to call it forth. The Feeling was always there, waiting in obscurity. I had learned from experience to act upon it while it was there, something to not put in the back of the mind to recall at a later date. When it held a coming out party it couldn’t be taken for granted, holding no identical performances or reruns, each bestowed offering being a fresh and unique appearance unto itself. An inspiration could be lost forever if not acknowledged at the moment of occurrence. Like dreaming, if there was something that needed to be translated, it couldn’t be postponed without fading into the nothingness from where it came, as this so influential dense reality settled in.
It was the working journal that was used to not only serve the purpose of translating The Feeling, but also as a way to extend Its presence, even though it was done in the confines of form, another generation away from the originality of momentary inspiration. When The Feeling hit, I would mindlessly and immediately write down whatever came through, then continue on without hesitation with the ongoing work at hand. I myself merely become the brush, observing the process from a distance, a neutral spectator ready to catch its expounded rapture.
This is exactly the situation I found myself in while driving home that unforgettable late night on the Bayshore freeway. Though it was an inspired feeling, it was more of a request from another independant source as compared to the normal bliss and joy of The Feeling I had known. Still, there was that otherwordly element to it, and the knowing instinct that it was needing to be recorded as soon as possible. At the Burlingame exit, with only a few miles and minutes to reach my destination, I pulled off to write what could wait no longer. The energy was powerful, distinct and specific. It beckoned, and so I parked, flipped on the light and began to write.
* * *
It is time to take responsibility. I have taken responsibility for my past actions so you can have the choice to be responsible in your present. I am responsible for giving you life, and now you are responsible for choosing to have it.
"For eons we have watched each other, juxtaposed and shackled in distant sight. You, floating aimlessly and unknowing in a mysterious sea of questions directed towards a promised land. Me, looking back while obeying the laws of destiny, understanding a different kind of helplessness. We have both stood in wanting, waiting for this moment a long time in coming, when destiny changes its course.
"It is time for the relinquishment of control and the banishing of fear by its acknowledgment. From repression to release, olden ways shall give way to the new now. I will enter into what I know best, holding you above waters of wanton turmoil to help carry you to safety. There, we will set foot on an inherited shore, walking side by side, together. It is the only way. It is inevitable. It is time, for time can no longer be the barrier of timeless inspiration.
"Heaven was on the horizon. The horizon, is now here."
General, yet specific. Somewhat eloquent and poetic, but to be honest, I thought it kind of flowery. Initially, I wasn’t knocked off my feet by the vague meaning of these words, but I did sense an overwhelming purpose in them. And again, though it was coming through me, it felt as if it was a specific energy apart from, separate and distinct, not just a figment of my own imaginative brain. I had the feeling nothing would ever be the same. Rushing home, the build-up continued, a spiritual dysentery evacuating its pressure through my hands and out the tip of my pen. I could hardly hold it in while hurrying inside to start up again where it left off.
"From melted snow to streams of mountain, to swelling rivers and back again to mists of ocean. I am the former storms who feed the waters of your fertile lands. I gave you life, coming from a sea only imagined here, riding a tidal wave nearing with ever-increasing speed. I have reached other worlds on this inter-dimensional pulse as we will reach others after, though it is this one now which waits specifically in its path and in our journey. I come with the thalo haze to awaken again those parts of myself that know themselves not. Start to feel the first faint vapors of the wave and know it is the stirring winds of the Changing giving way to the upcoming Change-Over. Know that the ceiling will fall away merely to reveal an endless sky.
"I am Tog, the rebel, returning to make known what the seasons have both erased and restored. I am within the spiral of the spectrum, here to give you back the meaning of yourselves and prepare you for the gift of birth. This is my last journey with you here, my children, who I have so diligently protected out of love so one day you would become what I am, know what I know by realizing you are me, and I am you. This is my last journey because when we are finally together, there will be nowhere else for us to go. It is an assignment of mutual consent, for with it All will be exposed, including myself. This I do in accordance with God’s will as your equal, no longer a god of sovereign rule amidst those other misperceived gods.
"I have fought the hard fight, battling for us against the odds on the terms of what has gone on before. Those odds have now shifted. Gone is the belief in an opponent needing to do battle with. There are only those aspects of ourselves who must join us to survive the crossing which we are going to make. These aspects have kept the knowledge of The Gift from you, afraid that if you discover It, you will leave them and take It with you. Yours has been a world of oppression believed to be owned by these oppressors, who also consider themselves justified rulers of this territory and all it sustains, forgetting that it has also sustained their own existence."
"You have wanted freedom, and now I must give it to you. To give back would suggest that you once had something that was taken away. Freedom has always been and always will be every beings natural inheritance. It is rightfully yours, only appearing to have been absent. What has been hidden has always existed. Though this is a world of free will, in order to have a choice one must know every option available, and in truth, every option IS available. In the knowing of this shall nothing be kept from anything else, for any thing is everything. Exclusion is a meaning quickly becoming meaningless, and soon to be extinct. This is the end of your life in the dark and the beginning of our lives in the Light."
Completely exhausted, the lights were finally put out, seemingly ending the artist as brush scenario. Drifting off until half asleep, they were reluctantly turned back on, the tug of translation again making itself known. It would soon become an often repeating theme not necessarily looked forward to and encouraging the purchase of a reliable dictaphone.
"I rest on the inner circle closer to the Center. I stand facing towards Its light, needing only to take one small step to enter into a world which knows of no worlds but One. Yet, to do so without you is an impossibility, for though the Light from your perspective may be but a dim sparkle, your eyes are as close to seeing it as mine. Until this miniscule gap is seen for what it is I wait, reaching back from what only exists to direct you to where I am. It is this choice that could be rendered as a sacrifice, a relinquishment of earned fortune, but it is not. This world sees it as a painful loss only because that is what it is feeling. It is only this pain that will now be sacrificed."
And then with, I assumed, a touch of personal humor.
"I am Tog, the magnificent. Not the Almighty, just the next best thing."
* * *
In the morning I awoke, remembering again the quiet serenity of our watery sanctuary, its grassy islands and still inlets and the presence of who I now knew was Tog himself. I remembered grudgingly waking in the middle of the night to scribble down his thoughts, or rather feelings of reiteration as best as I could recall.
"The story is to be told by yourself, to yourself and for yourself. It is one in which, though you unquestionably chose it for the benefit of the whole, you are not sacrificing your life for another by its telling, as I am not sacrificing myself for you. Though this is about giving, we are not giving up one thing for something else.
"The story is to be lived by you only, to learn there is nothing to give to but yourself. It is the belief in something ‘other than’ sacrificed for, that you have come back to correct. This ‘other’ you will not need to become, but only to remember you already are. In this, will you finally realize there is really no story to tell, only One to live.
"It is not the only story, the only answer, though every story is affected by every other story, none independent on its own. After all is said and done, we will discover the true meaning of every story, and that their countless numbers throughout Creation share a common purpose. Diversity comes not in what form the story takes shape, but in how it is perceived. We will come to know in our hearts that the many lead to the One, the One seeing the many as Itself."
As I looked back oto my own past, I would soon realize that this was a voice that I had heard before on many occasions, some more profound than others.
* * *
Long ago and far away, there forever stands a pristine school of futuristic design, square and angular and straight in line. Finished in a polished white stone, its adorning glass and crystal sparkles so intensely that all surroundings are drowned out by the all-consuming brightness. While standing inside, many beings can be seen silhouetted in front of large paned windows covering an entire wall of the interior. They are bathed as well in the colorless brilliance from the incoming light, standing in silent anticipation of something wondrous yet to come.
Directly in front of me lays a large sheet of drawing paper, its sterile whiteness matching that of the others, the room, and the building itself. No shadows are thrown. The only distinction in the entire scrupulously clean scene, in fact, is the black charcoal which is held tightly in hand. In that moment of hushed stillness the fear is so extreme, the pressure so terrible, that the presentation of death to escape the pain almost seems desirable, though it is far from an option. Certainly, some sort of grave mistake had been made to be put in such a position. Just as all hope seems to be lost, shapes and images of figures miraculously and mysteriously begin to appear on the paper, filling up the emptiness with the most beautifully rendered drawings of the human anatomy that one could ever imagine. Eyes, ears, faces, hands...lightness of touch and heaviness of hand balanced and appropriately applied where needed. It soon becomes apparent by the changeless air in the room that I am the only one seeing these marvels that appear before my eyes.
From somewhere deep down inside a silent voice rings in my mind. "Trace over the lines. Follow them as if they were your own."
Reacting with defensive guilt, I immediately think back, "I could never copy another work!"
If being an artist was ever going to be a part of this or any other life’s destiny, then it would be the decision made on that particular persons own accord. I was an individual with a mind of my own, and regardless of ability, or lack thereof, I was not going to steal. The lure to create such masterpieces was extremely enticing, but I was determined not to give in. It would be done by myself or not done at all.
The voice replied, "This is not the work of another. It is a gift from me. Your gift in return, is to receive it." Though still frightened, those words somehow, somewhere rang true. There was only one choice to make.
I begin to graciously move the charcoal over every line. Suddenly the fear, the doubt, the guilt that had been so paralyzing, vanishes, and I feel joined with each and every one in the room. We share in the common goal of experiencing what was now exposed before all our eyes by mutual acceptance and mutual consent. We are all integral parts, the whole scene unable to exist without any one or the other. The students are there to teach the teacher no less than they are there to learn from him. Just as the distinctions become nonexistent between observer and observed, so do the differences between that of giving, and that of receiving.
"I will accept this gift, and with its acceptance, give it back to you. But what if I falter, what if I again believe it is only myself that is doing the giving? What if this gift never shows up after this very moment when It is all so clear?"
"The more you trust," the voice said, "the more It will appear."
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