A Note From the Far Frontier

I don’t know what I would have done without that first breakthrough. Died an ignorant mass of used up flesh a few decades later, accomplished or unaccomplished in the world, unillumined, dead of the dark stories that passed for reality? Na├»ve in those early years, as are all human beings struggling against the collective psychosis, I thought the world being shown to me in school, books, the TV news and the papers, in movies, in the lives of my parents and friends—“Wow!” I thought that was the real world. 

In the summer of 1970, I made a hitchhiking excursion through Europe with my German girlfriend, starting in West Berlin, where she lived and went to university, and ending there two months later after passing though Switzerland, Austria, Bulgaria, Italy, Greece, Yugoslavia, and Turkey. The most important experience I had in this long, tension-filled trip into the consciousness of western civilization, including escaping brigands attempting to murder us in a ninety miles per hour car chase at night through the mountains of Yugoslavia, came at the end. My girl friend was in her apartment preparing food while I stood on the Kurfurstendam in the light-filled hustle and bustle of the new Berlin, the one on our side of the wall, looking for illicit products with which to extend the evening into the secret folds of personal consciousness.

I was standing with two raw, inchoate men, both over six feet tall with long tangled hair, beards flowing over coats that looked a thousand years old, wind-burnt faces, and a far away look, who in the time we spent together that night probably accepted me because I was nobody and could never understand where they were coming from. They told me of having just returned from Kabul, Afghanistan, walking most of the way, long before it became civilized by war and global attention, where they smoked hashish in back allies with tribesmen who might as well have come from Mars as the hills surrounding the city and waking up in the dusty streets while the life of the city walked around them as if they didn’t exist. There I was with these raw, life-scorched beings on a corner in cold war but civilized West Berlin, in my coat new and bought for this trip. The last night before going home.

The whole thing felt like slow motion. I watched one of these phantoms negotiating with a man who seemed to appear out of nowhere from the crowds that filled the massive sidewalks, which supported cafes, food stands, magazine stands, spies, secret police, Nazis ready to rise again, and other people hidden in the folds of the night depending upon anonymity to keep them safe, then turning slowly as if a hidden hand were directing events and asking the other phantom about psychedelics, which I had not yet experienced. After making inane and meaningless comments to imply I knew something, I finally asked how long after taking acid might one expect to come back. I could tell that this question got his attention because the slow motion stopped. Everything stopped. Suddenly I was somebody come alive in the ancient and self-searching night that supported such an inquiry as this. He looked directly at me for the first time, his large head tilted down, the brim of his hat hovering over his eyes, which were darker than a black hole and which made the sound of his voice feel like God scraping the inside of my bones. I had asked a real question. “You never come back,” he said.

In the spring of the following year, I, the neurotic child of alcoholic military parents and probably suffering from the effects of my mother’s drinking while pregnant with me and her suicide attempt following my brother’s birth eighteen months later, presaging his insanity and suicide before he turned forty, and her yearlong stint in a mental hospital after his birth, and them living only a few miles down the road from my first apartment and job, and I accepting the darkness of my mind as the norm and who I was, received an invitation of a friend to trip with him that weekend. Suddenly I was back in Berlin, a minute before midnight in my life, on Ku-dam with the veterans of the hippie far frontier, remembering the remark that became prescient and made me pause deeply before saying, “Yes.”

And so it was. I am still on that first journey, which started out that Saturday morning  in my apartment and then moved later in the afternoon to the hillside in the forest where an irresistible force stripped the veils off the whole damn story of my existence and everything became suddenly real, all other less fruitful drug trips and later life experiences, including future decades of meditation, prayer, ceremony, chanting, exploring ashrams, trekking in the Himalayas, and risking psychosis for unchaperoned cosmic excursions, searching for what was already there, all of this and everything else bursting out of that single, absolute revelation of my life as a real life, as life itself.

There is no return from the direct perception of reality, from apprehending the truth behind the veil that is strangling the world to death. The “I exist!” of  everything, the banishing of all fear, the fulfillment of all longing at the root of it all, and the end to the barbaric consciousness that the world calls normal and which blood families cling to as the substance of their union. And the absolute bliss! The ground state absolute bliss! The original thing blissful, not dark, not evil, not wrapped in fear—but blissful! And the suddenness of it being all one thing! Then is still now. Forever now. Yes, I am still on that trip. Hit Enter. Turn the page.

The New Timeline is about every human being becoming available to ultimate truth, which will eventually become the goal of all of human  dreaming, living, and dying, the justification for all the pain and struggle, the wars over God and who has the truth and who are the wicked thieves in the night who will take us to hell. The New Timeline will put an end to all that, but we have to want it. That’s our part to make it happen. The outcome is not fixed. The script has not been written. Nothing is decided. It’s all us and what we do with the stories we live out of, no matter the levels of joy and pain they contain.

As the past dissolves, as memories no longer define who we are and what the future should look like, we must take a stand by making  realizations of ultimate things be the single defining desire, which saturates personal lives with the longing that yields only to the direct apprehension of reality. That's my job, to make you want it deep down, to understand what "winner take all" means. The real thing for me, you say, or go down with the ship! This is the measure of the New Timeline. It’s coming. The bending of time will sound like huge winds uprooting secrets, hidden agendas, and the plots that rule the world, exposing the darkest deeds of the darkest souls, as well as yours and mine. Keep a lookout! The perspective of the ultimate reality is the one safe refuge as the uprooted illusions of the old timeline catch fire and burn.