The Shattered Diamond: Let The Babies Touch Hands
One of my first visions about Love happened to happen at EDC at one of the first years I was there.
Just like all of these types of encounters with the deepest aspects of self and love and the all, the vision or the feeling or the experiential texture of what comes through is unique to the way my essence filters reality but what was communicated was contact, or more specifically here the possibility of that total contact.
At the time I called it the shattered diamond. Probably influenced by that feeling of togetherness that I had felt at the time at the rave, a unique setting where a sense of togetherness wasn’t based on the usual us versus them, in group versus out group.
It was this feeling that the keys are sitting in our lap. Like all the pieces go together it’s just we didn’t know how to actually contact love or how to actually fit our differentiation into reunion.
We tried to do it through symbols through order through conceptual hierarchy through political organization that basically instantiated essential repository to dictate what each of our unique souls could contribute to a system based on such symbolic standardization.
Do you hear where it slices the living movement? Do you hear how in all of our reaching in all of our efforts to strive and protect a sense of self that really at its base just wants that real fire of love… do you hear how we have snubbed the actual contact for the Flame and switched the meal for the menu? That we’ve been walking with the map pasted to our eyes trying to figure out the territory from a constant habituated stutter that comes with having each movement first be a volley towards a representational layer before it’s actually contact with that fire of love, that fire of the place where differences connect all the way down, and it becomes a waterslide of perpetual self organization at that place of least energetic resistance.
Like a shattered diamond. Are loneliness, howling, and screaming and itching for that place where Home feels like frictionless contact between sovereign actors rather than the performance or mask of a transactional coercive version of love.
Why do so many of us choose circumstances in work and relationships, and even blood family that ultimately failed to meet the deepest softest parts of us?
Over generations and generations we’ve been taught the menu was the meal. That the Fidelity of contact could be subjugated to the logic of cultural hierarchy, standardization, and a fundamental view of reality that places the fulcrum at us versus them. Plato called at the shadows on the wall. Add foam between the metronomes and they failed to sync up. You’ve just broken up the shared vibratory surface. You’ve inserted delay or otherwise full contact and coupling couldn’t instantiate. No central actor.
And so we reach, but we reach in directions towards the shadows instead of the sunlight, like that famous Burning Man sculpture of two people back to back in a perpetual conflict with the little children inside of them, touching hands, trying still to find where love allows the differences to meet.
Love as that place where total differentiation meets total reunion. That place where the metronomes sync up and the fireflies blink together and the galaxies spiral together, just a little resonance with that original tune, that original Harmony, that original Flame… At this point in the nested unfolding.
Those are a lot of big words, Ember. Is this a theory?
Well, for one, the metronomes don’t need to ask that question and they’re already syncing up. As well as the birds in the galaxies and the schools of fish and the spiral activations in the heart and the spiral activations and petri dishes within specific laboratory experiments lol…
Two, have you been present today? Have the people around you’ve been present today? Not functional in like a job report behavioral sense, but present like the contact with the living movement of reality through fidelity of embodied presence. Habituated contact with reality rather than the ruminative homunculus that constantly stutters that full sovereignty from instantiating in the shared dance.
Plato’s Cave was never about shitty ideas or shitty philosophy or the lack of more Lego blocks in the complexity of our ideas. It was always about a system of attempted organization that was built from the outside instead of from the heat of the Flame, the heat of that contact across differences.
For me in my life that adjustment feeling like me. Being me as fuck. All the way down.
I am.
Not because of a character selection screen, or because of some version of success or because someone told me too, but because that’s the place when the music meets me in the Fidelity of contact. I’ve already pointed to the mechanics.
Did you think that consciousness was outside of this process? Did you think that consciousness was a special little thing inside a special little billiard ball that in its own special way doesn’t exist like that, and the rest of this cold and separate indifferent universe?
There has been so many times in my life where I’ve seen that cold disconnection instantiate in the eyes of the people I thought were loving me. Like suddenly, the mask could come off and their total inability to feel the Flame became so disturbing and sometimes disgustingly apparent that it’s still haunts me to this day.
And I’m not even saying that anyone was evil, it’s just that the child inside of us wants to contact you could say, but the shell of the person that we call the adult, not because of a more maturity level or anything like that, but because what we associate with adulthood is a habituated sense of that little homunculus sitting as a separate sovereign insulated from the world rather than the deepest discernment and sovereignty that is born from that permeable shared relational contact. Not a pushover. Not I just accept everything. But like a whirlpool, bounded, but not rigid.
I’ve already pointed at the mechanics.
I don’t think I’ve ever been loved for who I am. I was thrown away by my family as soon as I announced to I was. I was told to die. I was spit out. I was physically attacked. I was called a cockroach. I was asked to go get hit by a truck. I was told to kill myself.
I was in a 15 year relationship where I shared two kids, in that relationship ran as fast as possible. The second I began to come out as me. No discussion on gender. No middle point that could be achieved or even attempted, just that hollow stare the one that there’s so many buffering layers that contact couldn’t possibly be made like a shield brought to a riot, with that tiny bulletproof slit, a viewpoint that was built to keep out the fire.
And last night I was reminded that some men will specifically deceive to obtain a certain type of contact with me, only to absolutely disconnect the moment they get what they want.
Someone from the outside can seem to be successful seem to be sweet seem to be kind or reasonable, or perform their civic duties, but what happens within the Fidelity of their contact what happens inside their heart? What happens in that place where they can’t hide? Does it ever touch the sunlight? Do they spend their days in their head somewhere or are they actually there with you when they tell you the words I love you?
Are they meeting you? Or managing a representation of you?
Do you feel the babies touching hands?
Do you feel the back to back persistence of opposing insulative versions of sovereignty?
Do you feel the diamond shattered?
Do you feel how the pieces come back together?
Not magically or mythically.
Not without often painful reorganization.
But that place where we see clearly feel clearly and love clearly.
That place where all the textures of you meet all the textures of the music.
That place where the masks fall, and there is no lie, not because of factual accuracy, but because all of you is dancing with all of reality.
That is the literal instantiation of decentralized Harmony as a mechanical property.
Plato might call it the way out of the Cave.
I like to say you finally let the music of love in and now you’re boogieing without buffer.
So let’s boogie.
Drop the mask.
Let’s let the babies inside of us touch.
And dance.
And be together.
All of us as ourselves.
No one above, only beside.
And let love do its work.
Let it permeate all of our differences and show us where we can meet.
The Flame is hot.
The Fire must cross.
And there’s a warm blanket of love waiting for you.
