When we communicate with the gracious ease with which those primitive people communicated, then we can call ourselves civilized.

As a member of the human species do we indeed see ourselves as supreme flower of history so far, yet when we can know what is going on clearly and concisely on the other side of the city, and communicate it also, then we will be as primitive and as civilized as some of those primitive people.


Esoteric history has nothing to do with the people.


The experience of the guru who sits in opulence, bejeweled and be-gowned, has nothing to do with the migrant worker who works in the field and whose belly is empty. And so it has been through the centuries.


In our terms, our histories were not written by people who worked the earth. They were created by the priests and the elite, who made up their own histories to suit their purposes–to hold down the masses. Those histories never spoke of the vast, massive emotions and needs of the human beings involved, who listened, because their hearts and survival depended upon their doing so, to the voices that speak within the earth that your instruments even now cannot perceive. Those histories did not tell of the human beings who had to know what insects would crawl of fly from one end of a continent to another, so that they could be captured and roasted and eaten. They did not speak of the human beings who had to know what migrations of animals would roam through their land–and when and where, and at what phase of the moon–lest they starve.


And so those people lifted up their minds and hearts and heard the voices of the earth speak to them, as they still do. The elite did not hear those voices. They wrote histories in which in their own memories they annihilated races of people with emotions as strong as real as theirs. The elite leave us records and methods, telling us of kings and queens, of gurus and prophets and gods, in whose eyes the masses of the people vanished. They learned techniques, but the techniques did not bring them magic, did not allow them to really hear and understand the voice of one leaf.


So forget all of the histories, and listen to our own thoughts, which are today alive and vital as those of any man/woman ever born, in whatever time. Forget the dusty old records and feel our reality in the movement as we are. In that moment can we hear the insects sweeping across the continents and the voices of the leaves speak, and feel their echoes in our blood– and that blood lives, beyond the time. It throbs beyond destiny, even as the masses of those people live beyond the beliefs of those gurus.


The vitality of our present being, and the authenticity of oneself.


The most sophisticated and the most primitive,with combination of the English words, in our terms, are understood by the proud intellect that rises above the shoulders so securely. Yet the sounds upon which those words ride are far more sophisticated than the language of which we are all so proud. For they are indeed the sounds of insects through the centuries, of stars swirling through the universe, of the blood pound through our veins.


Not to bow down before gurus and histories. More has to do with the mass beliefs that people chose at various times, and the different roads that were taken in our reality. Any road taken in our reality should–but does not–tell us one thing: By the very fact that we have chosen a particular road, we can be sure that other roads, entirely different, have been taken..

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