The earth has an atmosphere we recognize.

In our limited space travel we take for granted the fact that different conditions will be met from those encountered upon our planet.

There are alterations taken into our calculations, so astronauts know ahead of time that they can expect to encounter weightlessness, for example. Our ideas and experience with space and matter, however, are determined by our own sense apparatus. What matters to us might be an “empty space” for being equipped in an entirely different fashion. Our conscious mind as we understand it is the “psychological structure” that deals with conditions on a physical basis. Sense data is served up, so to speak, more or less already packaged. The greater inner reality of the psyche, however, is as extensive as outer space seems to be.


When information “falls” into our conscious mind from those vaster areas, then it also is changed as it travels through various levels of psychological atmosphere, until it finally lands or explodes in a series of images or thoughts.

We are bombarded with such “alien intrusions.” The focus of our consciousness blots these out while we are in a normal waking state. There are falling stars everywhere tumbling through the heavens, for example, though we only see some of these in the night sky. It is important during the day that a screening process be used, so that the precision of our actions can be maintained. Again, however, that fine precision rests upon an endless amount of information that impinges onto other levels of our psychological reality. That data then becomes the raw material, so to speak, from which our physical events are formed.


In the dream state, with our body more or less safe and at rest, and without the necessity for precise action, those psychological intrusions become more apparent. Many of our dreams are like the tail end of a comet: Their real life is over, and we see the flash of their disappearance as they strike our own mental atmosphere and explode in a spark of dream images. They are transformed, therefore, as they travel through our own psychological atmosphere. We cannot perceive them in our own state — nor can they maintain their native state as they plunge through the far reaches of the psyche. They fall into patterns, forming themselves naturally into dream contents that fit the contours of our own minds. The resulting structure of the dream suits our reality and no other: As this intrusive matter falls, plummets, or shifts through the levels of our own psychological atmosphere, it is transformed by the conditions it meets.


Raindrop patterns in a puddle follow certain laws having to do with the contours of the land, the weather, the nature of the rain, of the clouds, the height from which the raindrops fall, and the conditions operating in the nearby and far portions of the world. If we could properly understand all of that, then by looking into a single puddle we could tell the past and present weather conditions for the entire planet, and follow the probabilities in terms of storms, or volcanic eruptions. We cannot do this, of course, yet it is possible.

Dreams patter down into psychological puddles. They follow the contours of our psychological reality. They create ever-moving psychic patterns in our minds, rippling outward. The rain that hits our backyard as warm drops, soft and clear, may be hailing in areas far above our rooftop! But it might also come down to us, harming buildings, cars and humans alike – making us witness the glory of Mother Nature. While we look for hail damage repair for all the materialistic things near us, do we stop to wonder about the how Nature often represents us, in ways that we often tend to overlook? How often do we stop and think about the similarity between these ‘alien intrusions’ and our dreams – very much representing the raindrops – for at other “higher” levels they may have quite a different form indeed. As much as Nature leads us to specialist repair shops (similar to a body shop Lynchburg) to repair our damaged materialistic possessions, it also gives us the beauty of believing and witnessing how broken too, could look just as beautiful.


There are gullies, hills, mountains, valleys, large continents, small islands upon the earth, and the falling rain fits itself to those contours. Our own thoughts, dreams intents, emotions, beliefs– these are the natural features of our mind, so that information, impinging upon our mental world, also follows those contours.

If there is a gully in our backyard, it will always collect the rain that falls. Our beliefs are like receptive areas — open basins — that we use to collect information. Intrusive data will often fall into such basins, taking on the contours, of course. Beliefs are ways of structuring reality. If we over-structure reality, however, then we will end up with a formal mental garden — whose precise display may be so rigidly structured that the natural aspect of the plants and the flowers is completely obscured. Even our dream information, then, will flow into structured patterns.


We know that the natural world changes its form constantly. Objects, however, follow certain laws of a physical nature as we experience them, just as violets on the ground do not suddenly change into rocks.

These conditions, however, only exist at the conscious level of our perception. The larger psyche deals with the greater dimension of events, and the dream state itself is like a laboratory in which our waking reality is constructed. The physical earth is bombarded in the same way by phenomena important to out survival. In the laboratory of dreams this information is processed, collected, and finally formed into the dreams that we may or may not remember; dreams that are already translations of other events, shaped into forms that we recognize.


Each dream we remember is quite legitimate in the form in which we recall it, for the information has broken down, so to speak, fitting the contours of our own intents and purposes. But such a dream is also a symbol for another unrecalled event, a consciously unrecorded “falling star,” and a clue as to how any environment if formed.

Waking events happen and vanish quickly.

They are experienced directly with the senses fully participating, but for the instant involvement we give up larger dimensions of the same actions that exist, but beneath the senses’ active participation.


In dreams the preparations for experienced events take place, not only in the most minute details but in the larger context of the world scene. Events are connected one to the other in a psychic webwork that is far more effective than our physical technological system of communication. Here, reality codes are utilized. Knowledge is received and transmitted in electromagnetic patterns so that one pattern can carry far more units of information than anything we have technologically speaking. Each cell in the body does its part in picking up such signals and transmitting them. Some decoding also takes place at that level, so that pertinent information is sent where it belongs, physically speaking.


Much information does not even reach the brain (the mind is aware of such data, however). In man or woman, the psychic-physical structure has at every moment a complete up-to-date picture of pertinent information about all events that will in any way affect the organism. All actions are taken with this information available. In the dream state such data become transformed, again, into pseudo-physical pictures — reflections of events that might occur, previews of probable sequences. These are flashed before a consciousness that momentarily focuses upon the inner rather the outer arena of reality.

Now these previews are played out not only for the mind but for the body as well. In sleep, each cell calculates the effect of various probable events upon its own reality. Computation are made so that the body’s entire response can be ascertained ahead of time, and the advantages and disadvantages weighed. The body participates in dreaming at the most minute levels.


The atoms and molecules themselves possess kinds of consciousness impossible for us to analyze, because the scales of our activities are so different. They are information-gathering processes, however, containing codified electromagnetic properties that slip between all of our devices. The atoms and molecules and all of the seemingly smaller “particles” within them are, again, information-carrying processes, and upon them depends our entire interpretation of the nature of events.

Cellularly-attuned consciousness generates dreams. Consciousness, riding on a molecular back, generates a physical reality and events suited to it.


Thought takes time, and exists by virtue of cellular composition. Consciousness not focused in cellular construction involves itself with a kind of direct cognition, involving comprehensions that come in a more circular fashion.


The creative act is our closest experience to direct cognition. While our consciousness thinks of itself in physical terms, whether we are living or dead, then we will still largely utilize thinking patterns with which we are familiar. Our consciousness is cellularly attuned in life, in that it perceives its own reality through cellular function that forms the bodily apparatus. The psyche is larger than that physically attuned consciousness, however. It is the larger context in which we exist. It is intertwined with our own reality as we think of it. On those occasions when we are able to to alter our focus momentarily, then the psyche’s greater experiences come into play. We are able to at least sense our existence apart from its cellular orientation. The experience, however, is circular, and therefore very difficult to verbalize or to organize into our normal patterns of information.

Language operates as a screening device.

Language enables us to communicate certain data while effectively blocking out other kinds.

When we speak a sentence we do not stop to consider all of the rules of grammar. We do not mentally diagram the sentence ahead of time. We simply speak more or less automatically. This involves the utmost precision, both mentally and physically. When we experience an event, we do not usually stop either to examine the rules of perception or to wonder what these are. We simply experience or perceive.


Those experienced events, however, are also the result of a screening process. They attain their focus, brilliance, and physical validity because they rise into prominence on the backs of other seemingly unperceived events. In dream state we work intimately with the “inner grammar” of events. In dreams we find the unspoken sentence and the physically unexperienced act. The skeletons of the inner workings of events are there more obvious. Actions are not yet fully fleshed out. The mechanics of our waking psychological behavior are brilliantly delineated. That state can be explored and utilized far more fully than it is, and should be. Yet there will always be a veil between the waking and sleeping consciousness, for while we are physical, the waking mind can only deal with so much information. It would simply forget what it cannot hold.

Our dreams affect our cellular reality, even as that reality is also largely responsible for the fact that we dream, in our terms, at all. Dreams are a natural “product” of cellularly tuned consciousness. As fire gives off light, cellularly tuned consciousness gives off dreams.


Such a consciousness is at a state of being in which its reality generates more energy and power than it can physically express in its brilliant intersection with physical reality. The “sparks” generated by each instant of its existence cause additional experiences, perceptions, that will not fit in the known moment of the present — for by then in our terms that present has already vanished into the past. These events and responses continue to operate, however, particularly in the dream state where they do not interact directly with full physical experience, as waking events do. All of these parallel or alternate experiences are then used to construct the physical events that we recognize. We speak a sentence truly so that the end of it comes smoothly, though when we begin it we may not have known consciously what we were going to say. Some part of us knew the sentence’s beginning and end at once, however.


In dreams we know the beginning and end of events in the same fashion. Any one action in our life is taken in context with all of the other events from our birth to our death. Now it seems to us that because we speak one sentence at any given time, rather than ten other possible versions of it, the sentence as spoken is the “correct” one. Its probable variations in grammar or tense or inflection escape us entirely. Yet unconsciously we may have tried out and discarded all of those, even though we have no memory of such experiences. So even in forming sentences we deal with probabilities, and to some extent that might be involved with each unspoken sentence.

Even as we speak our sentence with such fine conscious nonchalance, inner choices are still being made, as we unconsciously check our communications against events occurring outside us as we speak.


So, while each action of our life is taken in context with all other actions of our life until our death, this does not mean that our death is predestined to occur at any given time. As we might change our sentence in the middle from one version to another without even being consciously aware of it, so as we live our life we also work with probabilities. We are the self who speaks the sentence, and we are the self who lives the life. We are larger than the sentence that we speak, and larger than the life we live.


We cannot remember all of the sentences we spoke today. We may have a general idea of what we said. It certainly seems to us that we said one thing at any given time rather than something else. It also seems that witnesses would back us up. It certainly seems that waking events are more steady and dependable than dream events.

Information flows, at such a rate and in such quantities that we could not possibly process any but a small portion.

Our physical senses, act almost like a biological alphabet, allowing us to organize and perceive certain kinds of information from which we form the events of our world and the contours of our reality.


Our conscious knowledge rests upon an invisible, unspoken, psychological and physical language that provides the inner support for the communications and recognized happenings of conscious life. These inner languages are built up as cords, and cords are psychic organizational units from which, then, all alphabets are born. Alphabets imply cords, but cannot contain then , any more than English can contain Russian, French, Chinese, Tagalog, or any combination. If we try to speak English we cannot speak Chinese at the same time. One precludes the other, even while one implies the existence of the other, for to the degree all languages have some common roots.


In a way events are like the spoken components of language, yet voiced in a living form — and not for example only sounded. These are based upon the sensual alphabet, which itself emerges from non-sensual cords. A sentence is built up as words, parts of speech, verbs, and adjectives, subjects and predicates, vowels and syllables, and underneath there is the entire structure that allows us to speak or read to begin with. To some extent, events are built up in the same fashion. We form and organize sentences, yet we speak on faith, with out actually knowing the methods involved in our speaking. So we only recognize the surface of that activity.


In the same way we form events, often without being aware that we do so. It seems that events happen as it seems words are spoken. We were taught how to construct sentences in school, and we learned how to speak from our elders. We were involved with event-making before the time of our birth. The psyche forms events in the same way that the ocean forms waves — except that the ocean’s waves are confined to its surface or to its basin, while the psyche’s events are instantly translated, and splash out into mass psychological reality. In waking life we meet the complete event, so to speak. We encounter events in the arena of waking consciousness. In the dream state, and at other levels of consciousness, we deal more directly with the formation of events. We are usually as unaware of this process as we are in normal practice of the ways in which we form our sentences, which seem to flow from us so automatically.

The psyche, as it is turned toward physical reality, is a creator of events, and through them it experiences its own reality as through our own speech we hear our voice.


In dreams, then, we are involved in the inner process by which physical events are formed. We deal with the psychological components of actions which we will, awake, form into the consecutive corporal “language” that results in the action of our days.

The events that we recognize as official have a unitary nature in time that precludes those probable versions of them, from which they arose — versions that appeared to one extent or another in the dream state. Again, if we speak the English sentence “I am here,” you cannot speak the Chinese version at the same time. In that regard, in our framework of action we choose to “speak” one event rather than another. Our formulation of events, however, does not simply reside in our unique psychological properties, of course, but is possible because of the corporal alphabet of the flesh.


Now as it is possible for any one human being to speak more than one language, it is also possible for us to put physical data together in other ways than those usually used. The body is capable then of putting together different languages of reality. In usual terms, for example, our body can only be in one place at one time, and our experience of events is determined in large measure by our body’s position. Yet there are biological mechanisms that allow us to send versions or patterns of our body outside of its prime position, and to perceive from those locations. In sleep and dream states we do this often, correlating the newly perceived data with usual sense information, and organizing it all without a qualm. For that matter, the preciseness of our flexibility, which gives us a broad base from which to form our secure focus.

Events emerge like spoken words, then, into our awareness. We speak, yet who speaks, and in our briefest phrase, what happen? The atoms and molecule within our vocal cords, and lungs and lips, do not understand one word of the language they allow us to speak so liquidly. Without their cooperation and awareness, however, not a word would be spoken.


Yet each of those nameless atoms and molecules cooperates in a vast venture, incomprehensible to us, that makes our speech possible, and our reality of events is built up from a “cord” of activity in which each spoken word has a history that stretches further back into the annals of time than the most ancient of fossils could remember. I am speaking in our terms of experience, for in each word spoken in our present, we evoke that past time, or we stimulate it into existence so that its reality and ours are coexistent.

In dreams even the past is in present tense. Events are everywhere forming. We make and remake the past as well as the future. We choose from those experiences certain ones as events in normal waking reality.


While we can only speak one sentence at a time, and in but one language, and while that sentence must be sounded one vowel or syllable at a time, still it is the result of a kind of circular knowledge or experience in which the sentence’s beginning and end is known simultaneously. If the end of it were not known, the beginning could not be started so expertly.


In the  same way the experienced event occurring in time is dependent upon a circular happening, in which beginning and end are entwined, not one occurring before the other, but coexistent.

The body reacts to information about the environment.

Information which we are not consciously concerned. That same information is highly important to the body’s integrity, however, and therefore to our own mental stance.

On cellular levels the body has a picture not only of its own present condition, but of all those aspects of the physical environment that affect its own condition. In its own codified fashion it is not only aware of local weather conditions, for example, but of all those world patterns of weather upon which the local area is dependent. It then prepares itself ahead of time to meet whatever challenges of adjustment will be necessary. It weighs probabilities; it reacts to pressures of various kinds.


We are aware of pressure through touch, but in another version of that sense entirely, the cells react to air pressure. The body knows to the most precise degree the measurements involving radiation of all kinds. At one level, the body itself has a picture of reality of its own, upon which our conscious reality must be based — and yet the body’s terms of recognition or knowledge exist in terms so alien to our conscious ones as to be incomprehensible. Our conscious order, therefore, rides upon this greater circular kind of knowledge.

Generally speaking, the psyche has the same kind of instant overall comprehension of psychological events and environments as our body has of physical ones. It is then aware of our overall psychological climate; locally, as it involves us personally, and in world terms.


Our actions take place with such seeming smoothness that we do not realize the order involved. A volcanic eruption in one corner of the world will ultimately affect the entire earth in varying degrees. An emotional eruption will do the same thing on another level, altering the local area primarily but also sending out its ripples into the mass psychological environment. The psyche’s picture of reality, then, would be equally incomprehensible to the conscious mind because of the intense focus upon singularity that our usual consciousness requires.

Our dreams often give us glimpses, however, of the psyche’s picture of reality in that regard.


We become aware of probabilities, as actions sometimes that seem to have no connection with our own, but which are still related to them in that greater scheme of interaction that ordinarily we do not comprehend.

When we grow from a baby to an adult we do not just grow tall: we grow all about oneself, adding weight and thickness as well. To some extent events “grow” in the same fashion, and from the inside out, as we do. In a dream we are closer to those stages in which events are born. In our terms they emerge from the future and from the past, and are given vitality because of creative tension that exists between what we think of as our birth and our death. We make sentences out of alphabet of our language. We speak these or write them, and use them to communicate. Events can be considered in the same fashion, as psychological sentences put together from the alphabet of the senses — experience sentences that are lived instead of written, formed into perceived history instead of just being penned, for example, into a book about history.


Our language to some extent programs our experience. There is a language of the senses, however, that gives us biological perception, experience, and communication. It forms the nature of the events that we can perceive. It puts experience together so that it is physically felt. All of our written or verbal languages have to be based upon this biological “alphabet.” There is far greater leeway here than there is in any of our spoken or written languages.


I use the word “cord” to express the source out of which such languages spring. There are many correlations of course between our language and our body. Our spoken language is dependent upon our breath, and even written language is dependent upon the rapidity with which messages can leap the nerve endings. Biological cords then must be the source for physical languages, but the cords themselves arise from the psyche’s greater knowledge as it forms the physical mechanism to begin with.


Dreams are a language of the psyche, in which man’s and woman’s nature merges in time and out of it. Man and woman have sense experiences. He/she runs, though he or she lies in bed. He/she shouts though no word is spoken. He/she still has the language of the flesh, and yet that language is only opaquely connected with the body’s mechanisms. He/she deals with events, yet they do not happen in his or her bedroom, or necessarily in any place that he or she can find upon awakening.

We manage our subjective lives in a circular fashion

Pretend that the present moment is like a wheel, with our concentration at the hub. To maintain what we think of as time momentum, the hub is connected by spokes to the exterior circular framework. Otherwise the hub alone would get us nowhere, and our “moment” would not even give us a bumpy ride.

Our journey through time, however, seems to go smoothly: The wheel rolls ever forward. It can roll backward as well, but in our intentness we have a forward direction in mind, and to go backward would seem to divert us from our purpose.


The forward motion brings us into the future, out of the past from which it seems we are emerging. So we plot a straight course, it seems, through time, never realizing in our analogy that the wheel’s circular motion allows us to transverse this ongoing road. The hub of the present, therefore, is held together by “spokes.” These have nothing to do with our ideas of cause and effect at all. Instead they refer to the circular motion of our own psyche as it seems to progress in time. Each present moment of our experience is dependent upon the future as well as the past, our death as well as our birth. Our birth and our death are built in, so to speak, together, one implied in the other.

We could not die unless we were the kind of creature who was born, nor could we have a present moment as we consider it. Our body is aware of the fact of its death at birth, and of its birth at its death, for all of its possibilities for action take place in the area between, Death is therefore as creative as birth, and as necessary for action and consciousness, in our terms.


It is not quite that simple, however, for we live in the midst of multitudinous small deaths and births all of the time, that are registered by the body and the psyche. Consciously we are usually unaware of them. Logical thought, using usual definitions, deals with cause and effect, and depends upon a straight sequence of time for its framework. It builds step upon step. It is woven into our language. According to logical thought and language we may say: “I am going to a party today because I was invited last week, and said I would attend.” That makes sense. We cannot say: “I am going to a party today because I am going to meet an individual there who will be very important to my life five years from now.” That does not make sense in terms of logical thought or language, for in the last example cause and effect would exist simultaneously — or worse, the effect would exist before the cause.


On all other-than-normally conscious levels, however, we deal very effectively with probabilities. The cells maintain their integrity by choosing one probability above the others. The present hub of the wheel, therefore, is but one prominent present, operationally valid. Cause and effect as we think of them appear only because of the motion, the relative motion, of the wheel in our analogy.


When our eyes are on the road of time, therefore, we forget the circular motion of our being. When we dream or sleep, however, the world of cause and effect either vanishes or appears confused and chaotic. Normal night-time images are mixed and matched, so that combinations are formed quite different from those seen in the daylight. The known rules that govern the behavior of creatures and objects in dreams seem no longer to apply. Past, present, and future merge in a seemingly bizarre alliance in which, were we waking, we would lose all mental footing. The circular nature of the psyche to some extent makes its known. When we think of dreams we usually consider those aspects of it only, commenting on perhaps upon the strange activities, the odd juxtapositions and the strange character of dream life itself. Few are struck by the fact of their dream’s own order, or impressed by the ultimate restrain that allows such sometimes-spectacular events to occur in such a relatively restricted physical framework.


For example, in a dream of 20 minutes, events that would ordinarily take years can be experienced. The body ages it’s 20 minutes of time, and that is all. In dreams, experience is peripheral, in that it dips into our time and touches it, leaving ripples; but the dream events themselves exist largely out of time. Dream experience is ordered in a circular fashion. Sometimes it never touches the hub of our present moment at all, as we think of it, as far as our memory is concerned; yet the dream is, and it is registered at all other levels of our existence, including the cellular.


We always translate experience into terms we can understand. Of course the translation is real. The dream as we recall it is already a translation, then, but an experienced one. As a language that we know is, dependent upon other languages, and implied pauses and silences, so the dream that we experience and recall is also one statement of the psyche, coming into prominence; but it is also dependent upon other events that we do not recall, and that our consciousness, as it now operates, must automatically translate into its own terms.

We have been taught dreams, are imaginary events.

In larger terms it is futile to question whether or not dreams are true, for they simply are. We do consider a dream true, however, if its events later occur in fact.

In the life of psyche a dream is no more or less “true,” whether or not it is duplicated in waking life. Dream events happen in a different context — one, we might say, of the imagination. Here we experience a valid reality that exists on its own, so to speak; one in which the psyche’s own language is given greater freedom.


Some of us may try to remember our dreams, but none of us have to relate to dream reality as we must to physical life.

To some extent, however, we form physical events while we are dreaming. Then, freed from waking limitations, we process our experience, weigh it according to our own intents and purposes, correlate it with information so vast we could not be consciously aware of it. In most dreams we do not simply think of a situation. We imaginatively become part of it. It is real in every fashion except that of physical fact.


When we meet with any fact, we encounter the tail end of a certain kind of creativity. The psyche, however, is responsible for bringing facts into existence. In that reality a so-called fact is equally true or equally false. The dream that we remember is already a translation of a deeper experience.

It is cast for us so that it bridges self. Dreams serve as dramas, transferring experience from one level of the psyche to another. In certain portions of sleep, our experience reaches into areas of being so vast that the dream is used to translate it for us.


The power to dream springs from that source. Dreaming is not a passive activity. It demands a peculiar and distinctive mixture of various kinds of consciousness, and the transformation of “nonphysical perception” into symbols and codes that will be sensually understood, though not directly experienced as in waking experienced as in waking experience.

We take dreaming for granted, yet it is the result of a characteristic ability that is responsible for the very subjective feeling that we call conscious life. Without it our normal consciousness would not be possible.


A spoken language is, again, dependent upon other languages that could possibly be spoken, and thus its sounds rise into prominence and order because of the silences and pauses between them; so our waking consciousness is dependent upon what we think of as sleeping or dreaming consciousness. It rises into prominence in somewhat the same fashion, riding upon other possible versions of itself; alert only because — in our terms — of hidden pauses within its alertness.

The ability to dream presupposes the existence of experience that is not defined as physical fact. It presupposes a far greater freedom in which objects appear or are dismissed with equal ease, a subjective framework in which the individual freely expresses what he or she will in the most direct of fashions, yet without physical contact in usual terms.


The reality represents our origin, and is the natural environment in which the psyche resides. Our beliefs, cultural background, and to some extent our languages, set up barriers so that this dream dimension seems unreal to us. Even when we catch ourselves in the most vivid of dream adventures, or find ourselves traveling outside of our bodies while dreaming, we still do not give such experiences equal validity with waking ones.

Subjectively speaking, we are everywhere surrounded by our own greater reality, but we do not look in the right places. We have been taught not to trust our feelings, our dreams, or our imagination precisely because these do not often fit the accepted reality of facts.


They are the creators of facts, however. In no way do I mean to demean the intellect. It is here, however, that the tyranny of the fact world holds greatest sway. The intellect has been denied its wings. Its field of activity has been limited because we have given it only facts to go on.

Biologically, we are quite capable of dealing with dreaming and waking reality both, and of forming a far more effective synthesis in that regard. All of our creative impulses arise from that hidden dimension — the very impulses that formed our greatest cities, our technology, and the physical cement that binds our culturally organized world.


The creative impulses are behind our languages, yet often we use the languages to silence rather than free inner communication. There have always been rhythms in consciousness that are not historically obvious. At certain times some behavior has been primarily expressed in the waking state, and sometimes in the dream state. The emphasis is never static, but ever-changing. In some periods, then, the normal behavior was “more dreamlike,” while more specific developments occurred in the dream state, which was then the more clear or specified of the two. Men went to sleep to do their work, in other words, and the realm of dreams was considered more real than waking reality. Now the opposite is true.

Daily language deals with separations, divisions, and distinctions

To some extent our language organizes our feelings and emotions. The language of the psyche, however, has at its command many more symbols that can be combined in many more ways, say, than mere letters of an alphabet.


In daily language, objects have certain names. Obviously the names are not the objects, but symbols for them. Even these symbols, however, divide us as the perceiver from the rest of the world, which becomes objectified. We can ourselves understand far more about the nature of the psyche, for example, than we think we can. To do this, however, we must leave our daily language behind at least momentarily, and pay attention to our own feelings and imagination. Our language tells us that certain things are true, or facts, and that certain things are not. Many of our most vivid and moving feelings do not fit the facts of our language, so we disregard them.


These emotional experiences, however, often express the language of the psyche. It is not that an understanding of our psyche is beyond us: It is usually that we try to understand or experience it in one of the most difficult ways — Through the use of daily language.

The imagination belongs to the language of the psyche. For this reason it often gives experiences that conflict with the basic assumptions upon which daily language is based. Therefore the imagination is often considered suspect.


We might stand alone in our doorway, or in a field — or even on a street, surrounded by many people in a large city — look upward, suddenly struck by the great sweeping clouds above, and feel oneself a part of them. We might momentarily experience a great yearning or feel our own emotions suddenly filled with that same moving majesty, so that for an instant we and the sky seem to be one.

Mundane language tells us, as we think with its patterns, that our imagination is running away with us, for obviously we are one thing and the sky is another. Us and the sky do not equate — or as friend Spock would say: “It is not logical.” The feeling swiftly fades after bemusing us briefly. We might be spiritually refreshed, yet as a rule we would not consider the feeling to be a statement of any legitimate reality, or a representation of our psyche’s existence.


The emotions and the imagination, however, give us our closest contact with other portions of our own reality. They also liberate our intellect so that its powers are not limited by concepts it has been taught are true. Instead, such concepts are relatively true — operationally true. For example, the example, the physical laws that we are familiar with operate where we are. They are true, relatively speaking. In those terms we are one person physically objectified, staring upward in the scene just mentioned at an objectified sky. We weigh so many pounds, tilt our head at such-and-such an angle to peer upward at the skyscape, and physically speaking, we can be categorized.

In those terms the clouds could be physically measured, and shown to be so far above us — composed of, say, winds of a certain velocity, ready to pour down a precise amount of rain or whatever. Physically speaking then, obviously, we are separate from the clouds, and so in those terms our momentary experience of uniting with them would seem to be a lie — at least not factual, or “the product of our imagination.”


Instead, such an event is a direct expression of the psyche’s knowledge. It senses its quite legitimate identification with nature, exercises its mobility, and feel its own emotional power leap. Our emotions in such a case would be momentarily magnified — raised, say, to a higher power. There are multitudinous such examples that could be given, as in each day our psyche presents evidence of its own greater being — evidence that we are taught to overlook, or to dismiss because it is factual.

What is imaginary is not true: We are taught this as children. The imagination, however, brings us into connection with a different kind of truth, or a different framework in which experience can be legitimately perceived. The larger truths of the psyche exist in that dimension.


From it we choose physical facts. Thoughts are real. Only some thoughts turn into physical actions, of course. Despite distorted versions of that last statement, however, there is still obviously a distant difference, say, between the though of adultery and its physical expression.


We cannot treat thoughts and imagination in such a literal manner, nor in a large respect should we try to “guard our thoughts” as if they were herds of animals that we wanted to keep purely bred. Our thoughts do form our reality. If we do not fear them, however, they create their own balances. The psyche dwells in a reality so different from the world we usually recognize that there good and evil, as we think of them, are also seen to be as operationally or relatively true as the difference between the perceiver and the object perceived.

The physical world implies the existence of God

God’s existence also implies the existence of a physical world.

This statement implies the unstated, and the reverse also applies.

To deny the validity or importance of the individual is, therefore also to deny the importance or validity of God, for the two exist one within the other, and we cannot separate them.

From one end of reality we shout: “Where is God?” and from the other end the answer comes: “I am Me.” From the other end of reality, God goes shouting: “Who am I?” and finds himself in us. We are therefore a part of the source, and so is everything else manifest. Because God is, we are. Because we are, God is.

On a conscious level certainly we are not all that God is, for that is the unstated, un-manifest portion of oneself. Our being rides upon that unstated reality, as a letter of the alphabet rides upon the inner organizations that are implied by its existence. In those terms our unstated portions “reach backwards to Source called God,” as various languages can be traced back to their source. Master language can be compared to the historic gods. Each person alive is a part of the living God, supported in life by the magnificent power of nature, which is God, translated into the elements of the earth and the universe.

the language of the atoms and molecules in our own private way.

We mark the universe. We impress it, or “stamp” it, or imprint it with our own identity. Henceforth it always recognizes us as us and no other. We are known.

In larger terms, while we speak our own language, the universe also speaks “our” language as it constantly translates itself into our private perception. We live in our psyche somewhat in the same way that physically we dwell in the world.


That world has many languages. Physically we are like one country within our psyche, with a language of our own. People are always searching for master language, or for one in particular out of which all others emerged. In a way, Latin is a master language. In the same manner people search for gods, or a God, out of which all psyche emerged. Here we are searching for the implied source, the unspoken, invisible “pause,” the inner organization that gives language or the self a vehicle of expression. Language finally become archaic. Some words are entirely forgotten in one language, but spring up in altered form in another. All of the earth’s languages, however, are united because of characteristic pauses and hesitations upon which the different sounds ride.


Even the alterations of obvious pauses between languages make sense only because of an implied, unstated inner rhythm. The historic gods become equally archaic. Their differences are often obvious. When we are learning a language, great mystery seems involved. When we are learning about the nature of the psyche, an even greater aura of the unknown exists. The unknown portions of the psyche and its greater psyches out of which the self emerged — as for example Latin is a source for the Romance Languages.


Using language, we speak with our fellows. We write histories and communications. Many books are meant to be read and never to be spoken aloud. Through written language, then, communication is vastly extended. In direct contact, however, we encounter not only the spoken language of another, but we are presented with the communicator’s person as well. Spoken language is embellished with smiles, frowns, or other gestures, and these add to the meaning of the spoken word.

Often when we read a book we silently mouth the words, as if to reinforce their symbolic content with a more emotional immediacy. The language of the psyche, however, is far richer and more varied. Its “words” spring alive. Its “verbs” really move, and do not simply signify, or stand for, motion.


Its “nouns” become what they signify. Its declensions are multi-dimensional. It verbs and nouns can become interchangeable. In a way, the psyche is its own language. “At any given time,” all of its tenses are present tense. In other words, it has multitudinous tenses, all in the present, or it has multitudinous present tenses. Within it no “word” dies or becomes archaic. This language is experience. Psychically, then, we can and we cannot say that there is a source. The very fact that we question: “Is there a God, or a Source?” shows that we misunderstand the issues.


In the same manner, when we ask: “Is there a master language?” it is apparent that we do not understand what language itself is. Otherwise we would know that language is dependent upon other implied ones; and that the two, or all of them, are themselves and yet inseparable, so closely connected that it is impossible to separate them even though our focus may be upon one language alone.


So the psyche and its source, or the individual and the God, are so inseparable and interconnected that an attempt to find one apart from the other automatically confuses the issue.

The existence of one person implies the existence of all others who have lived or will live.

Our own existence is implied therefore in everyone else’s and theirs is implied in us.


Languages gain their meaning largely from the pauses and hesitations between sounds. They obviously gain their meaning also because of the sounds not used, so that any one language also implies the existence of all others. To that extent, all other languages reside silently within any given spoken language. The same applies to language written upon a page. The written characters make sense because of their arrangement, and precisely because they are chosen over other characters that do not appear. In the same kind of manner, our focused existence is dependent upon all other existences that are not us presently. We are a part of them. We ride upon their existences, though we are primarily us and no other.


The same applies, however, to every other person. Each of them becomes a primarily focus or identity within which all others are implied. In Ordinary terms, we do not “make ourselves.” We are like a living language spoken by someone who did not originate it — the language was there for us to use. The language in this case is a molecular one that speaks our physical being. The components of that language or the earth elements that form the body were already created when we were born, as the alphabet of our particular language was waiting to be used.


Our very physical life, then, implies a “source,” a life out of which the physical one emerges, — the implied, unspoken, immaterialized, unsounded vitality that supplied the ingredients for the physical, bodily, molecular “alphabet.” Our physical life therefore implies a non-physical one. We take our particular “language” so for granted, and use it so effortlessly, that we give no thought at all to the fact that it implies other languages also, or that it gains its meaning because of inner assumptions that are never spoken, or by the use of pauses in which no sounds are made. We live our lives in the same fashion.


There are many languages, though most people speak one, or two, or three at most. Languages also have accents, each somewhat different while still maintaining the original integrity of any given language. To some extent we can learn to speak oneself with an accent, so to speak, in which case, still being oneself, we allow ourselves to take on some of the attributes of another “language.”

We can read the world in a different way, while still maintaining our own identity, or we can move into a different country of oneself that speaks our native language but with a different slant. We do this to some extent or another whenever we tune in to broadcasts to which we usually pay no attention. The news is slightly foreign, while it is still interpreted through the language that we know. We are getting a translation of reality.


The psyche, always in a state of becoming, obviously has no precise boundaries. The existence of one, implies the existence of all, and so any one given psyche comes into prominence also because of the existence of the others upon which its reality rides. One television station exists in the same manner, for if one could not be tuned into, theoretically speaking, none could.

These inner communications, reach outward in all directions. Each identity has eternal validity within the psyche’s greater reality. At one level, any person contacting his or her own psyche can theoretically contact any other psyche. Life implies death, and death implies life — that is, in the terms of our world. In those terms life is a spoken element, while death is the unspoken but still-present element “beneath,” upon which life rides. Both are equally present.


To obtain knowledge consciously other than usually available, we pay attention to the pauses, to the implied elements in language, to any felt or sensed quality upon which the recognizable experiences of life reside. There are all kind of information available to us, but it must be perceived through our own focus or identity.


All events occur at once — a difficult statement to understand. All identities occur at once also. Each event changes every other. Present ones alter past ones. Any one event implies the existence of probable events which do not “emerge,” which are not “spoken.” Physical world events therefore rest upon the existence of implied probable events. Different languages use sounds in their own peculiar manners, with their own rhythms, one emphasizing what another ignores. Other probabilities, therefore, emphasize events that are only implied in our reality, so that our physical events become the implied probable ones upon which other worlds reside.