Captor 112: The Cost Of Knowing (Part 1)

Decoded from Captor 112, retrieved by special agents at the peak of Mount Carstensz, Indonesia, some 16023 ft above sea level.

Mission title: undisclosed.

Date retrieved: unavailable.

Editor’s notes:
Captor's report entitled “The Cost of Knowing" (rough translation) – coherent account of supernatural encounter with creatures regarded to be “angels” or “cherubim”, detailing the first fall of the being known as “Lucifer”, supposedly one of their kind. We have decoded references to “omniscient” theory, and sketchy details of interactions among beings of supernatural origin. Spatial-temporal detail is uncertain, but the captured events are believed to have unfolded within the timescale just prior, and subsequent to, discernible emergence of man on earth. Notably, 112 bears physical evidence of struggle; splinter-scarred lens, indented dorsal arch and notches made by the forcible excavation of medronian cells, believed to have been the Captor’s primary power source. Further investigation is required to effectively distinguish afflictions arising naturally through impact to earth, and that which may entail a more malicious causality. This report is the first of a two-part transmission, highlighting the complexities of knowledge; its naissance and nature at the level of eternal trapping.

Message decoded as follows:

Summoned from the weightless oblivion of the Haulting Room, I first met the Architect midway though construct of all that would be – “creation”, as he called it. Elated I was; over 200 of my kind were born, all prisoner to dark...to innocence...all waiting to know. I was fortunate to be among the first called to witness, in all splendour, the great project of a heaven and earth to be, and becoming. All that I was meant to be, would now be...for I was made to witness, to capture, to know. But angels have I grudged, for they, at the moment of birth, do boast an omniscient power possessed by no other but the Architect himself.

“Come”, said the Architect, beckoning me forward. Medronians powered, I drew close to his side, as he walked me through a tunnel of churning debris, with magnificent bursts of matter that surged and danced to crepitations, and majestic arches of light bridging either end. Our footpath was forged of nebulas, glossed over by remains of constellar chaos; a powdered footspread of fluid consistency. Noxious nectars imbued the atmosphere with almost an intolerable scorch, but soon wavered to softer fragrances finding a niche among the fog of becoming. In all sensation, might appeared to meld with meek. Consumption’s chaos incessantly spread the foundation of fresh birth; the Architect appeared to be forging what became by collapsing and erecting ideas of his own, and neither thought nor action were discernibly autonomous.

Raptured in awe of all that was becoming, I was oblivious of whence the Architect had left my side. Startled by the sudden of my solitude, I warily drifted along the tunnel’s path, and was amazed to have found that in a flash moment of coming to know solitude (not knowing the tunnel), the chaotic mass appeared to have stabilized. “Security”, I thought, for the first time knowing what it meant to have “rest”, and so sharing it with all of creation, now complete, yet ever completing itself in groans and grunts of a lesser, but lasting chaos.

I could sense in my path a nearing of the tunnel’s end. Medronians full throttle, I willed myself forward, but strangely found that I could move no faster than that which I had been travelling all along, on minimal effort. An invisible force seemed to thwart my ability to move beyond. I considered, for a moment, awaiting the Architect’s return, but the curious compelled me. “I must know the tunnel’s end!”, I thought. For hours...days perhaps...I wrestled (or so I thought), till the force gave in. As though a game of forces were at play, a second force appeared to seize my volition, jolting me forward at velocities beyond my imagining.

Just then, a remarkable sense of fortitude began to surge within me. The tunneling of knowledge began to fan-out as though heralding the head of a celestial funnel. My perspective seemed to broadened with the apparent expansion of space; knowledge, in itself, was being stretched and folded upon itself, then spread like a fabric across all space and time. It (Knowledge) then proceeded to name itself; “The Heilith of Cherubim”, said he, as though bequeathing a response to a question yet to be; my question to be. I, however, recall no query of such. But knowledge appeared to be stealing my thoughts, almost as quickly as he filled them with the vast of himself. He seemed to swallow me against my will, yet invited me, somehow, to be swallowed. I had accepted, it seems, though uncertain of how, or why.

The torsion of forces appeared to have ended. So engrossed in the banquet of knowledge was I, that the Helith had swallowed me entirely, abruptly revealing its colossal, intricate interior. Instantly, somehow, I knew that this was an eternal birthing ground; a capsule of some sort, apparently space-bound, where angels are born into the knowledge of all things. These (the angels) were hundreds of thousands by number. Though each was born a true, wholesome and distinctive entity, they all appeared to be a function of the space into which they were born; that is, the matrix of knowledge. This matrix webbed and wove itself through, and to, the fabric of the chamber. Should either angel or fabric cease to exist, so would the other. I have pondered the very fact of my knowing this, and have inferred that at the moment of my knowing, I was part of the fabric myself.

Captor 225: The Birth of An Eternum

Decoded from Captor 225, retrieved at the base of the Dead Sea by special agents. Mission title: undisclosed. Date retrieved: unavailable. Captor's report on "Birth of an Eternum" - suspected account of celestial witness to the origin of "Eternal Stream" phenomena. References to birth, death and resurrection of Christ have been docoded.
Message (decoded) as follows:

Picture a small, incandescent bead threading a course through an ocean of space. As it proceeds, it leaves in its wake a solid white line upon which is etched an indelible memory of its passing. This bead; unwavering slug of metal, bore the name of "Time". The solid white path on Time's tail was called "History". The two were seldom on speaking terms. Time would press forward on relentless path to nowhere, with History, lone, silenced and subdued, dragged along as naught but an effect of Time’s happening. Lead and follow were the order of the day; a clear distinction between head and tail, master and slave, dictator and drone.

I, the Captor of all things done, doing and yet to be, stood from afar observing the couple; for aeons I peered, with meticulous eye, with wondrous gaze. Onto He who had set them, breath and motion, The Architect of all that be, I quested: “Are Time and Tail never to find their parity? Alien to each other, an abyss lies between them. Time, I have found, kills everything he meets, and behind him sputters the corpse of his victims, of which, paradox of all, is born History, his son. History it seems, in the eyes of time, is a son of incorrigible nature; the insalvable sinner left behind to his death. Great Master of all, I would be honoured to behold, of Time, the unveiling of your will.”

The Master smiled. In pensive poise, he leaned over to His Son, and gesturing gently, whispered to His mind in words and whistles beyond my reckoning. The Son, awestruck by His Father’s plan, made visible His steadfast nod of approval. Intently I watched as He rose in ardour; a child-like manner to his mettle, as he made off on path towards Time itself. My interest piqued, I gestured to The Architect, who drew close to my shoulder saying “Look carefully. What is about to unfold will be witnessed only once.” I took the ledge as a vantage point, shifting in search of squared view and steady gaze.

Then I saw Time, cycling through mounds of matter, building and tumbling things…all that is born, that be, that exists. Upon his arch he erected monuments…mountains and mastodons, megaforms of all sorts, living and non-living. From arch to underbelly they shifted at the mercy of Time, thinking to himself; “This too…shall die.” He maintained, in cyclic fervor, the delicate balance of life and death. At once, he gave mothers to men, then men to mothers, then both unto earth, then earth unto blossoms, and back. For “this too…shall die.” Kings mounted thrones and stern structures of governing men. Clerics forged temple towers, teachers built academies, and thinkers…ideologies, mindscapes and metaphors. “This too…” thought Time, “this too shall die.”

Then came the Master’s Son, as all things wrought of Time…a creature of flesh and blood, of human heart. And Time, as all others, had raised him from the helpless of creep and coos to stature befitting a man of wisdom. Then came the appointed moment, when Time, by custom, would level him to nothing. “And this too…”, thought Time, “this too…shall pass,” said the Son, fulfilling the words of Time itself. Freighting death, Time unleashed upon the Son’s flesh every ruinous force imaginable. Scourged at the Pillar, his skull pierced of thorns, Time saddled upon him the burden of all History. Anguished and bleeding, the Son fell thrice; stripped of all strength as Time pressed further.

“You are finished!” declared Time. “It is finished”, the Son returned. But Time was unaware that the “it” being spoken of, was actually Time and the effect of its happening: ruin, defeat, death, corruptibility and hopelessness. Mustering all that was left of his strength, the Son stood erect, and with the gentlest motion of love, outstretched his arms on either side as a human cross. Exhaling his last, he surrendered to death, allowing himself to be dragged and crushed under the weight of Time. For three days, Time sat firmly upon the Son’s corpse, wrestling with sinews and bone that somehow, miraculously, refused decay. Time had unknowingly met its match, and beyond its match…conqueror. On the third day I witnessed what no human eyes have beheld. Have you ever seen, in the realm of nuclear science, the moment of a neutron’s collision with an isotope? There it was, in blinding burst of light, that the Son split the bead of Time in two, and from the fissure that became, appeared to rise above a tomb.

“Impossible!” said Time, disgraced and defeated. “Possible!”, said the Son, now the master of Time. Commanding the twins, he said onto the first: “Run forth. Take my blood with you, and never stop running. To Eternum, let the future know that I Am.” Having declared this, he turned to the second, saying: “Go back. Back to your beginning of memory. To Genesis…to first light, reconcile History. Renew him, you son, with the life of my blood. Wash over his blunders, heal his wounds, correct his error, refute his falsehoods. Then, he shall know worth, for salvation has come. The Eternum is born. Love conquers time.”

From thence, the twins born of Time’s great fission set a course at the poles that became of either outstretched arm. History and time were born afresh, coequal with all that ever shall be. And whenever the twins grew wistful of Time, they would look back to the place where they began, to see not each other, but the Son their Master, whose outstretched arms are love; a love that is, and is an Eternum.

Crossing The Moment

Now in a personal sense, how do you, live with death? I’m not necessarily speaking of “the final act”; that is, complete cessation of all processes vital to physical life. That is, of course (in my view) simply the climax of the grand theatrical manoeuvre that is “life”; an element that lies in mutual bond with the common thread of all scenes, acts, intermissions and all fanfare otherwise. This final act is, I believe, death in event. But that’s not in question here. What I’m asking is this: how do you, or how do I...how do we, in fact, learn to cope with the everyday, fundamental routine of crossing...well...the moment you just did? *chuckles*. I’m serious...how do we do it?

Death...and everything is death in process, if not death in event. And everything, therefore, is on a grand pilgrimage toward that final act of death. Life ...what is life then, if not the process of death? So back to my question: how do you cope with the crossing, or passing, of each moment of life, or each moment in procession towards death? Clear? No. So let’s refine that.

How do you cope with the reality of living death? Of dying...now? Of constantly surrendering each moment to history...to the past...against your will? For that is, in process, the very essence of dying, and being dead. You can’t change the fact that after 60 seconds of 11:59pm, shall emerge 12:00am...and tomorrow. Well, today actually. For today has died within in the arms of tomorrow...his corpse, is yesterday. You can’t change that. And so with 11:59 of yesterday, you too, have expired. You died. There is nought of you but a remnant memory, at 12. And all that exists at 12, is the you of 12. You can’t change that.

And yet, it seems, there isn’t much ado about this everyday, momentuous matter of dying. Well the trauma isn’t obvious, at least. Perhaps until we first come to reckon that obvious signal of the flesh having endured its time - the sparse greying of scalp; the wrinkle; the crouching gait; the memory gaps, a visit by Arthur; and hope, ever growing, in design of the wheelchair. Otherwise, it would seem, we casually...passively almost...cross over each moment. Perhaps we do, subconsciously, acknowledge that we simply cannot grow, and advance ourselves, unless we let go of the now of our existence. Or...i don’t know; perhaps there was a time when we all were in fact aware (consciously) that every passing moment was death. And perhaps, there was a time when that prospect of death, absolutely terrified us. But apart from those afflicted by some pathological aspect of anxiety, or depression, the reality of dying here, now, and then with each moment in passage...is to most human beings not nearly worth a second’s thought! We’re completely fine with, and generally oblivious of, the dying of now.

And that is, essentially, the most painless approach to the problem of the final act. When we fail to acknowledge death, the event, as a mutual moment in threadlink of the whole theatrical encounter, we give space to anxiety, and doubt, and mistrust...fear of death. And a mortified outlook of that sort is most prominent when life is taken in segments; compartmemts; diced and sliced in every attempt to impose order and steadform to a journey we know so little about. Of life, too often, we calculate, dissect and simplify. And so, to the degree that we are no longer able to appreciate, or understand, how the final act is connected to it all. And this, really, is the problem. *chuckles*. If we acknowledge, simply, that to die is to cross the moment of now, and that the last act is no stranger to the script of now, then we understand that life, is death. How about that? We can rest, now. :)

Death...and everything is death in process, if not death in event.

"For goodness sake" - How cents fell to earth

I had what appeared to be one of those “watch and learn” demos set before me by God yesterday. I was seated in a taxi and ready to be on my way home when, looking out the right window, I observed a rather ironic interaction between two homeless men. One man was walking with his eyes foraging the ground for 1 cent, 5 cent, 10 cent and 25 cent pieces commonly left lying there in the bustling traffic of passer bys. As he searched, picked at the ground, and searched again he proceeded obliviously towards the other homeless man, who all the while had been sitting at the corner observing him carefully. As the first guy seized what appeared to be the last coin along that stretch of pavement, he resumed upright posture and proceeded to walk past the guy sitting at the corner. It was then that I observed the sitting guy calling the attention of the one who’d been picking the coins, and was amazed when he pointed to a spot on the ground behind him – lying there was a bronze 5 cent piece, so cleverly blended with the colour of the ground you’d probably need to kick it to know it was there. “Look, yuh forget one...” said the sitting guy to the other. The taxi pulled off at that point, and I couldn’t hear what the coin-fetcher had said in reply. But by the cheer expression of pleasant surprise as he clutched his head between his hands, I knew it was gratitude. The sitting guy gave a gentle nod, with a smile.

The selflessness of the act amazed me. What is a 5 cent piece to any of us, that, should it fall to earth (on a busy, not-so-clean-looking pavement) we would hastily go back to retrieve it? Yet the homeless man at the corner must have realized how precious a mere “5 cents” had been in the eyes of the cent-seeker, having seen, all along, his meticulous eye for the fallen coin. Three observations have led me to conclude that the sitting man did not seek self-interest:

1. Had he needed the coin, he could have easily waited till the first guy had walked a bit past before snatching the lone coin himself. He did not act in this manner.

2. Had he not needed the coin, he was at no obligation to care that the man had forgotten one coin. He could easily have let it slip. Yet, he chose to alert the coin-seeker of the treasure piece he had missed.

3. He couldn’t have done it for the sake of self-gratification, nor for any form of public acknowledgement. Mot vagrants are generally ghosts of the social sphere.

An act as simple as responding to the recognition of needs, goals or passions of another human by aiding their steps toward achieving and fulfilling such without desire of personal praise or self-gratified motive. Such an act embodies, in its purest form, the truth of what it means to be “your brother’s keeper”. I long for the day when, like the man at the corner, we shall all become guardians of each other’s needs, dreams and aspirations, simply because we can. Thank God for great lessons, taught through the least of men.

Efficiency vs The Human Presence: A Case for the Pen-pal

My perspective in summary: the boosted efficiency of verbal communication has dawned at the expense of the true and full substance of the human presence.

Irony = me typing this.

(1) Background – forest and folklore

So before I delve into the meat of my theory, I wish to begin with the charm of Irish folklore as referenced two notes prior – the “So...ummm...how do you feel about rainbows?” episode. We heard a bit about the Irish legend of faeries and leprechauns, deep magic and mysteries of the Irish woodlands. We’ve also heard (even used) the expression “knock on wood” or “touch wood”. Well, surprisingly (or not), that familiar adage is also Irish in origin! So I hear you saying “gosh Brandon, you’re obsessed with the Irish!” Correct, and I beg that you bear with a few more lines of Irish myth meld with my own intuition, which, in essence, sets the foundation for my claim. You see, trees and their wood have been associated with “good spirits” in Irish mythology, and even with the sanctity of the wooden cross. Long ago, it was typically considered good luck to tap trees to let the residing wood spirits know of your presence. Tradition of this sort still persists in Ireland today, and in a less (consciously) mythical sense, globally perhaps; with “knock on wood” being used by those who tap their knuckles on a wooden object with the hope of staving off bad luck. So thus far, we gather the following: (1) that wood, in general, is connected with “positive energies”, and (2) that the wood of a tree is believed, in myth, to act as a receptacle of ethereal presence.

(2) El papel – the “Contact” theory

Much of today’s paper fibre is, at the core, the fibre obtained from pulpwood logs and the “waste” remnants of logging and sawmill operations that can’t be made into lumber. Now here’s where things get a bit less factual, but never-the-less, practical. Based on the psychospiritual esteem typically offered to woodlands, trees, and wood at the ground level, I believe that trees (wood) do display an affinity for “life energies”. Herein lies the heart of my “contact” theory. From trees, we have paper, from paper we have scribes, and from scribes we have letters/messages/notes, and by these, we communicate. Since the core/base substance of paper is wood, I believe that paper retains its ability to act as an extractor and receptacle of a range of life energies. Paper is not merely a template to be written on, but a vessel that captures and transports, between communicants, the energy behind the inscription as much as the actual inscription itself. The unspoken relevance of “knock on wood” gives emphasis to the power of touch – of contact, in that we kindle within wood the latent “positive energies” through physical touch. In turn, we are able to impart, in a very personal sense, our life energies by conscious, purposive, and “intimate” contact with paper, which acts as a modified “blank” of the natural wooden vessel (the tree). The handwritten letter/note, then, is (theoretically) a phenomenal medium of human transport. In penning a letter to a friend or loved one, we engage, by pressing hand/fingers/pen to paper, not only our deepest thought and emotions, but the fullness of our human substance. Hand-paper synergy permits a transcription of the whole human, as energy (which is what we are, essentially) into the fibre of the page. We may think of a blank page, then, as a transport vessel waiting to be filled; with our words, yes...but also with he who has crafted the word itself – the whole being of the author. Then he who receives the vessel encounters not only the word, but the author himself, and furthermore experiences the word as though avidly spoken by the author leaning close and whispering to his mind. So what am I saying? That the paperbound, handwritten letter is a highly effective transporter of the human substance.

(3) Efficiency – the fall of human contact

Anywhere, any place, instantly! A tag line we might use to describe what the digital media of today permits of human verbal communication. But before text had began travelling the invisible of cyberspace – screen to screen, point A – B in seconds, came the marvel of the printing press, which, if not the tangibility of text, had at least valued the timeless twinge of paper cuts, still. It was only a matter of time between typewriter and the HP® Deskjet printer, between which we inserted computers and between that, still, Microsoft® Windows®, Office and Word. Nonetheless, block-printing and typewriters were our closest encounter with natural hand-paper synergy, since our discovery that penmanship was a painful way of talking with the hand since we desired to become more standardized and efficient in developing our text. What is ironic is the fact that I have “cancelled” a selection of text via the strikethrough function of Word. Why and how would such a function prove relevant when “backspace” or “delete” functions are permissible in soft text? And what is “font” if not the programmed humanization of soft text itself? There remains, however, an element of the natural, personal, tangibly artistic quality of penmanship that soft text simply does not impart. The immediate effect of the printing press was to multiply the output and cut the cost of books. It was, undeniably, an ingenious invention that offered the merits of convenience and efficiency! But as inked blocks of wood became a surrogate for fingers, following with key-tops of typewriters to keyboards of PCs and laptops, our pages had slipped from the snug of our palms, to paper feeds spitting through the monotone of keystrokes, to white reams in bellies of metallic print machines. A subtle yet profound transition had occurred – our hand-paper synergy was broken. We had lost that mutual bond with paper, with trees, with nature and the natural of human verbal contact itself. To a large extent, the energy of human substance is lost between block-print and paper, more so with the typewriter, more still in conversion of soft text to print, and near absent in the full soft of cyberspace. The outcome, most often, is one of superficial volubility – the text with enclosed message, a product of the human, but lacking the soul substance of the human being. The author of today, therefore, unaided both by the passive and conscious transfer of the whole human, once afforded through hand-paper synergy, must wrestle with words in the hope of capturing himself in the sole substance of text. This be “mission impossible” of the web-based author, who lacks entirely the contact and carrier factors of the tangible page. He can neither embrace, nor share, the mortality of the tree – a reminder of ourselves. He cannot stir the heartwrench of knowing temporality, of pages now creased and dog-eared, yellowed of age and growing frail to the touch. The mentality of “keep-behind-glass”, in the fear of loss to clumsiness of fingers, or of the terror in thought of tearing the human you held between palms, encountered on that page, experienced by reading. The mortality of the handwritten note, then, paradoxically renders it immortal by merit of unfailing desire, awakened from the heart, to treasure the wholeness of the human it permits us to experience. But when it takes a few seconds to compose, deliver and respond to an SMS, BBM or E-mail, the timeless of cyberspace degrades to mortality; insomuch as the human form degrades into keystrokes and loose letters, dying as quickly as his words are given birth. He does not travel.

Scream at the sky

A friend of mine shared a hearty joke with me about two weeks ago. She was at a table engaging in casual discussion with friends when out of the blue, red, orange, yellow, green and violet, someone stood up and blurted “I hate rainbows dred!!!” Response >> O_o

On this peculiar phenomenon, several friends offered their comments. Each attempted to rationalize the viewpoint of the speaker, proposing reasons as to why in the sky he would possibly grudge a rainbow. Here is my response to each:

Comment # 1: “Maybe the rainbow started it.”

Someone once said that a rainbow is the only thing that looks happy with a frown. Is this a paradox in full effect, or are we looking at the rainbow upside down? In fact, dilemmas like these, let alone, are enough to drive people crazy about anything. Look at the frowning face of a clown and what do you think? “Happy-sad”? “Sad-happy”? Or “he’s just clowning around”? Interestingly, we laugh at clowns not because they’re inherently funny, but rather because of the sheer acts of folly by which they’re marked. But one usually bears only that much folly before all mask of jest is uncovered, with nought but bare nuisance being fully exposed. We’ve all heard the irony of children physically abusing clowns after what seemed a fit of innocent laughter. In literature, folly is often met with much abuse; Wisdom being the hero here. If someone thinks of a rainbow as a downcurl of lips on a background of otherwise invisible clown facies; a mask of colour concealing but the folly of another of nature’s “happy tricks”, it’s easy to understand the open, spontaneous and adamant expression of utter abhorrence – “I hate rainbows dred!!!”. So yes, maybe the rainbow in all jest, fakery and folly did start it after all.

Comment # 2: “I thought it was dark and cynical.”

The rainbow, that is, when you first saw it right? How old were you? Like 5? Kids usually respond in cheerful awe to bright colours at that age. Then again, what you perceive and how you respond to a given colour/colour combination is largely determined by past experience, what you’ve been taught and subliminal bias engendered through culture. However, it is well recognized that some colour effects do confer a universal, psychophysical reaction. The sight of grey skies will most often trigger the “dampening” of mood, dispiriting reactions and the “hibernate” function. Bright sunshine with clear skies, by contrast, motivates, energizes and fosters a “lightening” of spirit. Now what of a rainbow stretched across a grey skyline? How you interpret what you see depends on the lens with which you bring that colour palette into focus. Is it the lens of your culture? Of a personal encounter with these colours? Of another man’s philosophy of colour? Or maybe that radical and random exuberance of colour has startled you a bit. Enough perhaps into thinking there’s gotta be something sinister shrouded behind the weight of that shine (like dentures and glistening white smiles). Conspiracies are born that way, aren’t they? Maybe the rainbow really is too good to be true. Or maybe you’re just in denial of the truth.

Comment # 3: “Maybe he’s homophobic.”

Or...chromophobic! (afraid of bright colours). We tend to fear what we least understand, and that fear itself tends to breed hatred. Maybe the verbal expression of hatred is actually based in the bare reality of the frustration he feels at being powerless to face that fear. He may furthermore fear the fact that he does not understand exactly why he’s afraid first of all! From another angle, he could be coulrophobic (afraid of clowns), perhaps due to some misadventure with an idiot in a clown outfit or similar attire (even a make-believe Santa could have been a culprit) in tender years of youth. His subsequent visual contact with any such outburst of colour, then, is likely to elicit an alerting reaction of fear twinned with reflex anger. I do acknowledge, however, that I cannot simply dismiss your train of thought. Could he be homophobic? Yes! The modern version of the “rainbow” flag, a symbol of gay pride, consists of six uniquely coloured stripes, namely (upper to lower boarder) red, mustard orange, yellow, green, indigo and violet. Red stands for “life”, orange for “healing”, yellow for “sun”, green for “serenity with nature”, indigo for “harmony” and violet for “spirit”. I shall now pause for a moment as you ponder these colours and their symbolism.
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And as I thought you would, you do agreed that the flag mentioned above indeed represents, in holistic view of all subset symbolisms, a core of human values, ideas and ideals that are much embraced universally. I’m certain that on one level or another we can all identify with these. Symbolically, then, this ought to be a theme flag of humanity – not merely gay folk. The flag stands out, nevertheless, due to its unique and conspicuous display, and functions largely as a marker for many “gay safe” or “gay friendly” establishments. The most obvious reference to the rainbow, of course, is a play on the multicultural symbolism of that coloured arch, which appears virtually everywhere in the populated world – as do homosexuals. Most non-gays have no difficulty in identifying the flag wherever it presents, but many are unaware of the fact that, symbolically, it openly embraces core elements of nature and humanity as a whole. To despise the flag, then, based solely on the identity it represents, without considering its intended symbolism is *insert cliché about baby and bath water here*. Of course, there is likely some sense of bias in that portrayal of values being etched onto a “gay flag”, as in the notion that the gay population more supremely embodies such values. Even so, the general context of symbolism can still hold. Punto final – he may be chromophobic, homophobic, or simply a hater of humanity.

Comment # 4: “Leprechauns hiding their gold.”

In a mystical sense, rainbows do beckon us onto themselves, challenging us in all ways to reach toward and beyond that arch. Of course, we never get there – that somewhere under or over the rainbow, nor can we actually grasp either end where apparently...leprechauns hide their gold. I’ve been told that leprechauns are masters of delusion – smart, devious little creatures that will do just about anything to elude your grasp. Capture one and you could be the luckiest creature alive...or unluckiest. Could swing both ways. A familiar adage – “all that glitters is not gold.” Could be silver, as someone said; even a mirage. According to Irish legend, every leprechaun has a pot of gold entrusted to them, hidden deep in the Irish countryside (today commonly understood as the poles of a rainbow). To protect that pot of gold, the Irish fairies gave them magical powers to use if ever captured by a human or an animal. Escape tactics may include the granting of 3 wishes to their captor in exchange for freedom – could go terribly wrong if the wrong decisions are made, or simply vanishing into thin air (which I suspect would be more likely). Either way, that “gold” is rather elusive. So approaching the rainbow with a stark objective of “getting that gold” is likely to breed displeasure, regret and resentment. Why not approach with a mind that’s open to all possibility of growth as opposed to instant gain? We can reach for that rainbow, still, knowing we may never make contact, but that with each step closer we pull ourselves toward and even beyond new horizons. Ask a retired gold-digger how he/she feels about leprechauns and rainbows, having lived in quest of that elusive pot of gold. If your ultimate goal is gold, you’ll come to hate the rainbow, eventually.

Comment # 5 (my comment): “He’s probably colour blind.”

Thought it might be a sort of “fox and grapes” mentality in the making, you know...grudge the beauty of that which you aren’t privileged enough to behold. But after reading the other comments, i'm less convinced that one viewpoint holds. Could be a combination of the five...who knows? Only the guy who blurted "I hate rainbows dred!". We should ask him why.

Downsprout

Whensoever you plant a spiritual seed, you sow from eternity – on heavenly soil. From there, it sprouts and grows downward – to earth. We often think of our sowing as earthen, and sprouting as spirit-bound. We often believe in rooting ourselves in time and sending our shoots heavenward, shuttling our fruits as rockets searching for God’s catch. Rather, from earth we plant in heaven, where seed belongs, and again shoot towards earth, where fruit has purpose – to nourish our being as we earth-walk a life journey, and to sate the world temporally till time itself expires. For indeed, we are seeds of eternal soil, planted here through womb and sprout by labour, leaning birthward on quest to return to heaven. Our seeds are not of this soil, yet our fruit must nourish it. To this, our harvest is well that of scouring fruit from bellies of branches inverted like brollies, where stalk pierces cloud for anchorage of roots not time-bound. When you go home, you go home to your seeds, and to find them at altitudes beyond...way beyond...a six-foot journey