Thursday, 04 October 2012 22:04

The Trauma of Love

Love is the essential trauma. Love arises as a rupture of reality, destabilizing all that had been known. The secret formula understood by the great tantra masters is the mixture of love, desire, self-restraint and recognition (discernment, or viveka, leading to withdrawal of projections). This is the recipe for an atmic bomb. The atman is what makes us tick. The time bomb ticks with the talk of love, the God that is love.

God has always only been a word for the explosion of brutally beatific consciousness that annihilates the ego. The trigger for this explosion is love. But the explosion is also ignited by the ineluctable awareness of synchronicity and the unsurpassable intelligence sublating the universe, seeing full-on the inauthenticity of the ego and all its projects, propelling the well-deserved self-shattering of its world through internal schisms and disowned betrayals. But God is also bliss, joy everlasting and overflowing. Is joy, too, a trauma?

As any psychotherapist can testify, the ego holds onto its refusal of joy at all costs. It will fight for its irrational justifications for anger and hatred to the death. Because joy spells the death of the ego, and the freedom from its prison, through the bending of the bars of representation that open a space for transcendent Mind, that is terrifying to the consciousness disunited from its Source. For such a weak false consciousness—yet one that shields itself with the defiance that comes from identification with its superego demands—the refusal of the shattering approach of God warrants cutting off all channels of joyous awareness of the Supreme Real.

God’s laughter is always echoing from just beyond the event horizon of the ego. The laughter cuts both ways, revealing the ego’s world as a spectral effluence of light projecting through the filters of the unconscious and superconscious imagoes our demonic yet divine dreamfield matrix. The light of God, even when reduced to a single ray by the ego’s negativity, shines its spotlight intensely upon the ego as usurious usurper of the kingdom of the One. Its conscience burns, traumatized by the sweet supernal light. The ego cannot face God and live. Its writhing rejection of Being, Intelligence, and Bliss will lead the ego down the road to hell, to the karmic destination that can be evaded but cannot finally be avoided in its template of time. The Atman will, in the end, obliterate the ego mind, hollowing out the person, leaving only Emptiness. The Shunya Purusha shall arise from the dust of egoic vanity.

But what has love got to do with it?

Love in the context of the spiritual search-cum-evasion leads to the opening of the heart, and both desire and love arise already entwined with the imaginary, the golden braid of maya. Truthfulness emerges as a constituent of love, and it is this urge to know, part of the upper death drive, that leads always to the unforeseen vaporization of the ego, in much the same way as micro-nuclear explosions vaporized the core of the twin towers. Desire plays the role of the planted charges of nano-thermite, melting the outer casing of the conscious discourse in its orbit around the strange attractor of its primal imago; and recognition acts as a directed energy beam (the eye of Shiva) that dissolves the inner phantasies, the imaginary structure of the ego’s identifications. The grimly gorgeous phallic braid of maya suddenly turns to dust in one’s mouth. It is a dust one has tasted since the dawn of time.

The explosive power of love subtends the entire universe, which itself begins as an explosion. Love gives birth, and birth is a rupture, a separation, a death. There is no love without mourning, no morning without the death of the night before. The light destroys the darkness, and love kills oneness as much as it yearns for its return. Love kills an imaginary oneness in order to cling to one that seems more stable, more powerful, more fulfilling, but that illusion is also always already half-crushed in its inception. Love in the matrix of duality, being partial and conditional, is always simultaneously rejection of love. And love that has an object always comes with an objection. The subject of love is forever subjected to its own uncertainty, ambivalence, tormented by its failure to fully open to its own desire.

The inherent murder of the mother in the newborn’s cry of life is accompanied forever with the psychic echoes of guilt for one’s existence. The Freudian charade of Oedipus is only a cover-up, a phallic facade for the nakedness of the longing for the womb. Is it not an act of recompense as much as vengeance when two lovers come together? Is not the hole that is being filled always the one within the heart? We are not built to bear the pain of our impossibility, and at some point, when the monstrous knowledge of our failure to BE faces us with the mountain of shame that we had carried on our back as if it were the world, and the last straw drops heavily upon the straw man, Atlas at last collapses, alas, into a pile of hollow straw that is good for nothing but to be immolated on the ever-waiting sacrificial pyre. We were only begat for the burning ghat, God’s gift to turn us into That.

What has Love’s Ghat to do with it?

Love is always a burning fire. The fire of hate is not different. The fire is our fate. Love strikes like an unseen rocket. Do we not want to know what kind of missile struck the pentagon? But can we get past desire’s disinformation? Our castrated star has been sliced by the vajra that leaves only an empty mirror for our gaze, a mirror that will not reflect us back into the Self. The satanic pentagram of the sensual manifold is forever in flames, and though it turns from good to evil, from bliss to anguish, from exaltation to degradation, our famished filaments can only feed upon the beauty that Baphomet fills with demonic drive, devouring what we adore and leaving it behind as excrement or vomit, defiling our lives with the implosion that the devil falsely blames on God.

What’s Love’s God to do with it?

The ego makes a mockery of the majesty of love, the mystery of infinite beauty that is no object, but the Self-luminous awareness pervading and permutating into all the kundalini’s kaleidoscopic forms that capture our hearts and hold us captivated until the moment of the killing, the slaughter that we sought in Kali’s conjugal embrace. Love is none other than the counterpart of Death, the sweet foreplay the replay of denied desire for immediate immolation by the eye of Shiva. Love and Death are the twin emanations of God that reunite at the stroke of midnight that stops, and restarts, the cartwheel of the heart-wheel of Cosmic Time.

Consciousness is either with God or with the ego. Both are terrorists, the real suicide bombers of Sodom and Gomorrah. The choice is between one death drive and another. The empire of the ego is its own false flag operation. The ego operates secretly behind its own scenes, in a scorched earth policy of massive self-destruction to be blamed upon the Other. All this occurs in the name of the God of love. Yet it is God Who is the target. Love justifies the darkest evil, 911 raised to the power of infinity, razed to the ground of our Being. Love makes possible the garroting of Gaia, the conflagration of thermonuclear apocalypse, all included (except the batteries) in a complete package of crypto-religious imagery entraining the collective ego to accept and even to promote its self-administered demise.

What love’s got a due date on it?

The ultimate love emerges as a phoenix from the ashes of a world soaked in the kerosene jet fuel of the joy of hatred. Hatelove has hastened the carousel of carousing corpses on their ride to hell, making care obscene, and the spectacle of what can be seen a pornographic penetration of the innocent offering of the body of love.

Only love that has no form can now assume its true position, ascend to the throne of God and set fire to the world of lies, objectification, and the materialist dwarfism of the spirit. Now the vast love that is the unchained power of the Almighty is at large upon the land, the angel of Death bringing traumatic blessings of redemption to those trapped in the curse of unconquerable cupidity, finally pried loose from their priapic concupiscence that would give warhead to the hungry mouths crying out to heaven.

There is an endpoint to this tragicomedy, a due date marked by climate change and deadlock in the realpolitik of gunship diplomacy that must never back down, even in the face of mutually assured destruction. Missile shield pipe dreams and cakewalk martial music urge on the dogs of war to their dogmatic destiny of original incineration. The date of our self-inciting doom is very soon. Let us prey.

What love, God, will do away with this?

The predatory ego that fouls its own nest and salivates at the approach of every customer of its cannibalism also secretly seeks salvation from the angst and disgust of its own futile self-recognition. Only the love that cannot name its God, that cannot stop its egocidal rupture, that must not allow itself to fall further into the inferno, only the love that is God’s presence manifesting as surrender can depotentiate the ego’s dive into planetary obliteration, and change the trajectory to one of ascension to the Mother Light. Only the emptiness, the infinite zero, the Shunya that is the fully awakened Purusha, the Absolute, can utter the laughter that breaks the spell of narcissism and nudges us all into Nirvana.

This is the holy trauma of love.

What’s God’s love? Intuit it.

Namaste,

Shunyamurti
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