Category Archives: UNIVERSES

Universes are comprised of thoughts, ideas, dreams, illusions, delusions, which may also include stars, space, time, energy and objects. Or not. These are the universes of the author Lawrence R. Spencer, and others for whom he has an affinity.

HEAVEN IS BORING

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“The Eternal threat of Boredom remains when one abdicates recognition of oneself as the Source of Boredom.

When we carefully examine every instant of our personal existence we  discover that we created it, agreed with it and willingly participated with others to cause it to continue to exist.

Why? Boredom. Nothingness.  Our individual and collective unwillingness to admit that we are actively creating everything that we perceive.

Yet, this simple recognition of our personal responsibility for the existence of this universe, and all universes and of our own eternal nothingness is the solution to the Mystery of the Ages.

Every question provides its own reply:

What is Mystery? The Mystery is that there is no mystery. We create mystery by choosing to Not Know and to Not Be the Eternal Nothingness of Our Selves.”

— Excerpt from MORTALITY MECHANICS’ MANUAL by Lawrence R. Spencer

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JAZZ TRANSCENDENCE

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Transcendence” means “going beyond”, and “self-transcendence” means going beyond a prior form or state of oneself.  Mystical experience is thought of as a particularly advanced state of self-transcendence, in which the sense of a separate self is abandoned.  The Spirit rises beyond the physical universe and perceives the spiritual or aesthetic universe.  When an artist creates, one often enters a state of transcendence in which aesthetic or spiritual creation is achieved without regard to the limitations of the physical universe.  Beauty, in any form, is a manifestation of spiritual creation.

THE ULTIMATE SHERLOCK HOLMES MYSTERY

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“My dear fellows! How delightful to see you both again. It has been several months since our most recent adventure together, so I surmise, Sherlock, that some new investigation in pressing upon you? Otherwise, I am sure that you would not bother yourself to venture to visit me personally at the club. Any matter of less urgency would certainly be addressed to me by letter, or telegram. Am I not correct?”, said Mycroft, grasping both of our hands in turn with cordiality.

“As always, your observation and supposition are accurate”, I said, confirming what was already obvious to my brother. “However, I assure you than the game that is afoot contains none of the gravity that others I have undertaken”. At this, Mycroft’s expression changed from one of concern to mild interest.

“Please take a seat and explain the particulars to me, if this room is suitable for discussion of details”, he said, waving his hand toward several richly upholstered leather chairs.

Mycroft is heavily built and massive, there was a suggestion of uncouth physical inertia in the figure, but above this unwieldy frame there is  perched a head so masterful in its brow, so alert in its steel-gray, deep-set eyes, so firm in its lips, and so subtle in its play of expression, that after the first glance one forgot the gross body and remembered only the dominant mind.

“I cannot think of a more suitable environment in which to discuss the nature of this case than that of a club founded on the philosophical principles of Cynicism”, I told him in a bland matter-of-fact tone.

“Let us fill our pipes”, I said reaching into my pocket for a tobacco poach and briar pipe, “as an explanation of the matter at hand will easily consume our meal time, as well as a portion of the evening.  Can a meal be served to us here, if it is not too great an imposition upon your generosity?”, I said as I sat down, ready to share as much information with my esteemed brother as would be necessary to facilitate his analysis of the matter.

“By all means, my dear Sherlock.  By all means!”, he said in eager anticipation of a mystery that might divert his attention from an otherwise unfulfilling evening of silent reading at the Club before retiring to his quarters for an equally uneventful night of dreamless sleep.

After recounting the details of my visit with Charles Dodgson and my subsequent invitation to him to dine with us at Baker Street, I summarized the nature of the matter.  Mycroft listened attentively while tamping and relighting his pipe several times in order to sustain a satisfactory stream of air through the stem.  When I had concluded my account, he raised his eyes to me.

“Well then, let us hear your suspicions, and I will look after the proofs”, said Mycroft.

“In short, my dear Mycroft, it appears that Mr. Dodgson, in league with Mr. Arthur Doyle, are accusing me and therefore all of my associates, of impersonating fictional characters! The assertion is that the stories published by Doyle as magazine serials, or in books, are merely works of his imagination. Moreover, this cad claims that the chronicles of my investigations, which are written by Dr. Watson, are innovations of his own. Can you conceive such a blatantly fraudulent accusation?”, I asked him.

Mycroft stared at me for a moment, and then with a glare turned in his chair and addressed Dr. Watson in an icy tone.

“Dr. Watson”, he said, “it is most obvious that the motivation for this absurd intrigue must begin with you. How is it that Mr. Doyle has come into the possession of your written accounts of the detective cases of Sherlock Holmes, and subsequently published them in his own name?”

— Excerpt from SHERLOCK HOLMES: MY LIFE  by Lawrence R. Spencer

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