first, read this truly profound poem:
here then, i want to draw out a special understanding.
The sufies of old had three ways of dealing with times of floods of insanity of their fellow humans. when expression of the truth becomes dangerous.
The first was to go into the prevailing world, and become influential. Some as artists, and some were advisers to emperors. even when these were bloodthirsty times. this is always considered the most dangerous method, and spoken of with severe warnings.
The second was to go underground - to live in dissemble, and cover one's real light. This is the normal method.
The third was to retreat to remote places and keep alive the culture of enlightenment. In secret monasteries, these sufis were the cream of their milk. they kept alive the traditions, in valleys far from prying eyes, to bring it it out again when the current horde of murderers went away.
To some extent this can also be applied to our days, even our own selves. The second and third methods are the two bears. Rustam is the first. It is not the life of fame, but the destiny, that is so sad. That one has to walk the razor edge, and to live in a cage, instead of sharing the world in its most beautiful and intimate way.
there is a sufi story of one such saint, who was 'discovered' by some emperor. he became an influential member of the court. But he was despised by rivals for his influence, and so they put out rumors to the emperor that he would go to a secret room occasionally to which only he had a key.
the emperor demanded he open the room for inspection. on opening the door, all they saw were some old rags. he said, these were the clothes i wore when you found me, and these will be the clothes i wear when i leave. i come here to remember who i am.
CC may have screamed for the price of his fame, the other side of his destiny. and that comment by him posthuman, is a classic CC call. but i suspect he really screamed for the slipping on the razor's edge - it sliced him right up the crutch - straight through his nuts. with one foot in don Juan's reality, and one in the dens of fame, which slipped, and it was that slip which his other side saw and screamed in a flash of self-truth ... for which he had been trained.
don Juan was also famous, but i can't see him screaming - i see a depthless being of wisdom. i have met him, and i speak of his actual presence. I would say everyone here has also met him, recall it or not - everyone carries his mark.
for some, the dangerous first path is simply their card from spirit. but everyone would prefer to live in the pure land. that they can't, is cause for weeping. for they must sacrifice the treasure of peace, life in the wild - where their heart longs. like when you have to go to work in the morning.
but that is also a place of spirit - even the golden cage, and the dancing can be the endless sky, and the mountain stream.
