“It is finished”, when Jesus said it, remember, on the cross, with his final mortal breath. He meant what he meant. Authoritatively speaking. No joke.

Whether beauty from artifice and sacred-making, sacrifice, are distinctions with no real difference from the beauty found in sunrises and sunsets and such, is a judgement of a human activity that can’t legally be set.

The task of Christ is finished.

And he did not need our help.

On the bottom of his studies for the painting, Dalí explained its inspiration: “In the first place, in 1950, I had a ‘cosmic dream’ in which I saw this image in colour and which in my dream represented the ‘nucleus of the atom.’ This nucleus later took on a metaphysical sense; I considered it ‘the very unity of the universe,’ the Christ!”

So, the real hard part is finished but, when it comes to finishing forever, you, Dear Reader,  have roles to play, or tasks, if you prefer.

Play is more rewarding from a dolphin’s point of view, I have heard. Children, whose angels, whatever that means, constantly (good word) behold the face of God, they never find any activity preferable to play, except the automatic activities of eating and digesting thoroughly, sleeping, growing, then passing the last throes of childhood, the rough age, in the middle, some odd, more advanced, auto actions emerge as urgencies. All the imaginary roles feces and fecundity humors play in your adult reality, those were born in the teenage wasteland.

Rock and roll, forever, if you can, but grow up, for God’s aches.

My experience, what I have learned, when the bubble of all I know pops, experience is what comes along with me into my new unknown unknowns, like maps. A Cloud Atlas, I imagine, is a good analogy, an Atlas of Knowns shrugged off as unknowable, until now. We do not lose truth, only lies, in my experience of growing.

These are the days of acknowledging we know good and evil, adulthood.

These are the days of acting as if we know right is good, evil is not. Wrongs may be redeemed, deconstruction may be rebuilt better.

Evil never morphs to good. Evil loosed on earth is bound in the kingdom to which the rules of reality react. What’s bound in heaven, for that’s the word we agree on saying is the same idea as the happily-ever-after state of living alluded to by light, actual light.

Right, what’s stopping light from finishing forever? Not hell, not darkness, blindness. Blindness, ignoring sensations, like the idea in Wilson’s “good vibrations” or Harrison’s “Let it Be.” Don’t ignore good feeling, that is what joy is made of.

Dali, doubtless had some Catholic spice in his cosmic soup, I can let that ride, so far. Lennon and McCartney and Harrison and Bono, peppered their lives with lessons learned from nuns and choirboys, but most were boyish fables. Mother Mary worship is a stretch for me. I can’t let the Catholic saint-making-hierarchy and goddess-favor-bequest modeling be true in the bubble of what I know now, and, like I said to Jimi, in a vision in my past:
“I am experienced. No lie.” (That vision was a test, a judgment of my peers is how I imagined it. It may be mentioned elsewhere, war stories on radio is the key to that era of my way.) Experience, it goes unsaid,  is the best school a poor man can afford, it’s the part of life you lived so far, and the longer you live and learn that, the more jokes you get.

Take my yoke, the strange man said, it’s light.

Here is an interesting bit of wisdom in the world:

Philosophy as a Lived Experience: Navigating Through Dichotomies of Thought …