The Apprentice’s Manifesto

Written in the weeks leading into Eastern States 100

Inspired by ‘the skyrunners manifesto’

In all moments from here till a place of unforeseen fruition of the I behind all Reasons, I must be ready to die. As the doer becomes the servant of Reason, the dreamer dies, again and again. The Dreamer is sacrificial by nature. As Human, we are Creator. We dream through the visage of many facets and fractals. The diversity and complexity in the Human Soul gives us our ability to build the altars upon which the blood of the dreamer will run. We are not meant to fall victim to the potential provided by this depth of support, yet we often resolve ourselves to a partial identity in defense of whatever Dreamer strays for too long. We confuse parts of him with the I behind the eye that is made complete only by combining all aspects of human wholeness. For the Creator to be whole, there are many in his Order. It takes a System for any singularity to be made worthy of existence.

For me, there is the Architect. He observes and plans, but his hands are smooth, his composure is that of a man bound to his charts and graphs. Always his dress seems freshly washed and neatly pressed. He seeks not to build, only to orchestrate potential in the builder.

Then there is the Advocate. He rallies the builder to stay the course, in alignment with potential set forth in his design as Human Creator. He speaks in support of the Reason. He gathers like minds and open hearts under common cause. He campaigns for unity and community. He preaches for divine support and sound morals. He reminds the people of themselves, and balances the mission with reminders of work-rest balance. But still, he only speaks. His hands are smooth, his complexion fair, his beard trimmed, his hair well groomed.

There is the Muse. A Sage who sees the unseen, who’s work ventures into aspects of reality untouchable by the work of others. He brings what would otherwise be unknown and forgotten, left to wallow in the shadows of distant realms, to the surface. He ensures Purpose remains parcel to the builder’s felt experience, a part of his waking reality. The Muse is well travelled, always wearing a weathered expression that ever so slightly leans toward a gentle smile, while the rest of his presence evokes a sense of receptive wisdom. However, his days as the builder ended lifetimes ago. His robes are well tended to, his skin a gleaming example of cleanliness as Godliness. His scent is that of the incense which clings to him after he is purged of residues from last night’s satsang with the morning’s frigid waters.

There is the Hunter. A mighty warrior, always seeking to fuel the pursuit of his kin just as he is driven to fulfill Creator’s oldest, most primal of urges. He exists to learn, to take risk, to see new horizons, to conquer, to sacrifice, and to consume. He solves problems as they arise not by thought or through planning, but by action. His response to imposed demand is backed by thousands of repetitions which tempers and hones the precision of his instincts as a sword smith tempers his steel. He shows pride in his skill, in full reverence for knowing that the instinctual wisdom in his actions is borne upon the thousand corpses of Hunters before him. His clothes are worn by the seasons as much as his form, which is carved from decades of excursions into the Wild, and the rigorous training preceding each one. His face is weathered not by problems on paper or assertion on stage, but by the sun, the land, and the fight for survival of his kin. Still, he is not the builder. He only ensures the builder stays strong, well fed, and safe in body and mind.

The Builder only arrives at his work by way of bridges risen from the depths of others resolve. He needs well fed. He needs to hear the blessing rush of sweet living waters and feel the gentle motive of a well placed breeze as he takes leave of his doorstep. On his return, the Builder’s Heart needs touched by the tender loving kindness found within the words of the Muse’s storied travels. While he toils away, his Spirit needs to be kindled by remembering tales of the Hunter’s greatest kills and latest scrapes with Death. When rest does come, he requires the nourishment, fortitude, and willingness to persevere the Advocate brings with each of his carefully crafted speeches. Always they seem to come at just the right moment, in just the right Tone to strike true. He needs his work to be planned by design, where he follows the Architect within.

Always hard at work, the Builder sees him even now as the Sun draws sweat from his skin.. In the shadows, save dusty rays that send their life to the floor through a barren room. The Builder knows where to find him. Craned over his desk, furrowed brow, elixirs always at the ready, by which he expands the aperature of the mind behind his I to fuel his fascinations; where cities are borne. The builder takes his latest, glances at half finished drafts, covered partially by crumpled scraps of dead renditions, which can be found loosely strewn about whatever surface is far enough away from his current focal point as not to distract from the present.

I return to the frontier. I am here to Build. I am Human and therefore I Create. Creation is not a process of Thought or Procurement. I leave that work to the others. The builder’s hammer strikes once more. Sweat continues to run. I am the man in the Storm. I bleed and the Work continues. I rest and the Work waits. So I leave rest mostly for the others. When lightning strikes and thunder booms, when trees give way to jagged ridge lines and clouds black out the sky, I am that which remains.

In the face of terrors unknown, the work continues, and so I stay the course of action that has set me forth into such potential for destruction. If the potential remains, I have not been destroyed. And if I am not destroyed, if I am still here, than my next step is possible. And if the plan is possible, my next step is inevitable. When I stay still, the work continues. There is no backward, no resorting to retreat. If I breathe, and I am not destroyed in following the Path, I continue with the Work. The skies let cry in sheets. Clouds roar in protest of any who dare expose themselves to such terror. The Hunter is home, asleep. His prey seeks cover, through the densest fog and darkest of timbers. Opposing armies bustle back to their halls, seeking fine women and crisp cold ale.

Not taken by threats, omens, or cheap tricks, the builder remains. If I am not destroyed, this work must be for me. If I am not destroyed, it must be right that my Work is timely, and the time is now. I come from a place, well kept, secure, abundant in its resources, holding the best of company, rich in stories and fairest in it’s comforts. A place of rest and replenishment, guidance and Love. If this be the place I return to, and I am not destroyed, I must continue. Only forward will I find my way back Home. I can see many who thought they could retrace, retreating to this place in the Self, and have come Home time and again to grey, barren halls. I will not copy their mistaken retreat to a forsaken salvation of lonely security.

Though I feel the weight of a hundred mountains under foot, as if my step will crush the Earth as I bear down into my next move upon her accursed soils, I continue in my work. In knowing that while it may feel like either my bones will shatter into dust or the Earth herself will break way, giving the storm dominion over freshly broken sky, neither of us in Reality will cease to Remain. My Lungs may starve for the very air that fills them, my vessels scream in their exhaustive efforts to remain so widely receptive to the life they deliver. My legs quake as they meet the pace of what Work the Storm brings. My feet burn with each strike, lava leeching into my skin. Or perhaps its my skin that is pouring acid onto the ground as I go. I cannot tell which. My body one giant gaping wound that threatens to melt one moment, or freeze in the next, just as much as I threaten it to continue its march into the depths.

As Creator, I know the Way is only through the Work getting done, and I am the Doer. I build the Results as they are planned. The plan is to Work through the Storm. The pain be as it may, through this suffering and the threat of utter destruction comes my strength. Strength in knowing that in spite of Pain’s best efforts, I am still here. I am not destroyed. So the work continues, and is forged through the indestructible Will built from affirmed existence in the presence of God’s greatest obstacles. Forged through the confirmation that beyond this mountain, my breath doesn’t leave me. It keeps coming. It remains, and I may be beaten, battered, bleeding, and scarred, but I remain supported. I stand as Human Creator, with more to give, and more Work to do. I continue, relentless with forward progress. I find that I am Strong.

I am temporary. The Storm, and my next step on the Mountain are more temporary still. Here lies true salvation. I am here to do Work that transcends us all. And while I am here, and the Work continues, no matter the suffrage, I grow stronger, faster, more present, more persistent with every beat of my surging heart. With each kiss of hope borne simply of recognition that I persist, that I am extant, and have not been struck down, I grow ever more powerful. I am the Builder. I venture forth from my Home in order for my Work to grow, and my Home remain, as it should. I Create, I am Human, and so as long as I Am, I do.