One of us, in the far right row by the windows (as you face the teacher), was explaining his idea to three or four of us seated in the rows to his left. He held a hand up just above his head, palm down, as if that demonstrated his meaning. Michael was always serious. Actually, he wasn’t always serious, but he was never frivolous Much unlike me. He was one of the four kids who always had the highest grade-point average every marking period (also much unlike me). “The game,” he said, “is to become conscious of the images and scenes that flash through the mind so fast and so faint that you don’t evn notice them – and when you learn to notice them, you still can’t say what they were.”
We looked at him, more or less speechless at the odd idea, and he continued to hold his hand in the air.
“What’s that supposed to prove?”
“It proves that you know what’s going on in your own head.”
“I know what’s going on in my own head,” Hugh replied, giving him a challenging look.
MP lowered his hand and stared back. Not in response to Jeff’s challenge, though. More like as if he was trying to see what was going on in Hugh’s mind. But he didn’t say anything. They just stared at each other for half a minute. Or a second. I don’t know how long it lasted. All that matters is that it was undeniable and unforgettable. Finally Michael said, “You’ll be surprised at what you find.”
“No doubt,” Jeff agreed.
“You have to make the mind silent and attentive. And then you learn to put it in the frequency where protothoughts, or protoawareness, appears. We can call such primary awarenesses limina.”
“That’s those little fish, right?” Now Hugh was in his mocking mode.
“You’re thinking of sardines,” I said, trying to mediate.
Michael did not get distracted. “Limina are the images, scenes, and feelings that come to you when your mind is empty and alert. Limen – threshold. Like when Aeneas arrives at the threshold of the cave, and the Sibyl tells him it’s time to seek the oracle.”
“So what’s your point?”
“What come to you are images, scenes and feelings from another place,” Michael said, patiently. “They don’t have anything to do with your body’s wants or fears. They are other messages.”
“How do you know?”
“How do you know they aren’t?”
“Why should I care?”
MP took a loud, patient breath. “You just said you know what’s going on in your mind. I’m telling you that you will discover an entire world inside that you are unaware of, if you know how to look.”
That stopped the conversation again; and before we could think that one through, the noisy door handle turned and Miss Hanley entered for third period Latin. We turned around to the front of the room, reaching for our books. But Michael had to finish what he’d started: “These are the messages that determine what you think and do and believe. It’s called ‘the subconscious’, but the zone game is about making them conscious.”
“How can I do that?!” I blurted out, not entirely in jest; but Miss Hanley’s stern look prevented any response. Baby Jesus coughed as if apologizing for me. He was the third of the four sophs with the highest grade-point averages and always polite, and Michael looked down and opened his textbook. Miss H turned her back to us and snatched a piece of chalk.
“All right! You guys ready for some parsing?” she said, helping to build energy in the group and its individuals. She did a good job of making parsing verbs and clarifying syntax something that got you worked up. In this instance, Book VI of the Aenead, in all its trauma Asyou could see. And then she wrote the following on the greenboard:
DICAM EQUIDEM NEC TE SUSPENSUM, NATE TENEBO[1]
The Green Table
Several of us who didn’t eat in the cafeteria gathered for lunch at a shiny, garish green picnic table under an old mesquite tree between the chapel and the parking lot. There might be ten who could show up, but a few were always missing. I brought my lunch in a huge tan leather bookbag. It was, without exaggeration, the size of a small suitcase. Maybe a bit bigger. My parents were impressed by the private school – neither of them had quite finished high school (Mom got a GED later, and Dad left school a semester before graduation to enlist in the WWII US Navy. It embarrassed me, but Padraic had one similar to mine, so that made it bearable.
He and I had gone to grade school together, although he’d been in the other class. We never spoke in grade school, but I admired his mature manner. He was a perfect teen: one of the guys, ready to laugh at himself or with others, so good looking,coffee-colored skin and a creamy tan. Horn-rimmed glasses the same shade of black as his handsome hair. He is one of the few good-looking persons I’ve known who look even better in glasses, and his weekend-sailing tan. Or swimming pool tan, we lived in different worlds. But he was one of the members of our group. As if he didn’t have anything against us, there were just other obligations in his life, young as he was. He could be somewhat abstracted, his mind elsewhere. A very confident young man. One for whom the thought of even questioning whether there was such a thing as confidence would be strange. So confident was he of his status. It wasn’t something he was proud of or displayed. That wouldn’t have occurred to him either. That’s just his status, and he respected everyone as equal to himself despite being of different and almost always inferior, status.
Of course he had some interesting friends. If he perceived a certain quality in another, he might use that status to bring about a relationship. But he was open about his interest and admiration for others, and he ‘hit it off’ with a lot of people. So he had good relationships, it seems, and different interests – like the water. I didn’t know much more about him. He attracted me, but I wasn’t the type to consider initiating a relationship with anyone. Relationships just happened, as far as I knew. Never occurred to me there was any other way.
A lot happened around our bright green-shading-toward-yellow industrial oil painted table, so this may be a good time to describe the layout more fully.
There was a long row of large bougainvillea right to the west of us – we could pluck off blossoms and leaves from where we stood between them and the picnic table at which those who sat on the benches faced either south or north, under the honey locust that shadowed us. Most of us usually stood, hanging out, glad to be outdoors in the free air. Baby Jesus (BJ) was seated at the moment, having just unfolded the neatly wrapped egg sandwich – usually I wouldn’t notice what kind of sandwich one of my peers was eating, but egg-yolks and egg-whites are somehow highly conspicuous. Maybe it’s just me. Anyway, he was facing north and when I dropped my briefcase on the bench across from him he bounced up a bit. At the same time, still biting down on the sandwich, he pushed a neatly wax paper-wrapped stack of cookies over to me.
“Thanks!” I lifted it up to my nose. “Your Mom makes the best peanut butter cookies. Don’t tell her thanks for me, she might not give you any if you’re just going to give them away like trinkets to the natives.”
He looked up at me with his look both blank and penetrating.
“Sorry. I just let the logic of the thought carry me away. Nothing personal, mate.”
“She’d be happy to make some for you.” He had a dot of mayonnaise on the right side of his mouth, which was cute, because he was always so neat. That’s not why he was called Baby Jesus. Scottie gave him that name, probably because his initials were BJ. However, they fit too. For one thing, the teachers only called on him when no-one else knew the answer, because he always knew the answer. And BJ was so shy – you could barely hear what he said.
Before I could get started on the cookies, Aura and Michael joined us. Aura, who was not one of the honors students, was wearing a midi-length white dress with little yellow flowers surrounded and connected by green leaflets. She was taller than I and about as thin, but with silvery-blond hair just below her shoulders. I wiggled my fingers at her.
“Hi Jem. MP said he was telling you about the zone game.”
I nodded, and held out a cookie to her, but she shook her head (she ate in the cafeteria). “Yeh. Up to the part where I asked how to do it when Miss Hanley so inopportunely inturrupted. What poor timing. Things like that make me question her attunement to her surroundings.”
“Okay,” Michael said. “To answer your question. How can you do what?””
“You said, ‘There is an undiscovered world inside we can become aware of.’ How do I do that?
“Right. That’s the game. The point of the game is to find out what appears in the mind when it is attentive and undistracted by thoughts. Just paying attention Not to the world around, but to what is going on in the mind. Mindfulness of the mind itself. Thought, on the other hand, includes inner speech, ego-centered emotions, and images connected with the everyday practical world.”
“Sounds pretty simple.”
“The hard part is keeping the mind quiet and attentive. And it takes a while to get acclimated to this new place.”
I closed my eyes and tried it. The others kept still, but there were a lot of sounds. And then there were thoughts, like a big clump of them, impossible to separate one from another. It felt as if it would take a moment to center. The rest went on with their business, but no-one said anything. Probably going to that place in the mind as well – each according as hir own gifts and circumstances revealed it to them.
“You expect me to keep my mind quiet?!” I demanded, raising my voice, slightly outraged at the ridiculous suggestion, putting my hands around my poor head.
“That’s the game. You can do it. It’s like golf – you are playing to get your score down. That is, with fewer thoughts that capture your attention and cary it away, down thought-ruts made by dusty habit.”
“Get my score down?”
“Yeh. You can start at any level of ability. I spent years with more than one thought a minute going on and on and on. Every time a thought breaks your focus scores one point. You can count the times it happens. You don’t have to, but it makes the game more interesting, and it’s a significant learning tool, or can be.”
“If I do that, I’m gonna be spending my entire life counting.”
“You get better at it with practice,” Aura said.
“You do this?”
“Every day. It’s fun!” she swung her arms out at forty-five degree angles from her body, with typical exuberance. Then she added, “Very frustrating.”
“That sounds like fun.”
“Here’s an easy way to get started,” Michael said, helpfully. “Take one breath without any thoughts. That means no inner speech, inner pictures or scenes, or emotions that assault the organism, as opposed to affecting the entire self. No misplaced emotions in this world. That is, allowing emotions to transfer their vibes from the full being to the physical organism and its sense of identity as a separate unit. A separate entity or individual with no inherent relationship or unity with whatever is beyond the boundary of skin.”
“Oh Lord,” broke forth from my lips, involuntarily. “What a wretched life that would be.”
“They don’t know any better,” he said, disposing of any need to grieve the lot of those imprisoned in the world of ego. Not even suspecting that there is a universe outside the cave.
“Further, you eliminate fantasies. There is no mental activity that you initiate. The point is to listen for that which appears in a mind that is quiet, having ended the habit of discursive thought, commonsense realism.”
“You’re losing me.”
“Discursive thought consists of words or images or feelings that begin and then continue. As opposed to primary perception, which occurs as a sudden realization. A ‘Eureka!’ moment. A sudden insight or intuition. Or even images and scenes that seem not to have any conceivable relation to the organism or any discernible signification. They are imagines gratia imaginum.
“Discursive thought is an interpretation of perception, whereas primary perception is direct perception. But it doesn’t remain an object from which no information is received. We let it communicate its own message, and we empathize. As they say, Non ignara mali, miseris succurrere disco.
Humans use discursive thought such as words and concepts because it is a miraculously rich way of communicating. But it isn’t reality. Other than the sense in which an image is reality. That’s ok, it doesn’t have to encompass the totality of reality.”
“But we’ll be much better off if we are aware that it doesn’t.”
“Because we quickly begin to assume that the words and concepts are reality,” Michael finished the thought. “We get distracted by that oliferous pink herring.” Then he looked stern and frustrated beyond passive acceptance. “Doggone it, Jem! When are we going to learn!?”
It was going to take some time to think that one through. “Well, sir, I can’t begin to venture a guess as to when we’re going to learn. I’d like to believe that our efforts, here and now, will bring us to greater awareness, and greater wholeness-in-individuality. Not e pluribus unum but unum et plures. And in that sense, nothing we will have done, not even defeats in battles with unevenly-powered opponents, will be in vain, futile, having no good results or significance.” I hazarded a look at him. He was looking directly at or into me. Slightly self-conscious for the moment, I added, “Or where we are simply found wanting.”
“Okay,” Michael nodded, looking down thoughtfully as the ash on his cigar reached a concerning length. There was no thought of disturbing him at that moment. Every man should be allowed a moment to think something over. I had no brenn against that. “‘Unum et plures. Unum et plures.’ he mumbled rapidly, repeating the phrase. “Hmm!” he sniffed, and then banged his fist lightly on the table. “Yes! By Jove, I daresay I agree with you. That’s the ticket, Jem. That’s the path we will take.”
“Seems like a simple solution,” I agreed readily, as if giving him one more reason to agree with me. To confirm that he had made the right choice and need not let the mosquitoes of doubt penetrate his skin with their sorrow-inducing beaks. We were in this together. Unum et dua.
“But before we part, I want to be sure I know how to play the zone game,” I insisted.
“Of course. Take one breath, with no intrusive thoughts or other such mental activity. Then continue for an hour. Doesn’t have to be perfect. Just one breath that is good-enough thought-free. And then – ”
I looked up expectantly, and moved my upper body forward an inch. “And then?”
“Keep doing it. You’ll find there are, you could say, three different kinds of mental activity that occur in a quiet, attentive mind. The first is undertalk, which is like ambient conversation at a large gathering. At first you can’t make it out, because it takes place so rapidly and is so faint. Well, to tell the truth, we’re not aware of it because we’re too obtuse. But we’re cretins who can learn. But seriously, you’re inclined not even to pay attention to itundertalk. People may be experiencing a considerable amount of undertalk for decades and not even notice it. Like muons or something I guess, just passing through us without our realizing them. But in time the ear of consciousness becomes attuned to the messages.
“Then there are insights. These are of all kind, and often include insights into everyday, consensus reality, practical affairs in the physical world. But it is the insight we are interested in. And, I suggest, the inner, psychological motivations and qualities. There’s a temptation to get busy and do something in the material world. Learn to notice the insight, and to learn from it.
“Finally, there are limina, images threshold between waking and sleeping, and these are of infinite kinds.” He was quiet and waited for any of us to respond. No-one did; perhaps they would have questions or comments for Michael in private.
“Is that okay?” He looked around at the rest of us. “It might be difficult at first, but making progress gives you a real sense of accomplishment. And you’ll have insights that will change your life for the better.”
BJ said, “People don’t want to know what’s going on in their mind. My aunt, for example, told me she keeps the radio on when she’s alone during the day because otherwise she starts to think.”
“But that’s a habit,” Michael countered. “We start thinking before we can even speak, and nobody ever shows us how to train our thoughts and awareness.”
Padraic looked skeptical. “I think a lot of people have traumas they can’t get out of their mind, or are just incapable of doing what you’re talking about. Anyway, I wouldn’t want to be the one to tell a person suffering from unbearable trauma that they can quiet-mind it out of existence.” He looked thoughtfully at Michael. “Maybe you can. I wouldn’t be surprised. Not something I can do. Maybe with practice and learning. I’ll grant you that. I don’t see why eliminating intrusive thoughts is theoretically impossible by any means.”
“In any case,” Michael answered, “anyone can get better at controlling their own thoughts, and that –” he paused for effect – is the shell under which lies the pea. As Clyde would say,” he looked at me and smiled. Clyde was my buddy. “The real problem is that if we don’t control our thoughts, they control us. By the way,” he added, “you can get extra credit for correctly answering where your thoughts come from.”
He looked back at me. “If you’re interested, I’ll help you learn zoning. That goes for you guys too. It improves your ability to concentrate and focus – and opens a door to insights and intuition.”
I squeezed my lips together and made a face. Picking up on that, Michael said, “When you master this, you will perceive the nature of reality. Or do you know it already?”
I shook my head from side to side and looked sad.
“That’s alright. – A lot of people don’t. Okay, I’ll tell you so you will know.” He looked at Padraid and BJ and said, “Is that okay? I don’t want to just walk over and interrupt the conversation.”
BJ, who had a full mouth, looked at him over his sandwich and nodded. Padraic just made a grand gesture of rolling his eyes.
Michael took a deep breath and was quiet for a moment. “Okay. Let’s start here: Look into your mind and tell me where your next thought comes from.”
To be continued
[1] I will tell you child, nor make you wait.
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