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The Mother Agenda

The Mother Agenda

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Published by Paulo Kroeff



This AGENDA ... One day, another species among men will pore over this fabulous document as over the tumultuous drama that must have surrounded

the birth of the first man among the hostile hordes of a great, delirious Paleozoic.



A first man is the dangerous contradiction of a certain simian logic, a threat to the established order that so genteelly ran about amid the high, indefeasible ferns – and to begin with, it does not even know that it is a man. It wonders, indeed, what it is. Even to itself it is strange, distressing. It does not even know how to climb trees any longer in its usual way – and it is terribly disturbing for all those who still climb trees in the old, millennial way.



Perhaps it is even a heresy. Unless it is some cerebral disorder? A first man in his little clearing had to have a great deal of courage. Even this little clearing was no longer so sure. A first man is a perpetual question. What am I, then, in the midst of all that? And where is my law? What is the law? And what if there were no more laws? ... It is terrifying.



Mathematics – out of order. Astronomy and biology, too, are beginning to respond to mysterious influences. A tiny point huddled in the center of the world’s great clearing. But what is all this, what if I were ‘mad’? And then, claws all around, a lot of claws against this uncommon creature.



A first man ... is very much alone. He is quite unbearable for the pre-human ‘reason.’ And the surrounding tribes growled like red monkies in the twilight of Guiana.



This AGENDA ... One day, another species among men will pore over this fabulous document as over the tumultuous drama that must have surrounded

the birth of the first man among the hostile hordes of a great, delirious Paleozoic.



A first man is the dangerous contradiction of a certain simian logic, a threat to the established order that so genteelly ran about amid the high, indefeasible ferns – and to begin with, it does not even know that it is a man. It wonders, indeed, what it is. Even to itself it is strange, distressing. It does not even know how to climb trees any longer in its usual way – and it is terribly disturbing for all those who still climb trees in the old, millennial way.



Perhaps it is even a heresy. Unless it is some cerebral disorder? A first man in his little clearing had to have a great deal of courage. Even this little clearing was no longer so sure. A first man is a perpetual question. What am I, then, in the midst of all that? And where is my law? What is the law? And what if there were no more laws? ... It is terrifying.



Mathematics – out of order. Astronomy and biology, too, are beginning to respond to mysterious influences. A tiny point huddled in the center of the world’s great clearing. But what is all this, what if I were ‘mad’? And then, claws all around, a lot of claws against this uncommon creature.



A first man ... is very much alone. He is quite unbearable for the pre-human ‘reason.’ And the surrounding tribes growled like red monkies in the twilight of Guiana.

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Published by: Paulo Kroeff on Feb 11, 2013
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Mother’s AgendaVol. 1Institut de Recherches Evolutives142 blvd du MontparnasseF-75014 Paris
INTRODUCTION
When we have passed beyond humanity, then we shall be the Man.
Sri AurobindoThis AGENDA ... One day, another species among men will pore over this fabulous document as over the tumultuous drama that must have surrounded the birth of the first man among the hostile hordes of a great, deliriousPaleozoic. A first man is the dangerous contradiction of a certain simian logic,a threat to the established order that so genteelly ran about amid the high,indefeasible ferns – and to begin with, it does not even know that it is a man. It wonders, indeed, what it is. Even to itself it is strange, distressing. It does not even know how to climb trees any longer in its usual way – and it is terriblydisturbing for all those who still climb trees in the old, millennial way. Perhapsit is even a heresy. Unless it is some cerebral disorder? A first man in his littleclearing had to have a great deal of courage. Even this little clearing was nolonger so sure. A first man is a perpetual question. What am I, then, in themidst of all that? And where is my law? What is the law? And what if therewere no more laws? ... It is terrifying. Mathematics – out of order. Astronomyand biology, too, are beginning to respond to mysterious influences. A tiny point huddled in the center of the world’s great clearing. But what is all this,what if I were ‘mad’? And then, claws all around, a lot of claws against thisuncommon creature. A first man ... is very much alone. He is quite unbearable for the pre-human ‘reason.’ And the surrounding tribes growled like red monkies in the twilight of Guiana.One day, we were like this first man in the great, stridulant night of theOyapock. Our heart was beating with the rediscovery of a very ancient mystery – suddenly, it was absolutely new to be a man amidst the diorite cascades and the pretty red and black coral snakes slithering beneath the leaves. It was evenmore extraordinary to be a man than our old confirmed tribes, with their infallible equations and imprescriptible biologies, could ever have dreamed. It was an absolutely uncertain ‘quantum’ that delightfully eluded whatever onethought of it, including perhaps what even the scholars thought of it. It flowed otherwise, it felt otherwise. It lived in a kind of flawless continuity with the sapof the giant balata trees, the cry of the macaws and the scintillating water of alittle fountain. It ‘understood’ in a very different way. To understand was to bein everything. Just a quiver, and one was in the skin of a little iguana in
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distress. The skin of the world was very vast. To be a man after rediscovering amillion years was mysteriously like being something still other than man, astrange, unfinished possibility that could also be all kinds of other things. It was not in the dictionary, it was fluid and boundless – it had become a manthrough habit, but in truth, it was formidably virgin, as if all the old lawsbelonged to laggard barbarians. Then other moons began whirring throughthe skies to the cry of macaws at sunset, another rhythm was born that wasstrangely in tune with the rhythm of all, making one single flow of the world,and there we went, lightly, as if the body had never had any weight other thanthat of our human thought; and the stars were so near, even the giant airplanesroaring overhead seemed vain artifices beneath smiling galaxies. A man wasthe overwhelming Possible. He was even the great discoverer of the Possible. Never had this precarious invention had any other aim through millions of species than to discover that which surpassed his own species, perhaps themeans to change his species – a light and lawless species. After rediscoveringa million years in the great, rhythmic night, a man was still something to beinvented. It was the invention of himself, where all was not yet said and done. And then, and then ... a singular air, an incurable lightness, was beginningto fill his lungs. And what if we were a fable? And what are the means? And what if this lightness itself were the means? A great and solemn good riddance to all our barbarous solemnities.Thus had we mused in the heart of our ancient forest while we were stillhesitating between unlikely flakes of gold and a civilization that seemed to usquite toxic and obsolete, however mathematical. But other mathematics were flowing through our veins, an equation as yet unformed between this mammothworld and a little point replete with a light air and immense forebodings. It was at this point that we met Mother, at this intersection of theanthropoid rediscovered and the ‘something’ that had set in motion thisunfinished invention momentarily ensnared in a gilded machine. For nothingwas finished, and nothing had been invented, really, that would instill peaceand wideness in this heart of no species at all. And what if man were not yet invented? What if he were not yet his ownspecies? A little white silhouette, twelve thousand miles away, solitary and frailamidst a spiritual horde which had once and for all decided that the meditatingand miraculous yogi was the apogee of the species, was searching for themeans, for the reality of this man who for a moment believes himself sovereignof the heavens or sovereign of a machine, but who is quite probably somethingcompletely different than his spiritual or material glories. Another, a lighter air was throbbing in that breast, unburdened of its heavens and of its prehistoric machines. Another Epic was beginning. Would Matter and Spirit meet, then, in a third PHYSIOLOGICAL position that would perhaps be at last the position of Man rediscovered, the something that had for so long fought and suffered in quest of becoming its own species? She was the great Possibleat the beginning of man. Mother is our fable come true. ‘All is possible’ washer first open sesame.Yes, She was in the midst of a spiritual ‘horde,’ for the pioneer of a newspecies must always fight against the best of the old: the best is the obstacle,
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the snare that traps us in its old golden mire. As for the worst, we know that it is the worst. But then we come to realize that the best is only the pretty muzzleof our worst, the same old beast defending itself, with all its claws out, with itssanctity or its electronic gadgets. Mother was there for something else.‘Something else’ is ominous, perilous, disrupting – it is quite unbearable for all those who resemble the old beast. The story of the Pondicherry‘Ashram’ is the story of an old clan ferociously clinging to its ‘spiritual’ privileges, as others clung to the muscles that had made them kings among thegreat apes. It is armed with all the piousness and all the reasonableness that had made logical man so ‘infallible’ among his less cerebral brothers. Thespiritual brain is probably the worst obstacle to the new species, as were themuscles of the old orangutan for this fragile stranger who no longer climbed sowell in the trees and sat, pensive, at the center of a little, uncertain clearing.There is nothing more pious than the old species. There is nothing more legal. Mother was searching for the path of the new species as much against all thevirtues of the old as against all its vices or laws. For, in truth, ‘Something Else’... is something else.We landed there, one day in February 1954, having emerged from our Guianese forest and a certain number of dead-end peripluses; we had knocked upon all the doors of the old world before reaching that point of absoluteimpossibility where it was truly necessary to embark into something else or once and for all put a bullet through the brain of this slightly superior ape. The first thing that struck us was this exotic Notre Dame with its burning incensesticks, its effigies and its prostrations in immaculate white: a Church. Wenearly jumped into the first train out that very evening, bound straight for the Himalayas, or the devil. But we remained near Mother for nineteen years.What was it, then, that could have held us there? We had not left Guiana tobecome a little saint in white or to enter some new religion. ‘I did not comeupon earth to found an ashram; that would have been a poor aim indeed,’ Shewrote in 1934. What did all this mean, then, this ‘Ashram’ that was alreadyregistered as the owner of a great spiritual business, and this fragile, littlesilhouette at the center of all these zealous worshippers? In truth, there is nobetter way to smother someone than to worship him: he chokes beneath theweight of worship, which moreover gives the worshipper claim to ownership.‘Why do you want to worship?’ She exclaimed. ‘You have but to become! It isthe laziness to become that makes one worship.’ She wanted so much to makethem become this ‘something else,’ but it was far easier to worship and quiescently remain what one was. She spoke to deaf ears. She was very alonein this ‘ashram.’ Little by little, the disciples fill up the place, then they say: it is ours. It is ‘the Ashram.’ We are ‘the disciples.’ In Pondicherry as in Rome asin Mecca. ‘I do not want a religion! An end to religions!’ She exclaimed. Shestruggled and fought in their midst – was She therefore to leave this Earth likeone more saint or yogi, buried beneath haloes, the ‘continuatrice’ of a great spiritual lineage? She was seventy- six years old when we landed there, a knifein our belt and a ready curse on our lips.She adored defiance and did not detest irreverence. No, She was not the ‘Mother of the Pondicherry Ashram.’ Then who was
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