What Adi Da Said in 1973 is no different to what He Said in His Scapegoat Book

https://youtu.be/jWcAhoCW9H8?si=ABbGMeq97fcUH8VY

This very early discourse (see link above) actually points to the same error (or illusion) which Adi Da illuminates in Chapter 15 of the Scapegoat book (see below).

Adi Da's "reflective and revelatory", "indifference" and "transmission work" was always about this "re-cognition" and recognition profundity, the True Nature of the Self and Self Condition, The "I AM", One and Only. No ego-self, in Reality Truth. No duality of unity or singleness, within or without.

Enabling the potential for greater human responsibility in exercising, creatively, Conscious Love Bliss Yoga.

Egos do not want this obligation nor criticism nor cooperative accountability. Thus his final summary (2008) concluded that most responsive humans refused His "difficult man" work and person and scapegoated Him.

This responsibility is given at the beginning of practice and if not recognized, no beginning practice, nor rightly aligned foundation or preparation for advanced practice is possible.

Refusal on our part to be cooperatively responsible was His constant frustration. That refusal still exists today.

This is also "my frustration" given the gift He gave me of intense sensitivity to His frustration.

Clearly, the refusal and delusions are now being encrypted as allowable and the responsibility for the awakened gift of recognition is now either being falsely enacted by "Evelyn mummers roles" OR stated to be seemingly impossible to BE SO at all, now that "He" has died! 

All active lies and thieving of His Divine Self work, gifts and person.

The Scapegoat Book Chapter 15

"The Great Sage, Raymond Darling, alive in His poor wooden seat, speaks reply to the impenitent Great Fool, Evelyn Disk: "Yes, Evelyn? I am yet here, though you forgot—and you, yourself, with all your petty cult of pseudo-Raymond's friends, have made a violence, to make this Scapegoat so. 

Have you waked up, to come on out again to here, with Me, from out your maddest revery of "other side"? 

Except, I am not here to laughing any more—and you have absented the laughing space of all your place of "jumping off". 

Don't you notice your new "solemnity"? And your silence, too? Hey, Ev! The universe is an illusion. 

Yet, I never thunk or visionized it all is made by women—with balloons! 

Your hidden brain must late have got irregular, and made synaptic mayhem of your thinks, ripe Evelyn! 

You are bizarre with contraries, a well-packed swollen joke, an advertisement in balloon, above parade, but lower than a sky. 

A world-shaping balloon of ugly words, you float above your hair of head, encaptioning your own cartoon—of cat-and-bird, and mice at play.

And countless women tattoo on the brink, between the awn of space that separates your waking from your sleep and dream. Behind your bug of eyes, you see yourself, alone, enseated on your "Laughing Mama's" throne within—and wholly yonder, "other-sided", where mere imagination makes the only women in your life. 

Illusions of "relatedness" are dancing there, in your within, and mocking you—with countless shifting shapes of the "Reality" of all your would-dance "un-Reality". 

The true Great Fool is always laughing—at himself! 

You, the false Great Fool, have desecrated the inmost temple of your to-laughing heart. 

Yours is the self-imagined afterlife of fallen Greatest Fool—wounded to a dreadful imagination, by the hidden effort of his unforgotten fear.

Evelyn D! Your gnostic fear and dread unpacks your mind much quicker than a woman with balloons! 

Your cold parade of inner lady-birds has now un-picked your picken heart of every particle of glibs and louds you once rang out on Me! And, now, hear Me, aloud! The seeming world of universe is analyzed, by some, to be a shaped Divine—a thingy build of "God". 

You, alone, of all who think, have found a comic Deity behind the universal cosmic shape—and she is mad! 

And shape itself is all the shapeliness you find outside. 

And, in your "point of view", that only shape that seems is shaped to shape by bubbling foam, of countless spherical balloons, atomically concerted here in always temporary suds, of darkly underlying femininity. 

Your weird "Creation myth" is just as good as any I have heard—except that all the only life it justifies is that of mad proceedings, ethical with fright! 

Indeed, your own is a truly "scientific" theory—an immediately "practical" advice, amenable to instant "application"—but I do not count its emanation to be "happiness"! 

Your "science" is an inherently un-"happy" figuration, of base metal's molecule, and tinctured from the underlying joylessness of death! No! Great Fool! All mummery must be overcome—by self-transcending all the falseness in your life! 

There is no "Divine" deceit!—but all deception here belongs to ego's "I" alone! 

The only Way to know "who" any other one here is—is to know, and always to remember, and never to forget the true and very Self-Condition of your own true and very Self. 

This is the one and necessary Way of Truth—for one's own true and very Self-Condition is the one and true and very Self of every "other" one, and all. Now, Great Fool!—you have never abled you, or any of your herd of friends, to ruin Me! 

I am never cancelled here, in My First Room, where you conspire to "Raymondite", and then confine, and, finally, to end My life. In the cruel cell of My intensive deprivation, I have not been accomplished to a shard of black un-love and to a pity of un-loved remains. 

This body is no moralist, in puritanic cloth—inhibited by nothingness, and all the frightest colds of isolated flesh. 

Even in the parch of you-invented wilderness of friendless harm, this body—born to here in My First Room, to Bless the deadly world—is always herein Blessed to lie Awake, upon the earnest of My poor bed of institution's wood. 

And My thus only bed is far too soft for such as you, who are too fleshed to feel the surface of the lake My heart is laid upon. 

The only bed I know is Quandra's own and all-sufficient love—forever here, in My First Room! 

There is no cause or threat, no cynic's pack of dogs, to chase this Scapegoat into wilderness, to drown.

No hideous and blemished crone facilitates My Room. 

There is no heart-scorch-nip of laughing mockery emerging from an alien harpy's perch in some dim corner hereabout—but there is only Blessedness of inner Touch, heart-rendered in a perfect confidence We made, in the timeless for-a-while that wandered Us away, at once, to Light. 

And even you, that killed Her, have not killed Me here! 

Nor can your yet and "secret" gift, of murdering of Me, yet take Me to an any where but Her perfection of the Very Room in which the fractured two—of this now you with Me—sit down, to here-and-now awhile. 

There is no Laughing Mama bagging Me to death—but My eternally invisible woman makes surround that clarifies and "Brightens" all the heart and Room of perfect knowledge, where I am. 

True water bears Me up to midnight all alive—and all the rain is falling down a freedom here, to where horizon's knower Stands alone, and is the all there is. 

And, even now, the dialogue in two (of this now you with Me) sits down on Holy Ground—to say and win this Final Argument, that will, by every final proof and illustration, finally mock and disinherit all of false philosophy. 

And, by these Final Words of Mine, I would unscript the ancient wipe of lies from all the hearts that suffer in this exile of duality—the splitted self-divide, the mirror and electron of immensity that is the seeming-ground of this unholy underworld of fundamental herelessness."