Wednesday, February 22, 2012

The Arc of An Unknown Trajectory


"Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of me. You would play upon me; you would seem to know my stops; you would pluck out the heart of my mystery; you would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass; and there is much music, excellent voice, in this little organ, yet cannot you make it speak. 'Sblood, do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me." -Hamlet, Scene Two

The Nameless has been given thousands if not millions of names, calculations made, symbols drawn, conferences held, much rhetorical prosey pushing the air in front of it, wanting to superimpose one's needs, one's desires to make the incommensurable an entertaining gossip, a  puppet to move on command as to affirm our contradictions, to make uncertainty blameworthy as if to make the air we breathe a solid like granite we could place under a glass jar and congratulate ourselves prior to suffocation. This is by in large the demented aims of those who are drawn into the paranormal realm. Their own unknown arc of a trajectory matters not as if to suffice to say, one brings all the garbage pail, all the worn and heavy baggage with us as we seek to fall off the edge of the world while being provided with an itinerary, guidebook of all the famous sights in a linear narrative worthy of a grade school primer. Dick met Jane. Simple things are never simple if it were not for simple minds, simple critical assumptions that we have what it takes to discern what is real when the real would be unreal to us, and so we would circle like a bird around and around in the updrafts of verbiage completely clueless. This much is true, this much has no humility within it, like a hot air balloon cast here and there by whatever pulls it, whatever pushes it, whatever fascination draws a awkward conclusion. Logic is provincialism in this.

"Dr. Krauss delineates three different kinds of nothingness. First is what may have passed muster as nothing with the ancient Greeks: empty space. But we now know that even empty space is filled with energy, vibrating with electromagnetic fields and so-called virtual particles dancing in and out of existence on borrowed energy courtesy of the randomness that characterizes reality on the smallest scales, according to the rules of quantum theory.
Second is nothing, without even space and time. Following a similar quantum logic, theorists have proposed that whole universes, little bubbles of space-time, could pop into existence, like bubbles in boiling water, out of this nothing.
There is a deeper nothing in which even the laws of physics are absent. Where do the laws come from? Are they born with the universe, or is the universe born in accordance with them? Here Dr. Krauss, unhappily in my view, resorts to the newest and most controversial toy in the cosmologist’s toolbox: the multiverse, a nearly infinite assemblage of universes, each with its own randomly determined rules, particles and forces, that represent solutions to the basic equations of string theory — the alleged theory of everything, or perhaps, as wags say, anything.
Within this landscape of possibilities, almost anything goes..."

-There's More To Nothing Than We Know By Dennis Overby  (New York Times)

http://www.nytimes.com/2012/02/21/science/space/cosmologists-try-to-explain-a-universe-springing-from-nothing.html?_r=2

 Old wives tales repeated by pretenders, poachers and insular fantasists,  those would make dreams a sort of weaponry. I was reading Attar again in relation to The Conference of The Birds, which should be required reading for most who seek little gnomes to explain their navels to them.  The paranormal realm is so full of irretrievable space junk, one might as well go back to Dell Comics for inspiration.

Moths gathered in a fluttering throng one night
To learn the truth about the candle light,
And they decided one of them should go
To gather news of the elusive glow.
One flew till in the distance he discerned
A palace window where a candle burned --
And went no nearer: back again he flew
To tell the others what he thought he knew.
The mentor of the moths dismissed his claim,
Remarking: "He knows nothing of the flame."
A moth more eager than the one before
Set out and passed beyond the palace door.
He hovered in the aura of the fire,
A trembling blur of timorous desire,
Then headed back to say how far he'd been,
And how much he had undergone and seen.
The mentor said: "You do not bear the signs
Of one who's fathomed how the candle shines."
Another moth flew out -- his dizzy flight
Turned to an ardent wooing of the light;
He dipped and soared, and in his frenzied trance
Both self and fire were mingled by his dance --
The flame engulfed his wing-tips, body, head,
His being glowed a fierce translucent red;
And when the mentor saw that sudden blaze,
The moth's form lost within the glowing rays,
He said: "He knows, he knows the truth we seek,
That hidden truth of which we cannot speak."
To go beyond all knowledge is to find
That comprehension which eludes the mind,
And you can never gain the longed-for goal
Until you first outsoar both flesh and soul;
But should one part remain, a single hair
Will drag you back and plunge you in despair --
No creature's self can be admitted here,
Where all identity must disappear.

The disparagement of language and it's dispensations seemingly poke at me with a stick and my own lack of patience is a lead weight.  I read what is posted on the paranormal and most of it is as paranormal as a bus ticket or as intriguing as a stop sign. Why is this? Perhaps it's time to move on "where all identity must disappear..."  The question remains like a rusted fish hook or a clotted paintbrush, what lies behind all of this verbiage of images drawn from the cellar of a fish oil salesman.? It remains to be seen or not seen or to remove the divide once and for all in the provinces of the mind as the sun warms my back,
My fading self  as a slovenly passerby across the river, pulls the collar up against the prevailing ...not looking back once to curse at phantoms....nor to cajole them. Perhaps silence is the highest form of sincerity.

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