Showing posts with label Observer As Dramatis Personae. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Observer As Dramatis Personae. Show all posts

Friday, October 1, 2010

A Meeting Before A Summit

The Voluntary Slavery of Self


"Suddenly I began to find a strange meaning in old fairy-tales; woods, rivers, mountains, became living beings; mysterious life filled the night; with new interests and new expectations I began to dream again of distant travels; and I remembered many extraordinary things that I had heard about old monasteries. Ideas and feelings which had long since ceased to interest me suddenly began to assume significance and interest. A deep meaning and many subtle allegories appeared in what only yesterday had seemed to be naive popular fantasy or crude superstition. And the greatest mystery and the greatest miracle was that the thought became possible that death may not exist, that those who have gone may not have vanished altogether, but exist somewhere and somehow, and that perhaps I may see them again. I have become so accustomed to think "scientifically" that I am afraid even to imagine that there may be something else beyond the outer covering of life. I feel like a man condemned to death, whose companions have been hanged and who has already become reconciled to the thought that the same fate awaits him; and suddenly he hears that his companions are alive, that they have escaped and that there is hope also for him. And he fears to believe this, because it would be so terrible if it proved to be false, and nothing would remain but prison and the expectation of execution."
— P.D. Ouspensky (A New Model of the Universe)



Even when we come to the general and primary reductionism of the paranormal spectrum and pronounce that all of it is between the Self and Non Self. To me, this is simply a Cartesian trap. Where are the gaps or boundary layers or clear delineations in a spectrum of light? The answer is clear, there are none. So between the Self and Non Self, what exists? The older I become I see that this is where the material becomes invisible and the invisible becomes material, akin to the intermediate danger zone that the Taoists warned us of, albeit indirectly.

Discernment and self awareness are a learned and unnatural sacrifice we make in order to rid ourselves of this awful anthropomorphism applied to reality. Everything is arranged to keep us locked in ourselves and after so many decades I wonder if that is not well justifiable at this point.

"I" as an artifact of human commerce appears to be a sedentary creature, but, in the realm of barter, in the realm of guile, and in the realm of the paranormal, each of us has multiple personalities.

The curious and humble purveyor of selfless truth. The defensive and angered righteousness of hurt feelings. The debt collector of what is owed. The rapacious seeker of Self through the desire of another, to possess. All of these we own. Who or what is "I"?

What gear is tripped like a player piano scroll being activated by a stimulus that we have created ourselves within us? I prefer salt to pepper, a hot dog to a hamburger. What do you value the most? What do you loathe? Are you capable of destroying both as an aim?

Are we Pinocchio up on that moonlit ledge wishing to become real and then the world thus becomes real? Do you think of this when pursuing the ghost memories of others? Do you turn in fright at what you may be versus what you prefer to chose?

Is language more important than not having a way to describe the incommensurable?
What are we sacrificing to when we go out on a dark night and search the sky for phantom ships?

The multiple personalities of the observer and their compounded interest are perhaps a debt that is collected when confronted the strange.

Many claim that quantum principles are only operand at a subatomic level, which I have been saying for well over two years that this is not necessarily so. A cyberneticist I know tells me everything is behavioral. A mathematician would say it's externalized demarcations. A theologian would say it is a contest between light and darkness. A physicist would say it is the storage, transformation and irradiation of energy. A philosopher would say it is value applied to form. Each is perhaps correct and each is patently wrong. The observer bias tainting reality or reality as an outcome is not confined to the subatomic realm.

So much redundant material is self referential. I read posts by many authors in the common locations where they are gathered and they have a certain thermodynamic of consensus where such and such is repeated, reinforced and given a momentum, that if the phenomenon vanished or did not occur in the first place, you could place a blank scroll from here to the moon to be filled up with future verbiage to affirm it's intermediary existence as a relic of anthropomorphism.

Everyone wants a chair when the music stops. A provisional, defensive stance masked as an affirmation.

Why? Our language is a trap that defines what is allowed. We are pushed here, pulled there because of it's phenomenological and proverbial gravitational field.

Science without theology or theology without science. Take your pick and both are hopelessly, well, provincial, quaint and are, in the end, fables when one is opposed to the other. We know this, you and I. We only see what we allow ourselves to see and thus are unintentional creators of jewelry that defines us by defining the exterior of this demarcation we have set in the midst of what is a spectrum. I know I am a rube in this and have said so. Many claim by inference to be cultivated sophisticates with a inside track on a universal conceptual model of reality which has one facet of a infinite fractal and holographic outer circumference as a imprint or stamp that pounds out our reactive edicts. When faced with them, I run as fast as I can and hold my head under a sink of cold water. I would prefer to believe anything to rid myself of sincerity, as we all would. But we know it becomes like Gurdjieff's joke of a "thousand year old frozen turkey." Tasteless, having zero nutrition, dry, difficult to swallow... and yet preserved so finely...Ah, this must be a truism then, look at how ell it has withstood the vulgarities of Time. Of course this preservation was due to artifice.

Our expedition up Mount Analog pauses here to ascertain the cost of return, and the cost of going further. We recheck our supplies. We inventory our health. We know that Time is counted. There is no particular urge to discuss the nature of this risk as in this environment we know beyond any intellectual knowledge that we are contingent. Our native guides warn us regarding our self comforting allusions to how prepared we are, as the line of corpses litter the caves and crevices in this graveyard, frozen where they fell or where they simply closed the eyes and awaited their place to become organic statuary is self evident. This distance is not covered in miles. It is covered by steps.

Beyond us, and below us is the bartering and bustle of the village, whose commerce is adapted to traditions of environment and pragmatism, and we from their line of sight have become invisible specks, as tiny, random cinders on the glare reflected by the sun on the summit. Words like "paranormal" sound like a proverbial slang for an artificial sweetener.To us. To them it is a trade of commerce, a rumor, a cause for armchair adventurism. A stimulant.

Here, where the air is thin, it is more basic, more evident and more compelling as a voluntary sacrifice to the mountain. Nothing is guaranteed in return. My good friend Carter has been listening while poking a stick in the ground. We both have failed relationships, discarded money and foolish trinkets traded for blood behind us, as well as death, which is as stark and as unforgiving as our aim.

We stand as we get up to leave the tent and the wind is incessant, loud and a white noise like bacon frying in a pan. He stops and turns to me as he pauses.

" Is this a goal or a long term and well planned suicide?"
I laugh with a nervous edge.
" We are becoming invisible, not invincible"
" So it's both in a sense"
" That's what we have come to discover"
He digest this and as always responds with a smirk.
He asks with more than a trace of irony, "Are you ready?"
I shout above this din. "No!"
He responds by opening the flap to the tent and all hell breaks lose,
as he responds, "Good, you're ready then...let's go"

Fade to white.

Tuesday, January 26, 2010

Light Without Heat Nor Fire

The Implicate Ordering and Dramatis Personae of The Observer

"I were better to be eaten to death with a rust than to be scoured to nothing with perpetual motion." - King Henry IV. Part II, Act I, Sc. II



The Madman At The Gates of Dawn
This post is a reflection of a intermittent dialog I had with an acquaintance who was more of a prophet entrapped in a variety of allusions that he unfortunately had made manifest, who was consequently diagnosed as a schizophrenic locked within the barred confines of a secure ward in a military psychiatric hospital. I was posed to be his keeper and inadvertently became his secret sharer, as he sought me out to explain what he termed the powers of principalities. The Greek word for "powers" is exousia which means derived or conferred authority, the warrant or right to do something, or delegated influences of control. All of this is a true account and yet a metaphor as all of my experiential instincts have so informed me. This post was also compelled by yet another re-reading of "The Divine Governance of The Human Kingdom" by Ibn Al Arabi, which is a misleading title if there ever was one, as associative conceptual models in titles, as in life, overshadow the bones upon which the meat is hung.

The Virtual In The Material
"All difficult things have their origin in that which is easy, and great things in that which is small."
-Lao Tzu

In the enmeshed stew of disparate threads that produce the ill fitting garment of the anomalous, no square peg so permeates our curiosity irregardless of whatever form it may take, than that form of radiant energy that interpenetrates and intersects the observer with no visible thread or umbilicus cord to either nature or our own blithe theft of it's forces... than a light without heat nor fire, of most mysterious origin. What illuminates the eye without form, yet itself creates form to be sensed? Does this black light have sinews and tendons that seeming by happenstance are ignited by the passerby, that is called forth as a form without substance?


What knocks the door, moves the knife, walks the floors, whispers and cajoles for ill or good effect and can propel the seemingly translucent jellyfish that swim alight in our deepest midnight sky in a pantomime of human behaviors? Aye,"There's the rub..." What is accelerating the dispersion of the material universe as it expands, seeming to fly apart from it's seams? A dark matter indeed in this puppetry. Is it the same garment that inflicts itself upon the organizing principles of cellular intelligence, that yet feels remorse, anticipation or for that matter ,that props the scavenging eagle up on the limb of that tree?

The discernment of the animator and the animated... casting interpenetrating shadows upon the other as a flux, an unsettled debt between the two. An interdependence is an allied force in this contest of mutual interest. Could it be that what casts a dark shadow is compelled to know itself by the shadow it casts? Who are the ghosts in this matter? In this we perhaps share a secret that one seeks the other in it's selves, divided at birth, reunited by the fragmentation of the shell it has carried in that invention is what we must abide by until our time is nigh, and the mirror of self reflection lies broken at the bottom of a vault or in a box of ashes. In this I suggest there is a implicate ordering of which we borrow, and gather, collect and cherish in a hod upon our backs like a bricklayer cast as a compulsive pack rat, making images as a form of mimicry, in our own image. Imitation is perhaps the sincerest form of flattery, dear reader, and I am simply a puppet arranging new strings, to pull back as well as to be pulled as so it may have been arranged long before my recruitment in this bizarre service toward unfolding a riddle. The Paranormalist haunts as he is haunted, in the debris and artifacts of his imaginative powers of creation, without seeking an appropriate totem, or altar to sacrifice upon. It may be that such is the ignorance of ghosts.


Sentience in the refraction of mirrors is an illusive quarry at it's root in a tree that differentiates and animates the cliche and the damned alike. It writhes in pain, feels the warmth upon it's skin, and walks upon the surface of matter as Horatio's ghost, exhorting us to abandon our wandering in these artifacts, casting names as lame spells, and arranging matter like bees to suit another purpose that we know not? Is the purpose itself transcendent of opposing thumbs as the acts of creations we stage are simply props back lit by what, pray tell ?



Fact or Fiction As A Question of The Imagination
The computational alphabetics of reason interlock through the weaving matrix of differentiation and discernment; it "knows" innately as if it were the elixir of instinct, that the the truest distinction is absent in all observable things. In contrast,our unveiling predisposition to conceptualize functions through imagination, perceives identity and sameness rather than distinctions and differentiation. The seeming interdependence of distinctions and their discernment is left to the observer as a arranged question, a posture we are strung as a compelling force and ordains the existential fact that we must react upon our arrival in this situation, provoked as it were.


To postulate that the supernatural is either absent or present is, as Ibn Al Arabi observed, to ascertain our cognition of our situation with only one eye opened. The experiential knowledge of a "super-nature" involves seeing with both eyes, the eye of reason and as Al-Arabi would have it, the eye of unveiling as well as the eye of imagination. It is either a fact or a fiction, we say, but that is to allude to the central axis of sincerity that says, this ghost of the material is neither one.

A Conception Without Evidence

"A good traveler has no fixed plans, and is not intent on arriving."
-Lao Tzu

What a strange lot to be able as a central arrangement of sentience itself to conceive of matter being arranged in a manner for which there is no direct evidence to ascertain the balance between fact or fiction. In this, we pose a straw dog dressed in our best ornamental finery, which is to say, the substitution of totems for discernment is our lot, on the whole and how tragic this is as well as being a comedy that Dante would still be dancing amidst if the stakes were not so high, to have risen beyond the flood stage. Read the titles of most posts on the paranormal and our authors have abided by these most simple truisms. Wittenstein would have blushed equally at the babble of Richard Dawkins or a Rupert Sheldrake, as well as that of my own or that of any who would inscribe their own epitaph upon the formless which we predefine the heavens within. Ignorance is no longer bliss in this affair.


The more uncertainty presents itself, the reactive prescription is it's banishment of the invocation of totems, the totem of the ghost which denies it's existence in the living, the totem of the alien which denies our own estrangement from prescient comfort in our own skin in his daft reflection of our station. What dreams may alight upon our ill cast distinctions? Shall we say, as to coin a pun, that the sky is the limit? Are we played as we play, disabused of our script, our theological language is spelled out by the behaviors that are wrought by our own sculpted memes,the sacred and the profane dance in a spiral nebula of blind causation's and what of our own cherished adversaries, the governments, the intercessors, the cloying and the seeming dead who walk among us only to babble with unfounded conviction? We are all these things within ourselves, a rabble of conflicted soothsayers upon this stage. A Dramatis Personae.