The Imperative of Avoiding Silence

"To be a surrealist means barring from your mind all remembrance of what you have seen, and being always on the lookout for what has never been." - Rene Magritte

 

One of the interesting litmus tests regarding the proverbial alkalinity or acidity of paranormal experiences as an immersible, largely involuntary medium that appears on the surface to be random is the observers fit into the skin underneath the many masks of a public versus private persona.

One of these dynamics is simple enough, the reaction, the avoidance, the seeking of silence whether it is audible, visual internal or external. Your author has a smirk on his face in that the most extreme example of a fascist salute is always aimed directly at one Humpty Dumpty versus another. The pavement is thick over the dialog that questions the roots of this fractal tree of frantic and antic menu of poseurs, in a heavenly war of words that tower over the landscape of the paranormal neurosurgeon, who pry's back the skin of light to probe a darkness that informs the phantoms and monsters beneath, who have a profound desire to murder what they love.Entertaining serial killers. The masks of desire are perhaps the featureless clones of a human hive who possess a love of ritual dances..in rites of disambiguation by an invocation of behavioral patterns in the commerce of language.

We have been abducted by the genius of a madness, yet we blithely ignore the bone fragments that bear a genome of repetition to the death. Gurdjieff pokes a stiff finger forcefully into my back from the row in the theater of seats behind me.. Ouch. He says, "You see.. people no longer believe in their eyes."

Decades here have passed since the decline of the organic world began, the admonishment of oil as a fuel and yet...to sit on a wall, dance on a ledge..as yet the the probe beneath the skin reveals more skin inasmuch as..

"The imaginary is what tends to become real."
— André Breton

Disassociation by referents alone perhaps is how our ship is steered which is a frightening consideration in light of this process being as though we prefer the obscurity of our own words to comfort ourselves in a rubric of self referential eggshells, membranes, and trivial egoisms that form a singularity, a beast called Humpty Dumpty that rides roughshod over space itself as a grace, to pause, to allow accident and uncertainty to have their say in matters.

"Soon silence will have passed into legend.  Man has turned his back on silence.  Day after day he invents machines and devices that increase noise and distract humanity from the essence of life, contemplation, meditation... tooting, howling, screeching, booming, crashing, whistling, grinding, and trilling bolster his ego.  His anxiety subsides.  His inhuman void spreads monstrously like a gray vegetation."  -Jean Arp

A pause in the acceleration of words as fuel on the gas pedal toward a cliff  seem to be nearly as extinct as organic life has become. The contingent as certainties sung as a lullaby as we enter the grave without being aware of this movement, scuttled by a entertaining noise factor. What was that you said? Oh, here's the next bit, never mind. We now need a supercomputer to untangle the miasma of words alone, disassociated data lacking a driver other than the data itself? Try that on for a template factored as an existential sink hole as Rome burns.

I have found that associative clockworks or the signal noise of our recombinant platforms of information are often mistaken for awareness. That is to say, of course, using myself as an example, these whirly gigs of signal noise can be self comforting, obsessive, possessive or quite simply, a babbling nuisance. One of the first exercises I was given involved a watch held in the palm of my hand with a second hand making it's sweep in a circular measurement of time, and was asked to attempt to see how long I could avoid internal babble. Try it.

One could think of this biologically based cross talk as the countless activities of parallel processing through neurological connections like heat less sparks as ants scurrying around hither and yon to keep the somatic hive afloat against the slings and arrows of the environment, without our direct awareness of our heart beating or our pancreatic enzymes being balanced, and perhaps the mind in it's aggregate sum is perhaps is no exception. Coca Cola is our expressive modality.

Is there a driver behind the cross talk? Maybe it is the possibility of one that frightens us as we encounter a paranormal experience, that whether it be the recognition that we can be driven or in the pursuit of the paranormal we are avoiding the silence, the fit of our skin may have an itch..how much of an itch perhaps is the propensity to have such experiences...a lingering doubt, a question in our minds placed in a mirror that asks what lies behind my own babble? Silence.

 Perhaps it has nothing to do with the persona we so carefully craft and nurture that has an abundance of holes in it that we attempt to seal them by the indirect possession of  our environment, dare I say control it subconsciously as a deeply embedded desire that we see the effects of, in our cultural sociology. Information without context spans the prosaic as well as the paranormal dialogs of exchanges, whereas information becomes dissociated from the linkage to self and becomes an environmental "escape hatch" of the participative relegated to the realm of sociological voyeurs while a psychic storm cloud of repressed anxieties blooms in the paranormal realm like a black rose, a suppressed scream hidden by dilettantes..with every finger attempting to cover the holes in the dike where the ocean rises in anger. The tensional dynamics of the surface written by canaries in a coal mine.

Reality made in our own image. How self referential is That which we have conceived of and perhaps the best response is as Pythagoras thought that toward all this viewing of reality through a human eye.. "It is better wither to be silent, or to say things of more value than silence. Sooner throw a pearl at hazard than an idle or useless word.." Always in his own image is all, in an inversion of the incommensurable, which is perhaps best reproached by silence in the face of an immeasurable self glorification at the expense of nature.

"A constant human error: to believe in an end to one's fantasies. Our daydreams are the measure of our unreachable truth. The secret of all things lies in the emptiness of the formula that guard them."
— Floriano Martins

The passivity of television, the walking while talking, the trumping of the outrageous as a ginned up heat sink for thought. A whirlpool in the eddy's of  paranormal currents, a strange form of existentialism that will accept any information, any old tale to avoid radio silence. In short, a unconscious addiction to our own biological constraints that requires no deeper conscious rumination to have it spin like a top.

"Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never..." The old man turns his back and refuses to engage us. Perhaps too much has already been said and this he thinks, as if an instinct has gone far beyond words...like a web, a sticky entanglement of stringing nouns vowels and verbs to catch the inexpressible we all run away from as fast as we can, while appearing to be rational..He thinks it now to be a preferable choice to have said nothing..but there is no amnesty from this, in this world or the next..Listen to him, he raves..did you hear what he just said? We heard him from a distance.."Humpty Dumpty is an autocrat!"

The spin doctors of the paranormal are well known but we are all perhaps critics without any authorship under our belts. The human compulsion to overlay, pave and interject words in the midst of the right angles of our architectures, may be the source of some despairing amusement from as they say, the other side of what constitutes life which may be attempting beyond the human recording of it's attributes,  to be heard. Yet more and more, what I can see and taste and touch internally is a proverbial busy signal on the party line. Self skepticism seems to be a opinion toward the other rather than our own context of creating outcomes.

Something is off balance here....and there. How many more communication satellites do we need? The sky is literally the limit. I am exploring the context or environmental factors in which the paranormal is imprinted on the prosaic as a counter narrative yet to be described. Weight and counterweight in the co-joined orbital rotation of interior planets of a moon that may be lock stepped in a dance of an illusion of communication. Keep modality at home, look at the psychic environment.The body language of the spirit is behavior.

Yet we fear an unknown actor, the motives, yet to be revealed. We do not fear death but what comes afterward and so uncertainty more and more is driven over by experts and vested interests.

Is the avoidance of silence a  technologically enhanced addiction? Is the inability to maintain 'radio silence" a barrier to the immersion of both creative attempts to cross the brackets of language as well as being able to listen when the non local attempts to interject a concept?  Do we talk over our experiences? Is perhaps the goal of evolution not to become clever users of communication making sounds to over ride the environment but to become better listeners? Does communication preempt the rumination on it's context, while in flight, as it were?   Do we require a magazine or a program or a borrowed philosophy in order to function? What is by some miracle, all the world in it's telecommunications became silent?  We might meet our neighbors, we might greet our fellow creatures on the street..we might even begin the first steps of communicating a context not borrowed as a voyeur would do, by an environment of communication lacking a ground wire, or a kite without a string.

As goes the prosaic, so goes the paranormal in search of perfection through words alone, when words may be of no use toward that goal of erasing uncertainty as found in our own biology..yes, the imperative of avoiding silence at all cost and what a cost this is, my own debt included in this, which can never be repaid by attrition, or good works..the codex of the human is oiled by blood, and sinews in search of recognition by dancing and prancing atop a wall...

The old man waves us off, do not approach..he knows us better than he knows himself..