The Possession of Memory

The Recapitulation of The Quantum
The triangulation of our spacial orientation as divided from the whole is a marvelous invention of compounded referents that the admirers of chaos would remark to us as a local rube as to passer-bys in a provincial setting, "Look here buddy just because you see a pattern here, does not mean you are not lost." The familiarity of ourselves in relation to the nature of the recollection of referents does not mean we possess a map as to what it may be we are composed by and from, let alone, where we are.

Perhaps human sentience requires an exorcist.

The local madman proclaims as we walk away in disgust "You did not invent yourself and yet you imagine you did.. so you have no idea where you are, do you?" Smart ass.   Where we come from, it's impolitic to call a bluff. The disambiguation of a knot calls forth a snort from the gentleman holding a winning hand in the midst of a dream with stake holders.

To the Non Human, Welcome to Earth and keep your opinions to yourself and you will find no problems here to speak of. To get along, we go along, if you catch my drift..there are no options to the historical record unless you are Ambrose Bierce or Weldon Kees.

In the last post, I ruminated on reality being possibly composed more as an artists canvas, a subjectivity of memory applied to the mediums at hand, that utilizes relations as brush strokes, creating a portrait of potentiality itself, metamorphosing them as as a transformative, living diorama, a canvas of expression and this capability plays with the genome of material memory that the paranormal holds sway upon this, rearranging recombinant relations through ourselves as sleeping mediums.  Whom or What owns this memory? Then again, define ownership. Is use ownership, or is the attachment of language as a mimic of memory taken possession of memory itself, yet this sleight of hand bears no relation whatsoever to the reality of realities. Follow the language into the genome of possession from one localized habitat to another. In one sense of the true relativity of language as a barometer of sentience, the dogs and dolphins know more than i do in the constraints of this linearity encapsulated by symbols as referents. Round pegs in the habitation of seeking square holes for expression. Walk on to the strange using foundational techniques to do pushups while wrestling with the non human with a borrowed face. Another town, another story altogether in this here universe. The drifter amongst binaries in search of a triangulation knowing there is no free lunch.

In this perhaps we truly own absolutely nothing from the personal confabulations to the historical record. In this post we examine the illusion that we own reality rather than being a borrower, a collector, a curator of what could best be called the artifacts of a high art that is simply put, that has migrated from elsewhere to somewhere, depending on where the king hangs his new clothes. Recollection is an apt word, perhaps a key word in regard to sentience, and how our working definitions of such may require redefining.

The Fractals of Memory
 There are perhaps no ghosts, no UFO's, no strange creatures upon the Earth that we do not ourselves call forth which is stranger than most considerations put forth as postulates.
The observer as a medium of memory, a quality of memory that is the constituent fractal creating more and more space in it's differentiation, where the inside meets the outside, is neither here nor there, which is why we trip over our shoes when performing this ballet.  In the parallel strata of relations, spacial orientation is posited by sleights of hand. We may be ourselves neither here nor there.

Memory is perhaps a genome that the Universes utilizes as fractal strands that enfold upon themselves between the pulses of it's life and death and reconstitution when we consider we carry the inheritance of the dead in our blood which is why the meta-physicians place such a high valuation upon it that the unwise sacrificed it long ago. The memory of the essence of life which we pass through on our way elsewhere. None of which is by our own volition or origin as the somatic is borrowed perhaps so is the capability to recollect, to borrow, to refashion memory as the paranormal does in a astonishing act of mediumship that we ourselves act out every moment within a moment. We ourselves own nothing of which we fashion ourselves as projections of a certain predetermined orientation set by language. Or not.
  
The Reconstitution of The Body of The Universe
It is not so strange to consider that the universe reconstitutes itself through our memory as a fractal of it's own and this relation of a universe that is not linear lends itself to what I think it may be akin to a pulsation, if you will rather than a crude explosion leading to nothing, and we being a cell in the sentience of matter as in all things co-joined to one another, whether we are dead or alive might be a matter of relativity as the universe itself is never the same twice as are relations in of themselves never the same twice, perhaps similar but not exact replications of memory. The origin of the universe, as someone said must account for sentience. If so then the recollection of memory as well as a spiraling genome that folds in on itself by the transformation of it's memory.

Language As a Mimic of Memory
You are human but you are not the same human as I or for that matter, who you were ten minutes ago. There is no fixation of positioning in this fluidity of memory which we are passing through although we believe with a deep conviction that we possess it as an objectification, no memory is truly our own perhaps. "This is mine because I said so" The Universe may think otherwise.

The agencies of ownership are foundational to the mimic of memory which is language, the ownership of words to the objectification of fixed assets which we personalise. We are perhaps mediums of a memory created for us through us that we have no possession of although as the genome of the somatic tells us we can relive death and life itself by this strand in the craftsmanship of the non human. This is the subconscious root that we are distinct and yet related, strange to one another as diatoms to popcorn, but yet what lies beneath our stave's, notes, the treble clefs of this music of the spheres is the capability to relive the dead, the past, reinvent it if we may chose or do so as a sleight of hand in the common denominator of memory  that language mimics as a poor relation.

Ghost Memories
Does any of this bear on the relationship of where the genome lies for the habitation of ghosts as a nature of memory? This I think I will leave for the next post, and the simulation of the persona as the software that is at the heart of space itself, the signifier and the signified are referents of relations that asks the question of the chicken or the egg leading to a certain infamous cat as an exercise in physics that falls on the sword of rationality. We bump and crash against the barriers to ourselves we have set by default. The old man sighs.  Are we ghosts as mediums of referents? And if we are ghosts, borrowers and collectors with no possessions, living in a sort of poverty, then what are "they"? What is the difference in sentience between a classic ghost and the one in the biologic machine as a living system? Perhaps we should tinker with this file cabinet, throw it off the roof..as if we had a choice in these matters..non local data drives the illusion of movement as the observer rewinds the post editorial software of memory,attempting to correct an error in over riding the programming language... while we chase the monkeys on bicycles through the jungle .. roll the credits..