Monday, March 7, 2011

A Codex of Folds and Spirals Through Many Lives Lived As One.


"...a stone, a leaf, an unfound door; of a stone, a leaf, a door. And of all the forgotten faces. Naked and alone we came into exile. In her dark womb we did not know our mother's face; from the prison of her flesh we come into the unspeakable and incommunicable prison of this earth. Which of us has known his brother? Which of us has looked into his father's heart? Which of us has not remained forever prison-pent? Which of us is not forever a stranger and alone? O waste of loss, in the hot mazes, lost, among bright stars on this most weary unbright cinder, lost! Remembering speechlessly we seek the great forgotten language, the lost lane-end into heaven, a stone, a leaf, an unfound door. Where? When? O lost, and by the wind grieved, ghost, come back again." _ Thomas Wolfe

"All are lunatics, but he who can analyze his delusion is called a philosopher."  
~Ambrose Bierce, Epigrams

The Spacial Variegation of One

 One of the more interesting concepts that I have explored is the personal aspects of memory, spacial relations termed time and parallel existences, or if you will simultaneous  realities of a singular life with an unlimited variety of outcomes, which first occurred to me in 1987, which my wife and I briefly discussed at that time and then off and on again over the course of our time together. The subliminal context of Descartes ghost, which is the ghost is a matter of orientation in relation to the fold of a mirror, or as that primer on the anarchy of chaos suggested, that cat is both alive and dead regardless of what your lithography of the senses in your memory portrays.The madman wanders haphazardly in the forest shouting "Rationality is the scrim of navigation!"

This concept of multiple orientations to the fractal of memory which we inhabit rather than possess, actually arose much earlier and certainly as one who does not allow credence to the personal possession of memory, other than a sleight of hand, the origination of this seed with many branches originated with the reading of the stories of Ambrose Bierce, who certainly had a very profound effect on another writer, which is Rod Serling, who went so far as to end his "Twilight Zone" series with a wonderful rendition of Bierce's "The Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge." Parallel computational relations as spacial characteristics in a singular image. A strange fabric of pointillism, a trick of the light, the crystalus of memory as a genome that differentiates as a growing organism to be absorbed by a parallelism of many lives as one lived simultaneously. Immersed in light parasitically tied by totems, we wander in the dark sea in search of land and find effects, outcomes tied at the feet to become variations of another's narrative who follows the same script without fully digesting that the mind is a stomach for the behaviors. No amount of colonic therapy eases the production of waste products, or so it seems on a day when your pet corn is stepped on.

"It's like a boulder rolling down a hill - you can watch it and talk about it and scream and say Shit! but you can't stop it. It's just a question of where it's going to go."
— Tom Wolfe (The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test)

Whether it was the theme of a burned out individual seeking a revisionist view of his past in order to influence the present or the parallelism of stepping off a moving train to debark at a alternate station in many universes that was free of conflict, or the desperate pioneer seeking water in the desert, who seeking a future in the present, who literally walks into a equivalence of a water hole though the artifice of a gas station, these are several examples of Serling expanding Beirce's themes just as Mac Tonnies expanded those of Ray Bradbury using the parallelism of ourselves having a shadow civilization wrested from The Martian Chronicles in a feat of astonishing differentiation. The camera obscura of ourselves viewed through the alien familiarity of our own imprints as a parallelism of history, the fallen refugees haunting the surface of our planet between the lines of linearity.

 All of which are the genetic strands of a imaginarium consequent to quantum physics and spacial orientations posed as non linear narratives as a counterpoint to the profound illusion that linearity rules us, which then, Kurt Vonnegut made an enormous effort to disprove our inner world conforms to this script or narrative, by the use of Bierce's pedigree.   Of course in a quantum sense, we ask, as Beckett perhaps did, what is the rubric behind the veil of tears as a spacial plot device?

I read this interesting article from Wired as I paused in writing this post which fits as a fractal in my positioning of memories of a strange sort that I have termed lithography in a previous post as it is related to the codex of an enfolded nature that we cannot directly sense that leads into a spiraling ascent toward complexity while this differentiation remains singular as a spacial locus with complex geometries..  Or not.

 I do think it is entirely reasonable we traverse parallel variants of this plot device but can only occupy one of countless outcomes as a matter of geometry which would take a book to detail. None the less I have the sense that Mac Tonnies has an alternate variant where he did not suffer that heart attack and is still writing and blogging.

This is one of the very difficult strands in metaphysics, which is the reformulation of the past through intent which changes yet in a differentiation, creating a proverbial mutation or differentiation of one strand in the interlocking genetics of variants of many lives lived in a single moment, as it were, creating a new branch, which then brings a secretive twist to the end of time where "the dead" return to bump into us, which at the cost of a schizophrenic literary allusion,  they may already have, and they are us.

The skins of these lithographic of memory  live on and perhaps we occupy more than one. The deeper esoteric variant is that the dead rule the living, as Ouspensky observed, "losing their bones along the way."...a spacial cellular differentiation without an occupant..doing exactly what Nietzsche was wont to predict, an digital recording rather than a ongoing process, becoming a metaphysical still birth glued to an image of oneself, so firmly attached that the Gods themselves can only pass by, as this monkey rides his bicycle up and down a frozen landscape. Escape in of itself may be a destination to yet another variation, that is one petal on a lotus blossom pulled by the torrent of misplaced yet entirely rational affirmations. Given the binary of creatively embracing the self affirmative attributes of self skepticism or living one's obituary may be a false choice on the menu of lunatics. It may be neither one or the other but both. Tom Wolfe once observer that the writer's impetus in creating work is to forget while the readers impetus is to remember, and so the transfer of our genome is transfixed between the many lives, many selves lived as one each seeking the other toward a strange coherence that is well..nothing personal. Ouch, the possession of memory would have the universe in the palm of our hand.

1 comment:

  1. Wonderful post in a wonderful new blog! Try not to get discouraged by the (apparent) lack of feedback- your brain works too fast, too enigmatically, and too prolifically, leaving most brains - including my own - in the proverbial dust. Can't keep up with you!

    That being said, in regards to this post, would only it were possible to tap into that dimension where Mac still lives and blogs!

    Philip Glass, (Laurie Anderson?) Einstein on the Beach - great choice... the whispers of an enmeshed, invisible, primary/primal Other ebbs and flows.

    (Blessed Be)