There’s a tendency toward help.

27 Jul

RA: My point is not so much about the multiplicity or unity. I agree that everything is unified at some level. The point is more about the boundaries. If you have a dynamical system with different basins and they have fractal boundaries then, as a matter of fact, no matter how you perceive it, no matter what experiment you do, you will perceive unity. When you don’t perceive unity, it is in the pathological case where you’ve erected an iron curtain. If you have iron curtains, then unity essentially has been defeated by the disease of dischaos. Therefore, when we see this in nature, in history, in social systems, in ourselves, we have to beware of these iron curtains, because they create an unnecessarily multiple situation.

Here we’ve expressed a yearning for a peaceful state beyond language. If you practice chanting, meditations and so on, then you are intentionally increasing the fractality of the boundaries, and therefore the integration of the parts into a unity. If unity is your goal, then you have to examine the fractal width of all your boundaries, and guard against boundaries that are too thin.

Image

RS: How do you fractalize your boundaries? Can you give a personal example?

RA: In the emerging science of neural nets this is called annealing. One thing you can do is take a psychedelic. Another thing you can do is go to a culture that’s really different from your own and stay there for seven years on a farm or something. If you have a mate of any gender, you’re certainly in a more chaotic situation. These two-person units definitely have diseases, and few of them survive these days. I’m making a suggestion here as to what’s the trouble, and I’m suggesting a strategy, a kind of therapeutic technique. People are trying out this idea, by the way.

 

RA: Ralph Abrams

RS: Rupert Sheldrake

from  The Evolutionary Mind

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This is what I have always wanted, but I must not betray signs of eagerness.

11 Jul

TM: The answer to how the pigeon finds its way home is that a portion of the pigeon’s mind is already home and never left home. We, gazing at this, assume that pigeons, monarch butterflies, and so forth, are simpler systems than ourselves, when in fact, our assumption of the unknowability of the future creates a problem where there is no problem. It’s only in the domain of language, and perhaps only the domain of certain languages, that this becomes a problem.

They don’t love you like I love you

7 Jul

TM: In the million years preceding the impact that killed the dinosaurs, an enormous extinction was already underway, that we’ve not been able to figure out. It’s as if the Earth knew what was coming. What I’m suggesting is that biology knows. Biology has a complete four-dimensional or five-dimensional map of the planet’s history. The map says, “A comet’s on the way; let’s get these monkeys moving,” leading to the production of sufficient complexity that when the event of impact occurs, it will be transcendent.

TM: I’ve thought of many, many ways of expressing this that would make it less catastrophically radical. A very simple way that makes everybody feel a little better is to suppose that what happens on December 21, 2012 is that physicists who’ve been laboring for some time toward the technology of time travel actually succeed. Suddenly the timewave is fulfilled, and yet the heavens do not fall, and angels don’t appear to lift us into paradise. The reason history ends at that date is because after the invention of time travel the notion of a serial of events ceases to have any meaning. Everybody agrees history ended yesterday. We then experience life in a post-historical a-temporal bubble where you not only tell where you live, but when you live.

–from The Evolutionary Mind, T McKenna, R Abraham, R Sheldrake

you’re doing it he said.

2 Jul

“out of the impossible i have no choice but to fabricate the future something said in me.  then n laid me down and gave me shiatsu and when i got up from it n said i looked different and indeed i felt different.  i have walked to shed everything with which i had formerly been laden.  then my heart got tired and tired.  inside your head the skull says i don’t want to know what it feels like to be you anymore.  puts the substance of grass into her fists.  talks aloud.  the snake upon the bursted fruit.  i see a sand where i hold a purple stone up to my eye.  ratchet the image up to the level of myself.  many friends called but i wasn’t home.  then i got home and i was like no actually, no.  nobody’s home actually.  nobody’s home.  i closed the curtains and took off my clothes and laid down on the floor.  then a god like a clod of earth descended to the level of my head and looked upon me.  i don’t remember how to be in the world i said to it.  i wanted to cry and be comforted but maintained my composure and grace, insofar as i could, being that i lay there, prostrate as one might say.  i said, i don’t remember how to be in the world; even how to want to; i just project this voice out of the boiling pit at the base of my spine.  that is correct it said.  well i don’t really want to anymore.  that is well understood by us said the little god.  i asked it what it wanted from me now.  i’m killed i added.  i don’t want to write another book or a play.  additionally i don’t want to go outside at all.  or to eat or drink or know anything or say anything.  everything beautiful doesn’t entice me anymore, what is wrong with me, i don’t even want anything.  i don’t want anything little god, i said, what is wrong with me.  he put away childhood things said the little god, quoting john ashbery.  why won’t you just tell me what to do i said.  you’re doing it he said.  this?  what i’m doing as i am doing it?  like little jesus on the cross we like you like this said the little god.  i don’t like it at all i said.  what comes to me i often do not want.  that feels like a sin i said.  the fish leaps onto my hook.  i unhook the hook from its bloodied cheek and throw it back.  i do not eat the fish which nevertheless dies.  why am i on this pier, whose buoys are those bouncing there, what do you want with me here little god.  you are here to be sick and to convalesce it said.  you are here for the vision we have prepared for you, toward whose purpose the sun will heat you.  there will be a flood and there will be a world there said the small god, a world like a blade of grass.  can you draw me back out of this death i asked.  can you reverse my root i asked it.  i can it said.  will you i asked.  yes it said.  i will.  but there is one thing said the little god.  anything i said, tell me it, tell me it.  this adventure with form that you’ve had, this adventure with form you’ve embarked upon by distrusting it so said the little god.  yes i said wearily, my adventure with form, i remember it well, it tastes like puke in my mouth, fleeing everything willing to take shape.  indeed said the little god, your abstraction has nearly killed you.  do i not have form said the little god.  you do i said.  and so do you he said.  barely anymore i said i am so catastrophized and i have seen too much sorrow.  i think god has no shape because of how much misery he’s seen and i feel guilty like him in all his formlessness.  you are a clever girl said the little god but of course you also know it is not so simple.  i know little god i said.  you are commanding that i remember how to wear clothes, how to have taste, how to be a woman, how to want things and care about things.  you want me to take a shape as you have taken one.  correct said the little god.  i have taken this one for your sake, this shape.  I can take others.  i don’t want to think about what you do for others i said, in my delirium misapprehending his meaning a bit, i don’t want to think about you in other shapes.  i want you to be only for me little god.  as it happens said the little god, i am only for you.  you will get sick said the little god and then you will not be sick anymore and then you will enter the world.  if you say so i said.  that means making a choice said the little god.  uh huh i said.  the choice of a voice is no longer my choice i added.  correct said the little god.  it is now required that you make of form, in form, a choice.  a formal choice is what will be required of you said the little god.  and that he said is what will become you.”

A. Reines

everything is good EVERY day / blue shoes with / blue shoelaces

25 Jun

(from Agenda De L’ectricite 1932)

   room 119

“the planets gouge out symmetry / leaving mouthfuls re / of marks,     a black burial,   the / arched back                  e / / the soul a sort / of sailor, a sort of trouble, unsigned / prophecy / countersinking / sunglow necking with a whale / speaking devotion / / oh yes / oh yes upside down / / so say that you / are bravery,     a supersmall tree / on a large island, a newborn’s / silver growl, all hands investigating / euphoria / / when something is above words / (ceramic) say / that you invest your entire body / in magnifying it    (i admit, i / invested in the body of the whale / a kind of beautiful psychological structure / / if you are anything you are / unspiritual     unspiritual / is all right)”

–S. Lariviere, from salt hotel 

( with all apologies for TFL (total format loss )) 

She saw a white horse roll in wild strawberries, and stand up red.

24 Jun

“He might just as well have said, ‘small is free, efficient, creative, enjoyable, enduring’–for such is the anarchist faith.

“Reaching backward, this tradition embraces communal, handicraft, tribal, guild, and village lifestyles as old as the neolithic cultures. In that sense, it is not an ideology at all, but a wisdom gathered from historical experience. In our own time, it has reemerged spontaneously in the communitarian experiments and honest craftsmanship of the counterculture, where we find so many desperate and often resourceful efforts among young dropouts to make do in simple, free, and self-respecting ways amid the criminal waste and managerial congestion. How strange that this renewed interest in ancient ways of livelihood and community should reappear even as our operations researchers begin to conceive their most ambitious dreams of cybernated glory. And yet how appropriate. For if there is to be a humanly tolerable world on this dark side of the emergent technocratic world-system, it will surely have to flower from this still fragile renaissance of organic husbandry, communal households, and do-it-yourself technics whose first faint outlines we can trace through the pages of publications like the Whole Earth Catalog, the Mother Earth News, and the People’s Yellow Pages.

–T. Roszac, in his introducation to E.F. Schumacher’s Small is Beautiful

He was a clod of dirt that the light splits

24 Jun

“‘No,’ he said to Obenchain–but Obenchain was already far behind him on the bluff, his head swaying like a blind man’s. No, indeed. The sky came carousing down around him. He saw the sun drenching the green westward islands and battering a path down the water. He saw the town before him to the south, where the trestle lighted down. Then far on the Nooksack plain to the east, he saw a man walking. The distant figure was turning pea rows over in perfect silence. He was dressed in horse’s harness and he pulled the plow. His feet trod his figure’s long blue shadow, and the plow cut its long blue shadow in the ground . The man turned back as if to look along the furrow, to check its straightness. Clare saw again, on the plain farther north, another man; this one walked behind a horse and turned the green ground under. Then before him on the trestle over the water he saw the earth itself walking, the earth walking darkly as it always walks in every season: it was plowing the men under, and the horses, and the plows.

“The earth was plowing the men under, and the horses under, and the plows. No wonder you are cold, he said to the lighted water: you kicked your people off. No generation sees it happen, and the damp new fields grow up forgetting. He would return home and see his cedar shingles off on the train. Clare was burrowing in light upstream. All the living were breasting into the crest of the present together. All men and women and children spread in a long line, holding aloft a ribbon or banner; they ran up a field as wide as earth, opening time like a path in the grass, and he was borne along with them. No, he said, peeling the light back, walking in the sky toward home; no.”

–A. Dillard, The Living