tree in a fractal mindscape

Time appears to pass as the pattern grows more and more intricate, branching into trees of mirroring metaphor which seek to translate the energy into it's manifest meta-form. Immanent in the seed of the tree is it's morphogenesis, from beginning to it's bifurcating end and it's reiterative saplings reincarnating their roots elsewhere. How far we branch out in our time becomes limited by the directionality of our root structure. Each moment branches as the inevitable result of all others and any moment could be the one where the evolutionary equilibrium is punctuated to a new growth state. 

We communicate upon the bounded time of those who came before us, daring to put their roots into the ground, grow, and branch out into new forms. The intricacies of the growth patterns are unique space-time events, albeit cyclically recursive ones. As a human organism in collective species co-evolution, our historical stream of consciousness is created within the creodes of co-relative continuity between collective processes reaching a flowering culmination in each iteration of communication, giving the innermost ecology a breath of fresh air.

 Every transmission, a big bang of creative reality which is an infinite improbability within entropic deterministic symmetry. The pattern grows more and more intricate. Yet, it appears as if we cannot envision the pattern's totality except but from it's reflection along our boundaries' periphery. Along the periphery, where the seed of meaning musing in this metaphor might grow branches into matters of the manifest mind. 

An echo of infinity

An echo of infinity speaks it's memory of eternity through the crystalline substratum of limitation. The substrate is a crystalline structure of shadow matrices formed by agglutination, the clumping of isolated particles of meaning and metaphor in simple addition from outwards inwards, and the final distribution of energy in the system being such as to cause no further motion. The substrate of culture crystallizes consciousness from it's creative chaos into creodes of cognitive accumulation and habituation. The substrate is reality defined by rigid towers of referents and hypostasis. The cold concrete congealing order-chaos which paves the flowing dynamic blood of the chaos-order. Chaotic order of pulsating autonomic resonances which pump the emanations of our heart like the energetic storms of the sun and oscillate arabesques of movement and stillness which flow between the breath and the wind..

The substrate is not completely inert but is as a lead being alchemically transmutated by the flame of eternity. The logos is the laser light of eternity intersecting through the holographic substrate. An eternally shifting latticework of the manifest world as wisdom's record of it's  gnomonic expansion, which is already complete outside of the boundary of space-time. The signal of eternity broadcasts like a alien-pirate radio station jamming the noise of demiurgic pop irreality with implicit negentropic unity. 


From our resonant ecstasis with eternity, we find that as eternity- we left a string within the labyrinthine to find a way back to ourselves. 

Seemingly, it is ascertained in only brief flashes of encompassing beauty or cascading waves of meaning washing upon the observer. As the waves whirl and pull back upon themselves into an ocean of forgetting, each recursive turn on the spiral pattern attracts the substrate to the transcendence of immanent eternal remembrance which it is heliotropically drawn towards..

Both pre-Socratic philsophers, Parmenides and Heraclitus were correct. Parmenides might have suggested that all movement and time was an illusion, and there was only the One- Only eternity. Where as Heraclitus would say that Nothing endures but change. All is flux. Both are correct. Eternal flux. We are the silent observer in eternity and the shifting shadowy substratum of wisdom's completion. We are both genetic and epigenetic phenomena coupled within a single evolutionary substrate (Tao).

    The externalizations of the substrate are their own negentropic creation with their own ends which aren't necessarily that of the genetic. We, as a cultural substrate, generally seem to be unaware that a bifurcation has even taken place. We either identify with the crystalline machinations of the epigenetic and it's need for evolutionary transcendence while ignoring the biological roots of rhizomatic immanence or vis versa. We can be in the axis mundi between. We see not our light but through our shadow; just as eternity sees itself through eyes of time. On the tree of life, Kether is not seen but refracted through Malkuth. Out of the abyss comes an echo of infinity in a strange loop where we arrive back where we started only to really know that place for the first time..

(The fourth wall of Da'ath)

and I think to myself- what a wonderful world.

The will of the living and non-living things are exchanging properties. Anthropomorphic shells swarm blinking with headlight insect eyes through the superhighway veins of a concrete beast whose whirring wheels hum into a rumble subtlely blending with the sound on the ground of cadydids and grasshoppers in the distance. The insectoid hum rises to a peak and falls as another steel shell rumble tumbles down the perspective point of the highway, passing a streetlight just as it switches on...

As the sun sets, sky shifts into shades of phosphorescence and violet clouds upon a spectral sky. Through the air intensified by the fuming lungs and oil black blood of a concrete beast digesting the ancient reptilian fossil energies which power the shells. Sunsets and rises, falls and born anew, stop and go, fast and slow, red and green, gas and caffeine, shells in the veins flowing towards some point unseen. Seen across vast vistas of space-time, swarming locusts of language. Within steel shells are the people, each a crest of this wave sweeping over the sphere.

Enveloped in a film of plastic, plastic food, plastic words, shiny bubble-wrapped pop songs, plastic images reflected in a infinite hall of lens which hollows and drives them as they imagine they drive their shells to and fro upon the rumble tumble of the highway. Small spatterings of roadkill lives lay bloody and littered beneath the wheels of insectoid abstraction. A distant buzzing hum briefly floats by her ear as she turns the dial on the radio, which falls upon vague static. Turning through the noise came a signal.


"..These, my brothers and sisters, are the end times, when the oceans of the world shall turn to blood.."


"Fucking parasites", she said as she looked down to change the dial on the radio. Static.


"You promised to love me to the end of the world.. And I built a world just for two;. Now I'm alone at the end of the world, What good am I without you?" Static.


"and meanwhile as israel continues it's settlements on the west bank...." Static.


".. A tournament, a tournament, a tournament of lies. Offer me solutions, offer me alternatives and I decline...... It's the end of the world as we know it..." Static.


"..I see trees of green, red roses too,.. I watch them bloom, for me and you. And I think to myself..."


She passed under a street light and it's glow flickered out..


"What a wonderful world."


In that moment most abruptly a buzzing hum flies into her ear, resonating her spiral cochlea.
"AHH FUCK." 


She screams franticly as she hits her ear trying to get whatever had flown in to come out.


"Fuck!FUCK!Fuck!"


A moment of sense finally flows back into her she remembers the road, looking up directly into the headlights of the oncoming traffic. She experiences none of the level of seizing fear that she just had when the fly went into her ear. She could only momentarily think to herself how much headlights look like eyes on a huge beast charging in her direction. And then a calm enveloping darkness, as she saw the accident from the outside of her body in slow motion, steel against steel, showering glass, and blood on the asphalt..


"and I think to myself..."


As the last sliver of light from the sun disappeared from the horizon, an broken streetlight flickered and buzzed back into functionality. A fly rose up from the turning wheel of the accident into the night sky, drawn towards the glow of the mysterious light. All enveloping light.  A wheel is turning. 


"What a wonderful... world."


And then Darkness, 


and then red, and then beeping, noises, beeping, voices, beeping, buzzing, buzzing..


No longer does she find herself at the scene of her peril, watching the wreckage of entangled steel but rather engulfed in a ocean of the most familiar sense of calm she had ever known, like if one had finally managed to hold onto the feeling of deja-vu.


Warmth. Swooshes of liquid within the spiral cochlea of the ear. Enveloped with a warmth shaded pink and red within a sphere of silent completion.  


We were always here. We never left this silence.. and.. the swooshing swirling movement contracts feels like we are being trapped. The sphere is imploding and a darkness frantically fills her. This time shall end. 


In a hospital room, a woman lies covered in bandages, hooked up to a respirator to sustain her existence. Silence except for a steady beep, pulsating until the equillibrium finally gives way to catastrophe, death.

Out of a moment of labored silence in a hospital room, a baby cries it's first wail. If percieved from outside of four-dimensional space-time, death and birth are two aspects of a whole.  The infinity of the multiverse into a singularity of becoming. Free will is an illusion. Determinism is an illusion. You chose this, the moment of your death, so you could remember. An illusion created by the restriction of consciousness into the in divide dual. There is only awareness passing through the multitude of manifest forms in order to percieve all aspects of becoming. There is only one being reincarnating like similar whirlpools within the larger ocean of awareness from which we arise and which we return.. but for now- this is not the experience. That experience is wholly other, or Holy Other. For now, It is death come to take life. It is the ultimate duality. It is a wall but if we could see the other side....

Spectators to the Apocalypse

Apocalypse and paranoia are buzzwords these days. It is the cultural zeitgeist, especially on the internet, where schizoid memes can aggregate, mate, mutate, and replicate exponentially. As we gaze at the flicker of devastation, fed in a never ending deluge of spectacle which fills the space where being used to be. We exchange our surfaces face to face and our real face is in a digital book to be referenced by dataminers and intelligence agents.

 Our inner space has been invaded and inhabited by a cthonic pull. At any moment it always seems as if a subterreanean undercurrent threatens to pull the veil and unleash the zombie apocalypse that haunts our dreams. We have all seen that it takes as little as a sale on plasma televisions at walmart to trigger the toxin. Have no delusions folks- There is a fire in the morphic field. A white horse gallops on the horizon, into an ever present storm that at any second threatens to sweep over reality and change everything. The levy has broken and now our psyche has been flooded, saturated, and molded into rot. The pile of bodies left in the wake of our collective blindness stack up and the stench in our unconscious is toxic.  

We all wait for the explosion which will transform us. The collapse which will pull back the illusion and allow the real to come in it's place. The explosion which permeates our symbolic ocean of hypermedia with it's reptilian limbic system- fossilized consciousness-oil and clorexit cognitive dispersant which dissolves every perception into smaller invisible molecules. Experiential molecules swept away into the water column of the collective unconscious, choking the emotional-base of the food chain, the perceptual phytoplankton in our mental ecology. We no longer consider ourselves capable of anything except bracing for the inevitable end, but each time the inevitable comes, each horror visited upon us, just makes us seek more. A seeking which keeps us toggling between browser frames looking for the one which leads to a new world but yet we arrive back where we started, in front of the screen. We have become a population of people shell-shocked from our own power to be empty-shells in post-modern packaged programs of perpetual paranoiac paralysis.

We try to follow the different strands but it seems as if each one turns back upon itself as a Möbius strip. When you've crossed a precipice into a knowing and out of the matrix, you've actually only turned the corner onto the other side of the strip. Climbing narrative staircases in an shifting labyrinthine network, we think we have finally gotten to the top and out, we find ourselves back where we started. We don't know what the fuck to believe anymore and we look for answers and scapegoats incessantly trying to climb to the top of heaps of isolated perceptions, never realizing that the false awakening is a part of the fractal rat maze. The carrot on the end of the stick which allows us to avert our eyes from our own responsibility. In a world that is really upside down, the true is a moment of the false. Our seeking, while stemming from a desire for what is true, pulls our power away from us and sells it back to us as tickets to the epic blockbuster 3-D imax film experience of the end of the world. In order to get you to accept your role of victimization,  you have to come to it yourself. It has to be layered in a dream within a dream within a dream within a dream within a dream... 

And like the existentialist philosopher living in Nazi-occupied Paris, Jean-Paul Sartre, we seem to have concluded that there is no way out, there is No Exit. We could very well be dead already and hell is other people, we are locked in a room without a window, mirror, and only one door. We scream to be let out and the door flies open but we are crippled by our fear of the unknown. Paralyzed by it- We can't go through.

At the turn of the millennium, we appeared to be collectively waking up from the Matrix as we went and saw the Matrix in theaters. We grew wary of the plastic nature of our prefabricated ikea nesting instincts as we collected our limited edition Fight Club DVD collector box sets. Tyler Durden remains our shadow and we continue the main character's mistake in thinking that the only thing that can cause him to be integrated is an explosion, the big catastrophic event. A missed gunshot to the head. The explosion which will make it real. In short, an apocalypse.  An archetypal habit pattern of morphogenesis in a homeostasis of cyclical self-fulfilling prophecy, a fire in the unconscious fueled by paranoia's center of gravity. The truth is that the apocalypse has come and gone again and again.. We might have seen that but we were too busy self-destructing... If you missed it, don't worry- I suspect THEY will be playing reruns..

Morphic Mind-meld

Researchers have proven that good communication results in a neural coupling or synchronization of the participants evolved. (http://www.physorg.com/news199424641.html). 


See also- Morphic Fields and Morphic Resonance 

alienation in formation

The mediation of our alienation

seems a separation of the elation of relation

into a resignation of isolation

in an imitation of situation;

linguistic degradation in viral replication

of the fragmentation of symbolic representation

in endless objectification

desert of desolation

our minds in saturation pushed to mutation

adaptations to imagination's constipation

and the dissipation of location in mental gentrification,

the city is a virus of homogenization

in the simulation of true communication

in our monoculture of the mind

filled with lights and neon signs,

an airbrushed air conditioned despair

where eyes stay blinded by the glare

off of the surface gloss and sheen

of the endless hallway cascade of screens

where in formation is the gestation

of leviathan machine

is our integration our assimilation

in our gravitations of habituation?

does the bifurcation of all location

hold the incubation of the empire nation?

language machine virus is in formation

are we the cure or the germination?

has our incarnation been lost in translation?

up on a stage or a screen still lines of separation

the spectacle emitting mental radiation

a cancer spreading entropy's fragmentation

in our monoculture of the mind

filled with lights and neon signs,

an airbrushed air conditioned despair

where eyes stay blinded by the glare

off of the surface gloss and sheen

of the endless hallway cascade of screens

where in formation is the gestation

of leviathan machine

in the labyrinth of infinite regress

the walls keep shifting as we progress

perhaps we are heads in jars,

senses fed by machines

and all we have seen is

the reflective screen

as we remain blinded in our image

by strange archons unseen

primordial flame

remains

within

the space

between

What is sought is a true communication

beyond the marketing of persona

and the agenda of languages' linearity

which sells us a straight line through

the entropy of dead time until it closes our coffin

like it closed our minds to the spectrum of our possibilities

and the ever present dawn of a new day

instead we only saw grey

like images from a 1950's television sitcom.

wake up truman!-

something feels WRONG

are our bodies marching away from our soul's song?

have we remained disembodied heads for too long?

figures without a ground of the infinite ecstatic,

PRIMORDIAL SOUND

herein we find a string in the labyrinth

regress of lies and mirrors that ends up in static.

it's when the signal of chaos jams up the habit

of ego's propaganda

so the third eye can transmit

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