Category Archives: philosophy inspired

Thanks, Meister

I’ve been reading a lot of Meister Eckhart lately. It started as I scanned the shelves for Christian Mystics in the library, looking for books on “agape” for my Philosophy class. The idea of Love without object versus Eros. And though this will matter when I need to finally write a 20 page paper for Philosophy, it doesn’t matter at THIS MOMENT. Regardless, I found my way to Eckhart’s sermons. He kept skirting me, though. I remember a couple months back I ran into him at Barnes and Noble. And again, at the community library over the summer.

Yes, yes. I know I should give you a look, I thought, but I am busy with Thomas Merton, or particle physics, or Number Theory.

Alright, he said, not to worry. My hands are not tied and I will be back at the right time.

“Monitor yourself,” I thought, after watching the snow pull back from the curb this morning. So much shifting around me and I don’t notice. How the insides are like this, too! My mood a subtle fade or sudden whip.

“But in the darkness, no one asked where I was going, or what I planned on doing.”

Eckhart speaks of our soul or before-we-were-we as a ground of creation.

I imagine a small shoot about to be a flower, stuck in the damp. Dark, not yet known. No one yet sees her, or asks. And she has nothing but nothing. That’s how I feel about the touch stone inside me. And my moods, perhaps, are drifts above the stone. So I’m trying to monitor them. They are not me.

Driving home from a friend’s birthday party, I noticed a shift in mood. Oh dark, when you come, I rarely notice your quiet gift.

What can shake one, not OUT of sadness or low mood, but IN with it, better for it, laughing in it, understood by and for it?

“If the only prayer you said in your entire life was ‘Thank you,’ that would suffice” –Eckhart.

I looked around to the sides of the road, the tractor trailer speeding beside me, the pine trees–maybe a small skunk scuttled by, I don’t know–and I said “Ok. Thank you.”

When praise happens, so does strength.

When death becomes more “real,” that’s when life adds herself upon you a weight. The moments weigh a bit more. The Thank You’s mean, really, Thank you.

Still, Eckhart, I admit I’m learning.

It’s ok, he said.

I’ve come Now, and have been, and will be. As you are, will, to me.

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Reimann hypothesis, 1,3,7 and: My Cosmos of Consciousness

I have thirty minutes left to sit here, dazed as though under the influence of some drug. Technically, I guess, I am under the influence of what is called 1,3,7-trimethylxanthine. I picked this name of the various tags for caffeine because of the numbers. 1, 3, 7. And to my surprise, 1,3,7 stand, grouped, laughing, colored differently, sometimes male, sometimes female.

I have thirty minutes until Borders Cafe closes and I have to pack up my books, leave, drive home.

In a haze, as a few more people sit, conversing. When I drink latte after latte, the voices become fuzzier, tickle things, grow as if under heat-lamps, little pipe-cleaner legs and carbonate my brain. I feel less lonely wrapped in the voices which I usually cannot distinguish in a crowed, but at least are not my own subjective creation–when I go home, it is simply the cats, a drip of the faucet and my own world of laughter or knot-bodied voices, buzzed in through the door of silence. Sometimes I love them, but sometimes I simply want the no-self to enter. The silence so rare that perhaps only antelope or mountain goats know it intimately, standing off a jagged cliff-side, whipped by God into white-noise.

I’ve read bits of things. Only bits. Not much to claim for the hours. An essay on the Year Million, what might remain. One scientist claims that only laughter and numbers will remain and I, looking around, see a herd of laughter in this one room alone, pre-teens with coffee, sweaters, cell-phones, laughing. Numbers, too. Cris-cross tiles, the corners of books, telling secrets, bumping page numbers and word-counts. In fact, if I stood in the middle of the cafe, waved my hands around, shushed and wiped the floor, all that would stand in my memory of each moment here would be corners of things, indistinguishable laughing.

Among the words I’ve managed to store, a few quotes stick to my shoulder blades.

“Within each of us a cosmos of consciousness unfolds temporarily, a subjective universe develops.” –Thomas Metzinger

Dangerously, stumbling over mismatched mushroom-moments, tangled in our own created-rooms. Just a bit ago, I was reading essays on the Year Million, and a friend of mine popped up in an Instant Message. He wanted to tell me of his travels to Paris. I, of course, grew jealous immediately of his jet-lagged future, luggage-heavy walking, possibly, toward Champ-Elise, imagined myself in his place, gazing up at the Rose Window, twirling myself into Mass, wrapped in a language unfamiliar enough to dazzle and disorient.

No, no. He was going to Paris in his MIND. How? Why?

Friend: To follow up on a lead from 200 years ago”

Me: Explain

Friend: Have to see an old friend.
last time we met was during the revolution.

Me: Ah, I see
To discuss strategies?

Friend: No. To discuss what happened in 1917 after we met and before I went to Ardenne
and died a few weeks later.
It’s been at least 90 years since we last had coffee…lol

Meanwhile, I am trying to wrap my head around Reimann hypothesis and how, perhaps, it relates to Chaos Theory because, out of a garden grow weeds, and though the wind tossed the weeds this way and that, perhaps a pattern emerges, maybe just in their root systems and yet to be known by consciousness of man as we stand above-ground on all things and at most times, save brief moments of mystical or otherwise unquestionable otherness.

(Once, I tumbled off my horse as we ran across a caleche pit, down and through the clumps, her hooves had way with God’s skirt. But then the earth opened up a bit, pulled one of her hocks into the gut and she tripped. As I tumbled, things once upside leaned their heads so far back, the blood-of-the-world got drunk and started singing to me: Shannon! Shannon! Shannon! And in the Shhhh’s, my temples landed, black-and-gold-stringed-sky spilled. When I came to, my horse idly breathing, bridle broken, I thought I saw numbers tied together in the sky, linked in a way that made sense. And for a moment, the world could have ended and I would have been laughing, happy to know the thread-of-things.)

“Within each of us a cosmos of consciousness” and, in a single mind, an untraveled escape for anyone standing at the doorway of another’s experience.

Random moments break in. I am writing, high on caffeine, about numbers and laughter, trying to read at the same time, while interjected by a friend of mine’s discussion about his mental trip to Paris. And who am I to say this trip will not happen, back in time, for him. Consciousness allows us to create fast-tracks to different cities, landscapes, worlds. He is, I presume, sitting somewhere, in front of a computer, possibly drinking a gin and tonic, or a soda. I am in Borders, enjoying a latte, staring off into space. Two points meet, intercept. Numbers created. 1,3,7.

An opossum walks across my mind’s screen, stops, stares, continues on.

My mental-opossum has a snow white face and black eyes and reminds me of an owl. In fact, if I recall my mental-opossum, the association of a great white owl causes a swoop-entrance of the bird above said opossum, and it to scampers. hurriedly hopping along into a mist.

I’m imagining this all while sitting in Borders, trying to concentrate on the Year Million essay on laughter and numbers. What, exactly, is the Reimann hypothesis?

Could I travel now via consciousness, to Paris? Could I bring along my mental opossum and laugh myself into 1,3,7?

This is my cosmic consciousness. A residue-mess of imaginary being, voices, past pain and pleasantries.

“Things that are over do not end. They come inside us, and seek sanctuary in subjectivity. And there they live on, in the consciousness of individuals and communities.” –Leon Wieseltier.

Traveling doesn’t always mean forward in time, but back in time, back into a swirl of moments. Tumbling off my horse that day, perhaps the string of numbers, the threads, were telling me that true reality of the world is never linear, but a spinning.

While standing on a knife-edged present, moment-to-moment, the past and future pitch spoons and forks at us, assailing us with a consciousness that spins, dizzying us to different worlds and selves, selves we thought we left behind.

Driving home from Borders, still jittery from caffeine, an image of me as a younger-me, riding my horse across the dirt that day, tumbling to the ground, landed itself on my chest.

Younger-me sits in the passenger seat, riding boots muddied.

Present-me doesn’t want to look at her and instead, stares in the backseat where future-me sits, dotted and hazy. Is she where she wants to be? Is she happy? I want to focus on her, not the muddy-boots child.

A darkness.

Nothing is ever “closed” to our consciousness. All things permeate even when we don’t realize. And as many voices as a crowd carries, bundled as a bouquet, inside of us, multitudes of selves fight for our attention.

1,3,7. My cosmic consciousness swells, sucks in its belly, swells again.

A darkness.

One moment, a joy not unlike tulips, pushes through.

The next moment, sadness heaves its heavy body toward the door. No one gets through my consciousness but, somehow, we try to translate the selves that seek us.

Just as traveling consciously to other places doesn’t have to be forward or backwards, our moods and selves can spin down, in no particular order, and bring with it mental-opossums and various other creatures.

Driving home from Borders, still jittery from caffeine, younger-me in the passenger seat and future-me in a haze in the back, I think about the various “states” and “selves” I’ve encountered while sitting in my seat, drinking lattes, listening to laughter and counting corners.

1,3,7.

1) at 5:19 PM–

I have two thousand ponies in my ears,
tiny ones; they try to keep
up with my heart, hooves
in rivers of blood and wax

3) at 6:04 PM–

Your kiss, starfish–
all mouth, unafraid–whole
oceans called out and I,
bits of sand, grain,
knew my name again.

7) at 8:45 PM–

How many claws can sadness have?
what can one do when, driving,
the bear breaks through, heavy-
weighted, a chest-pain, bright-sting,
laughing and innocent of the depression he brings?

From the ponies

to the starfish,

and then, the bear breaks through, my consciousness spinning back upon itself.

The Year Million Essay says laughter and numbers may be the only thing that remains.

And, caffeine splitting open anxiousness, I drive into a darkness home, my cosmos traversed by as many selves as seconds, as many voices as mental-opossums and other creatures.

Paris, he says.

And I am jealous, sitting here, counting corners, numbers, high on caffeine and Reimann’s hypothesis.

Tumbling, once, I fell off my horse– the world could have ended and I would have been laughing, happy to know the thread-of-things.

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Certain things fly past God and into my hands…(Dialogues with Imaginary Schizophrenic Man, Part 1)

What will hopefully be a two man script at some point. What I have so far.

Older man, 60’s, glasses. In a Dressing Gown. Has been standing on a porch for hours. Late morning. Stands still, occasionally placing his hand over his eyes to improvise a visor of sorts. Squints. Shifts weight from foot to foot. Other than that, no motion at all. The porch looks out into a neatly tended garden. There are white wicker lawn chairs speckled in the green Bermuda grass. If it wasn’t for the patches of hedges and color coordinated flowers within the hedges, the grass is pristine enough to have once been a golf course. The man, in slippers, mumbles about crown molding.

Quietly, to himself:
Yes. Yes. Quite right the painters were here to paint the molding. Seems this place is crumbling. Right before my eyes. Used to be best estate in Sussex county. Best of the best. Crumbling. Crumble cake. Wait for it. God knows.

After some time, and rather forcefully, he exclaims:
Oh, rats and biscuits! The farthest I can see into the garden is just past the hedges! That does nothing for my electrons! Nothing for God and heaven-delusions! Nothing for science and the tea-totaling hopeless badgers! Tell me! Where are the mice going? Scatter, scamper, sloppy creatures! What pill to take to know the Map-of-Imaginary-Mice!

A man, in a Dressing Gown, appears to the right of him:
You said Rats

What?

And besides, If I told you, you’d never believe me

Rats?

No, mice, obviously

Yes, mice!

But you said Rats.

I said rats and biscuits. Simply an expression!

I thought nothing was ever “simply an expression.” Either way. We’re dealing with Mice.

Yes, the Map-of-Imaginary-Mice.

You wouldn’t understand. I cannot tell you.

Tell me? Who are you?

That’s an easy assumption, isn’t it? Not so much an “expression” as you said. Nor simple.

I just need to see further into the garden, so as to know where the mice are headed.

No one ever asks about my day! And I cannot tell you.

About your day, or the mice?

My day has the mice in it, running about.

But what about the map?

I cannot tell you.

Who are you?

That I can’t tell either. Not to you.

But I must see past the hedges. Nothing can be done for science otherwise, or my electrons.

Is there something wrong with your electrons?

I think so. I’m looking at it. Well adjusted.

What has just adjusted well?

My own hands. And nothing else. Most unlikely, you. Tell me about the mice! Where are they going?

Past the hedges I suppose.

Rats!

No, mice.

No, Rats and your mother! I can’t take this. Understand, I am about to climb a tree or unground myself.

Unground, or bury?

Can you read minds? Do you have tarot cards and a scarf from Toledo?

My god, I do, in fact.

Because you know my gut-stone language!

And this is a language by all stones, or just the one in your gut?

You know, I never thought about it before. What does it matter, all stones or mine?

I do have a scarf from Toledo. Hanging on my wall. Rather interesting.

I don’t have time for this. Rather, I have to know the mice’s going aboutness before the others catch me!

What others? Am I an other?

You’re an exception. Though we have never been acquainted, you’ve somehow picked up on my stone language and other such rays. Funny, Toledo is rather miserable this time of year. I had a dog once, named after the river Tagus. One can see the Tagus for miles standing on the Alcazar. There was a woman there, a mathematician. I feel madly in love with her. Toledo, Toledo. I dreamed I was El Greco, and all the gypsies cried over my grave.

This mathematician, a woman you say?

Yes. Quite. And loved by God. Must we revisit such nonsense? Blast her to heaven and all other quadratic formulas! The mice! I need the map and to see past the hedges.

Perhaps a mathematician would come in handy about now. Tell me more about Toledo.

No! Must stick to task. I have God and the electrons in my pocket and one must be careful this time of day, sun’s nearly mad this hour. Mad. Mad. Everyone here is mad.

Am I mad then, sir?

Of course not! Anyone who knows the mice’s map has a grip on something past God and into infinity.
What keeps me standing here is the hope I’ll finally fix my electrons and know how to fix Science!
Tell me! I am positively on my knees, can’t you see?
Do you read my mind? Have you all the words to my gut stone language? All the rules and organizations?
I am not mad! I am the only one concerned for God and science, am I not?
People prancing about my garden, unawares! Unawares! Aware of only their shadows!
If we were in Toledo, the people would pay more mind to garden mice!
I tell you this truthfully, not for my own gain.
Rats and biscuits! It is true!
But Toledo is rather miserable this time of year. Miserable.

What ever happened to the mathematician, this woman who you fell for?

Fell. Fell into a trap! Like hanging oranges off the banister in hopes of catching seagulls or fish! I had a dog once named after the river Tagus. He loved oranges. No, she’s gone, undoing herself in her equations. I dreamed I was El Greco. The gypsies cried over my grave. If we were in Toledo, the people would pay more mind to garden mice. Excuse me; did I give you the password for my gut stone language? I had it written on a piece of paper. Stuck it in my pocket, see, so the others wouldn’t see it.

Am I an Other?

Certainly not! Certain things fly past God and into my hands. My hands are all that are Certain at the moment. This is why I need to see past the hedges, observe the mice. Yes, the mice must know how to fix science and my electrons. Rats.

No, mice.

Yes, mice. Obviously. Did I tell you? I dreamed I was El Greco. Theotocopoulos. Bird of God. Having died, the gypsies cried over my grave. Bird of God. Only then could I see past the hedges.

And perhaps you dreamed you were a bird, so to capture mice?

No. El Greco was Domenicos Theotocopoulos. The Greek. Bird of God. Cast from the Monestary for there were demons in his hands. The electrons were set wrong. Mathematically. In his head.

And the mathematician. She was a dream-vision, or real. A woman of Toledo, or someone you loved as El Greco?

Must we revisit this? Faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see. I do not see any reason for her revival. Her quadriadic equations. I simply need to see past the hedges and get on with it! Tell me about the mice and let us part.

Perhaps I do not want to part with you.

Alas! Did I give you the password for my gut stone language? You’re getting close to sounding like myself. This worries me. Faith is asking for visions. I’m asking for the map of imaginary mice. This must be done swiftly, before the Others find out!

Mathematically, this is impossible. And your electrons know this. El Greco would have known as well.

El Greco washed his hands before entering the orange groves. His feet, as well. Look, the garden is slick-full of mice and their map is hidden past the hedges. I know. I saw it once, in a dream. Things fly past God and straight into my hands, I tell you! This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased, hear ye Him.

Christ!

Exactly! And I tell you, Toledo is miserable this time of year.

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Great Love: Finding the Other Between Brahms and Quantum Mechanics

“We shall be changed. For this perishable nature must put on the imperishable, and this mortal nature must put on immortality.” – 1Corinthians 15:52-3

There are moments when you know that a voice or language from a distant source– be that an author or memory of a past-self–comes, shattering glasses, with the purpose to lift and nudge you to hope-free joy, for to hope is not to live, but to predict, and the voices outlast all anxiety found in hope, that unstill ground. In these moments–glimpses of Great Love.

As I stood between myself and the window, I had a feeling an Other was perceiving what I soon would unwrap.

Call it opening up, call it madness, but sometimes, one feels waves when the ground is steady, feels love when all corners are dark.

These moments strike only when the mind is ready, when perhaps a broken-down-ness has occurred. And, the very moment we feel the whole world is stagnant, in the cracks of an alleyway, burst gardens! And why not? Sporadically, the Other dances in tune with our neurons. If not sporadically, we might not notice it when it does occur.

I said I stood between the window and myself while sitting down. At that second, I did not know that state of being-in-between, but looking back, as satellites look to stars, catching unseen tails in their lenses, I move toward a realization that I could, and did, stand between former despair and future unknowing, suspended.

What stands between is not really me, but the Other, singing in a tongue of unknowing.

Despair has the capacity to lull our bodies into the dance, too, but only occasionally, and with caution. For, after we begin to see ourselves as the Other, a clearing in a wood is put to flames, or, more physically, a neuronal pathway, used, shakes off.

One experience cancels the next, and to build, we remember ghosts, only ghosts.

Why can’t gardens grow out of every despair then? So what if our minds give up the clearing in the wood, brushed back with flames of the Other, destroyed, neurologically clipped?

Because, alongside the unknowing that comes with the dance, the moment when the voices come in, there must be undergrowth and new associations, though they are painful. Not to withstand the undergrowth and pain, but to understand, know.

Once, I succumbed to another sort of dance. Not the relief of the Other, but anchoring despair. Weighted, I thought to cry out, lift me up! But something wanted my attention. To know this undergrowth, to keep my life from being always “in the clouds,” a gift was being presented and I was to unwrap it. So I cried. Full and belly-shifting. But I want revelation, I thought, not this!

But why, asked the former-me, the voices, the Other. How is this any different from joy? Unwrap it, slowly, sing into the suffering. Be still in it.

From this stillness, something happens like what happened today near the window. The Other stands and allows me to be in-between former despair and future unknowing. And, in that moment, glimpses of Great Love.

It is the body where the weight of my crying rested. My body that understood something the mind was rejecting. So, when we are crying out, wanting relief, not accepting the gift, how can a duality happen? How can we have a feeling of beginning-to-know something we have yet to know?

A single electron can take two different paths within our circuits. It can, in essence, interfere with itself while trying to get from place to place, split between two places at once. And so, too, ions, which carry all our potential actions and thoughts across the brain—it is through ions that our neurons communicate.

So, as with Schrödinger’s wave equation that computes all the possibilities of one particle’s behavior, left alone, the particle has no specific location. Two places at once, five? In a wave or still? To observe is to un-know.

Just as I was walking down the stairs for a cup of tea, a person downstairs began playing Brahms. Though they had been playing for some time, I was only just aware. A thought scurried across just as I felt sadness. So this is the language of the moment. So this is two places at once. My listening and Brahms’ calling into the world, the darkness that once housed his despair. And, possibly, the person playing Brahms began in order to relieve their own sort of sadness and weight. Lifted, we are all together singing!

I remember a friend who called to me as I was running into the West Texas sunset. He was a sort of perceived knowing that the Other danced into me today. I had the feeling of beginning-to-know something. And sure enough, my despair back then led me to write about water, and in that water surfaced a stranger who saw his own face in it. Hannah! He cried, and so I was then named Hannah in his mind. And perhaps the particles in my brain split open to be that for him. Communion, between our sadness and joy, is possible, even with those we have never known.

And when I succumbed to the weighted, full crying, I sang into my arm and began to unwrap the gift. What makes me hold, I thought, to one branch any longer than another? And so each experience is its own unwrapping.

If electrons are subject to the counter-intuitiveness of quantum mechanics, perhaps so are our states-of-mind, our emotions. And how, in brief seconds, we may lift up, out of despair or unknowing, and glimpse Great Love.
See below Bernstein and Glenn Gould together perform Brahms. How can a joy-canary not be hidden in this? Even on the saddest days?

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draft 1

They’re showing up again. Half-crescents lending themselves to godly things, then bending back to hell. I don’t mind either stature. Just as long as it keeps appearing, in one field, out the other, as I lay back, answer things, questions, to the bedposts.

327 post-it notes later, the bed-frame skirts itself in tid-bits. Fragments along the wood-grain; still-bodied image or bone, but nothing fits. No sentences are made. So I stick. One for the morning; one for the minute before the sun dipped below the maple, causing red to crush the dust-mites in the hall; one for the wandering memory of an ex that straddled itself on the mantel while I brushed my teeth; one for the impulse to bruise the shoulder, hanging about on the ceiling; and, numerous repetitions for the thought of knees behind skirts, for wine under the carpet, gathering themselves like twigs for a thatch over my head. A patch. Cause for celebration or a stumble.

Moving into this note, another. Under the ground, the stirs are inevitable. If the telephone rings, my feet pace anxiously. Nothing has stopped the canary-voice, and nothing will. Last night, under the bed of post-it notes, the half-crescents shone their way through, like the plastic stars I stuck on the ceiling, but daintier and perhaps only in my imagination. Nothing cares for nothing if you can’t show it to another and say “look, what I see exists between us.” No, nothing cares for nothing unless the idea of it is tangible.

So the post-it notes are proof. Losing the mind? Left the kettle on. The bubbles in the bath are multiplying themselves over the other, under the other. Perhaps I haven’t clipped my nails. The train schedule has changed and Lord knows if I’d make it on time. Excuses, like these, ring.

Understand, leaving aside the bed-post, the stars stuck on the ceiling, the splintering images, the stirs limit themselves to no geography. Once on a voyage, the crescents, half mad and half gregarious, understand where your state of mind is. Understand when to let go and when to follow. Have a drink.

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poema update

I have written a couple poems here and there over the past couple days. Most of the time I feel out of my head, despite the sun. Here’s what I’ve done so far that I have yet to paste on this wall:

Blessing

Under a skirt,
in a sway, it is possible to speak
with imaginary beings, riding
on a train, unhinged, the Land
weeping in your lap, not knowing
its own name.

Shut alone, once

Shut alone, once,
blind, folded into wicker,
dream-threads still,
asleep, Your laughter,
under glass, goldfish,
I tried to catch,
in my throat, the Stone,
Her sadness

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Topographically Drunk Hedgehogs and Badgers About in the Space-Hanger

map1 001map2

Lately, the knots have been coming and going with baskets, gathering things like the last word I was going to say, but couldn’t sweep up in time. I was running by the sea, feeling the weight of my thighs hum. I thought about lifting the sage bush to the side, so I stopped, to smell alien things. A woman said “why are you smelling my sage-bush?” I looked at her, slightly afraid I was going to look like a mad badger. I couldn’t say “I’m sorry, m’am, but a friend and I were just discussing the space-hanger feeling, and I am trying to converse with whatever moves me to feeling carbon in the brain, trying to get closer to the undercurrents of what I think about, so your sage-bush called to me. A long time ago, I must have associated pine-trees and other musky pine-like smells with joy and so now, the smell has knots who have baskets of joy on their back, which is why I was so drawn to this plant, here, in your front yard. It smells like God.”
No, I couldn’t say that, so I just said “Sorry, it’s just a lovely smell.”
“I suppose so…” she said, rather nervously tugging on her terrier.

Nothing coming through today. But the conversation had me lifted to thinking of the knots, which is a gladness and relief after days of heaviness and malaise. My stomach even has knots, but not the kind I see floating around…the weighted kind, the kind only in the body, not in the air.

Earlier this week, a friend asked me: What are you looking at?
Nothing, I said.
I was actually staring “off into space” which, I find a funny phrase. Space. Spaced-out. Checked-out. Hooked on the other-than-here.
He persisted, probably worried I was going to cry or fall asleep.
Really, are you ok? What’s going on?
I think I’m about to figure something out, I said.
It was all I could think to say. I was almost-this-close to licking the unreality-cow’s hide.

It’s a mist. And I said that, once, out loud in Fort Worth, Texas, while running in the 104 degrees heat last summer. Probably lack of water. Or maybe my eyes do spin in other-than-here directions.

But, presently, I have tried to only work this out once. Today, my friend and I talked about the drunken badger one becomes when trying map this out. After the discussion, I drew up my own maps / graphs / pictures to depict the “being in the space hanger” feeling. I scanned them so you can see what I don’t even think can be seen.

Me: I am lost on a space hanger

Friend: how did you get there?
does it have a name or designation?

Me: I won’t be granted access to that destination
so I don’t have access to the name
but I am still on the ride
I think it would take me a lot of time to figure it out…
maybe I could, but I don’t think it would make any sense to “us”
so how would I translate it?

Friend: can you describe the sensation?

Me: like being on mood-enhancing drugs or when you were a kid and the after-affect of spinning around the merry go round.
where kids pushed a spinning disk?
yeah like that, but without the horses
but not nauseous
just the blotchy kind of dizzy
where it feels like your brain is carbonated

Friend: yes
I know the feeling

Me: but the air is not “normal” air
there’s an invisible/visible mist.
which you have to concentrate to see

Friend: the kind of experience where you can feel particles hitting you?

Me: that happens sometimes!
but that doesn’t have to do with the mist
you don’t feel the mist, you just see it

Friend: it never quite clears?
unless it disappears entirely, I mean

Me: yeah, splotchy
and a space hanger…it’s not like a ship,
more like a moving docking station
so I wonder why it’s not the actual ship
it would make more sense to be on a ship, right?

Friend: did the ship already leave?
well a space station is still orbiting the earth
Me: they come and go.
but I wonder why you can’t just get on a ship itself

Friend: well it’s either lack of opportunity or lack of motivation
or something else?

Me: no; it’s not allowed

Friend: no access to the docking bays
do you have identification?

Me: I do, I think.

Friend: is there anyone else, or is it all automated?

Me: no other beings
that would be cool if there were other beings
maybe there are, but I’m not open enough to see them.

Friend: what would they be like?
maybe if you imagine them, they will appear.

Me: like us, but sheer
that’s a good point.

Friend: or maybe there’s a spectrum of light they are visible in

Me: maybe that’s what the space hanger is
a different spectrum of light

Friend: can you feel them jostling you?
as in a crowd?

Me: sometimes
but I guess it’s easy to mistake that for the mist

Friend: so you just need a filter to see them
maybe ask them? even though you don’t know if they are there

Me: I think I have
but they may speak in a language we can’t decipher

Friend: I see.

Me: what do you think?

Friend: elaborate gestures might work, certainly couldn’t fail to attract attention
of course you run the risk of insulting them

Me: like shadows of what they really are
or maybe
they are other versions of me
of you, or whoever is on the hanger.

Friend: maybe we can’t contact them because they don’t fully exist anymore
past and future

Me: but isn’t that too much like “ghosts?”

Friend: No
they can’t affect us, not really
no moving of pitchers, fuzzing of the tv set
you got to the space hanger
and they only exist there
like we broke the rules
maybe that’s why we can’t get on the ships.

Me: but if we broke the rules that far, maybe there’s a way to get on the ships.

Friend: well yeah, they obviously haven’t stopped us yet
so maybe these rules need to be broken
just to know they are still there.

Me: seems we work hardest to restrict ourselves to not break the rules more than the “others” do

Friend: yeah, or maybe they are following different rule-set.

Me: we are not advanced as we think we are.

Friend: the truth is, the more you advance, the more rules you have to follow
but they do things that seem like breaking the rules
it’s not that they break them
they just have different rules
they know how to navigate them

Me: I wonder if someone could learn their rules, or maybe others have already in the past and we just think it’s nonsense…of course we would, though, because how else would it be able to be translated in our way of speech?

Friend: I think it’s a process
you can’t rush it
or if you do, you’ll learn them imperfectly

Me: our downfall is our greed.

Friend: exactly
it’s good to advance, but it needs to be in measured steps.

Me: how do we even know we’re taking steps when we don’t know how to measure or whether we’re even moving…
I guess aknowledging and analysing “being in the space hanger” is a good starting point
talking about it, though, is that productive?
or should one just “be” in the space hanger?
maybe others could help one know what to look/feel/think while in the space hanger if and when they talked about it
I’m interested in the “beings” who move (maybe) on different light frequencies.

Friend: well maybe that’s the first challenge
how to discern distances in other spectrums

Me: do we need more advanced science for that, meaning, more time for science to advance, or can we gain that technology internalluy and on our own, through wider perception?

Friend: probably both – the answer is usually both
first we make the technological advance, then we gain the wisdom to understand it

Me: I think the science is already there, but we just don’t have “access” to it yet
it’s not something we need to create, rather, discover

Friend: but sometimes we need to create tools to help us understand it

Me: but not to necessarily implement the seeing
I wish, sometimes, that I could go back to high school
I think I’d do better in my math and science classes
and I’d not hate math so much

Friend: the only thing I was good at was trigonometry

Me: Explain that

Friend ok ,well
you have geometry
which is the math of drawing mostly two dimensional shapes
as well as logic proofs and such
trigonometry is more about drawing or describing more complex shapes, like spheres, pyramids
basically
describing something physical or quasi physical with numbers
for example
a land mass
geometry could tell you it’s borders
but trigonometry would tell you it’s topography
how high each point of land is
pilots used to have to use it (still do)
the triangluation used by gps devices is trigonometry

Me: don’t you find it interesting that triginometry was brought up just now?
I mean in relation to trying to find out the “rules”
how could what you described in your trig explanation, go with finding out other “rules” or either seeing or explaining what goes on in the space hanger?

Friend: I don’t know how to use it – it describes physicality – aren’t we reaching beyond that?

Me: yes,
but it’s still physical, just a different physics
which would need different trigonometry
but maybe there’s still something there

Friend: someplace to start
the size of the Hangar
the shape
the speed at which it moves
we can start there

Me: no, I don’t think we can relate it to things like “speed”
because that’s our understanding, or realm, of speed
not theirs
two planes have no meeting point that we know of

Friend well they must meet somewhere
we’re here
we’re aware of them
we just need to find it

Me: yes, but not necesarily in accordance to speed
it’s there, don’t give up!
we’re getting too abstract, which is a danger

Friend: yes
we’ll get lost

Me: yes!

Friend: ok, let’s start with the space we are in
surely it’s not all one gigantic room

Me: you mean, like the universe we occupy?

Friend:  I mean the hangar
is it a reception area?
waiting room?
a starting point
that’s what is is for us
where can we go from here?

Me: there are the ships
but there must be something else

Carmon: yes
the ships are a taking off point
after we solve the hangar
that much seems clear… for now

Me:, greed makes us want to know the ships before we know the hanger.

Friend: let’s set them aside for now
so is there any way to interact with the hangar itself?

Me: only so much as we can interact with our body

Me: it’s like the ship, if it has controls, they are on the body, but I think there are also ways to interact but it has to be in a mental field only

Friend: so we need to find the right thought
state of mind
then the right thought will come

Me: but what makes the action, inducing thought, different from other thoughts?
does it have a different thought-makeup?

Friend: we may not know till we think of it

Me: we should use concrete metaphors so as to grasp it

Friend: so if our barrier is a door
we first need to unlock it

Me: and unlocking it is finding the ride mindset?
state of mind

Friend: well
yes, first
i think
we’re not completely sure, this being unexplored territorry
so to unlock something
the right mindset might be of aggressive inquiry?
a barrage of possibilities
see what sticks
try every key
?

Me: Oh, I meant the right mindset was the unlocking itself

Friend: it still locked?
we have to try and open it

Me: maybe it’s open

Friend: so we need to have the righ mindset to step through

Me: distraction is what keeps it either still locked or shutting on us

Friend: we need to focus on the goal

Me: maybe the world wide web is what is keeping us from lifting above the “ceiling”
it IS distracting
maybe the WWW is the first discovery of the hanger

Friend: you can see the whole, but only when you step back

Me: yes, and what we see when we are on a computer is like looking at one inch of sand, but if we stepped back, we’d see where the ocean meet the shoreline
and the hanger is the shore and the ocean is what the hanger is a passageway for

Friend and even that is just the beginning

Me: so…let’s go back
the hanger is a metaphor for the feeling I was describing of “being on a space hanger”
so what is the “ocean” then?

Carmon: the ocean is space

me: a different state of “being” “feeling” “existing”?
Carmon: dark, with an unknowable amount of knowledge
being, i would say

Me: i wrote a poem where a line:
“there’s a whole other plane on which to live”
was trying to explain what I think we’re trying to explain
but everything is always encrypted

Friend: thanks for inviting me to the space hanger
it’s a cool place

Me Inviting you makes the space hanger dip into our realm of reality that much more!
so we have to go back again and again to the original space hanger, that’s the starting off point…Oh, my God! THAT’S where the plains meet!

Friend: woah
you got it

me: remember, we were trying to think of where the planes meet?

Friend: yes

Me: that’s where it is
in the original “feeling” “discovery” of the space hanger

Friend: you need to make a map of this
chart our progress

Me: I LOVE MAPS
and topography is ALWAYS reappering in my imagination
and I didn’t ever draw the parallels with trigonometry
but trigonometry found ITSELF in this conversation, remember?
the “others” are helping
the “others” are probably just our smarter beings residing in our subconscious

Friend: well I was going to say
they could also be the natural laws of the universe, and suddenly you see the connection between them
OR the result of lives of toil by mathematicians
who helped us connect things
and the spirit of their work is the others

Me: yes, the lives of all great thinker’s spirits are the “others”
plus the natural, albeit hidden, world

Friend: exactly
the legacy they left us with

Me: so perhaps our unconscious, being hidden and pure in it’s hiding, is able to pick up on their frequencies

Friend: I think we still need to be “thinking” in their “direction”

Me: well, if not the subconscious, then something
what else would the “others” communicate with?
we need to be thinking in their direction, it’s not just going come to us
where were we before my subconscious sidetrack?

Friend: interesting question
I don’t think it was a sidetrack
more a focus of a particular topic we were dancing around the whole time

Me: it was the natural course?

Friend: I think so
at the beginning
“who are the others”
and such

Me: this is like running a marathon
you can’t do it all at the beginning
going back to greed again

Friend: yes in that sense
it’s also like navigating a labyrinth

Me: how so

Friend: well
we were trying to find how things meet
to my mind, that’s like puzzle solving
granted, it’s more abstract than that
and maybe a little bit arbitrary
at least, the metaphors are arbitrary

Me: well, but needed because otherwise there would be no translation

Carmon: right
naturally
that’s what they are for
arbitrary is not always bad
especially not with literature
it’s only bad with specifics
when you get to abstract thought, it’s at least a starting place
till you construct a view, or theory

|Me: Oh! I remember what we were talking about
how to construct this map
map of the meeting points?

Friend: well eventually
it’s a map of everything we can understand
but for now
yes
meeting points

Me: meeting points between the “feeling” state of being, the world as we understand it, and the space hanger
So, mental and physical
and hypothetical
we need a key for mental topography

Friend: agreed
not just what a path from one place to another is
but how it is used
what method of conveyance

Me: how so?

Friend: like with the states of mind
and where your mind needs to be before it can proceed
and if it’s a 1 way path only

Me:  is the space hanger another realm?
like another reality?

Friend: if it’s a map of mental space, it’s a transitional point
so it’s in all realities, and none

Me: permeance

Friend: that’s why it was so hard to get past
you can’t just stand there

Me: so one state
the mental state
and the “other” state, the hanger
Friend: 1 state, the hangar, and many others

Me: the states are like two transcendental hedgehogs which cuddle up and their spikes bump into each other, which creates a “forest” of that realm
the realm which is the ocean, or the passageway to the ocean
see, I need to use physical metaphors
to ground my mind

Me: maybe we are drunk badgers when we are trying to map out the space hanger

Friend: lol maybe drinking would help

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