YODOODLES, Part 2

Is there an objective reality out there of which each of us sees and lives in a different version preconditioned by nature and nurture ——— or ——— is each version a projection of how the same preconditions shape and locate our contribution to the apparently real hologram of collective consciousness, an objective landscape depicting our radiation of the seemingly internal subjective reality common to all consciousness, the way of all things?

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Afterthought, while watching chickens at dawn this morning:
It's the bloody language again, for the seemingly innocent motivation of making conversation we've incised a dualism of reality between subject and object thereby making a differentiation between the nature occurring out there in the material world and the nature of the observer we suppose is encased in the meat we call our own. My always sage friend Mike reminded me of the lessons I learned reading Dancing Wu Li Masters: eastern philosophy has always understood what western physics seems loath to admit — there is no matter in what we have always considered the material world. The stuff of the universe is energy in more or less dense concentrations, the denser of which begin to develop group consciousness identity ——— but it's all the same energy which we have identified as a variety of stuff. We are one, like eyes on a potato, slicing and dicing it up because we've developed this knife with which we cannot stop chopping because we can. Language! Makin' it matter wherever you want to just be. More insidious than Visa. Maybe. Thanks RAW

THE PURPOSE OF PURPOSE

A little spur from lilwave has my thoughts focused on the self induced delusion that the universally applicable metaphor, “as above, so below”, often used by both the spiritual and the scientific, may be reversed to somehow allow man to assume the status of authority over the unexplainable and the manifest destiny to recreate the universe to our purpose with a story in the image of our exceptional birthright over all the other beings such that “as we desire it below, it shall be made to be above.”

It is very natural to need to feel comfortable in ones surroundings, thus careful awareness of the proximity of predators and prey and establishment of familiar territory for homes and migration paths seems to arise in every species. Instincts, the genetic memory of the survival, thrival, mutation and development of the latest variations represented by the present arrival of life’s forms, informs each individual being at the molecular level as a sublime guide sending out impulses, intuitions, hunches as to what is going on around them at a deeper level than flight/fight, prey/predator responses requiring immediate action.

Individuals among species, and entire species among the more social varieties survive because they have achieved a life in dynamic symbiosis with the constant change that is the nature of cosmic life. Others fail to heed the signs from within and without about the reality of their environment, which, among all but humans, results in the extinction of that model, usually before it can reproduce itself or because it can’t. The evolution of communication skills extends the ability of the social species to survive by creating symbols for food and predators and leaving them as guides for future generations. Language has lead modern humans to thrive by leaving messages so minutely complex as to involve the majority of the hearers’ concentration in understanding the combined meaning of the variously defined symbols with only an afterthought, if they have them at all, about the influence on the larger picture by the authors’ attitude toward the truth in representing its intentions. Only personal experience to the contrary or doubt that truth can be contained in even honest words can bridge the eons some messages have held sway over the scope of reality permitted to their believers … or never having heard that story in the first place.

We all have our own story with paragraphs describing our experience of the world to ourselves and chapters containing periods of rather constant outlook in the shower of diverse events as maturity forces amendments to the reality tunnels of the open minded and walls of indisputable conclusions in the most impatient to consider themselves right. The purpose of our stories is to feel the comfort of understanding our relationship to the constantly changing world about us. Some feel comfortable just being involved in the process of feeding their curiosity as each step along the path becomes more symbiotic with what they grow to understand. Others, unable or afraid to generate their own ideas about their experience, come to rely on constant attention to the stories others tell to guide their thoughts, requiring that they always refer to such authority for the comfort of correctness as a way of belonging, at least among the other devotees. There exists a genre of stories whose purpose is to influence the timid minded to believe their entire existence is beholden to a creator, the gratitude for which their duty is unquestioning belief and unthinking behavior. Nature is a state of being with others as they would be with us. Civilization is a state of doing to others before they do to us. This is the purpose of proposing god has a purpose for us ——— a preemptive strike of WMDs (Wishes of Mass Delusion) upon the messages of our experience that nature is purposeless.

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Cinnamon commented on the last post, “I am interested to know what you believe about the existence of a soul- do we continue to exist in other form beyond physical death?”

To which I replied in the comments, “One has but to observe this year's crops build their bodies from the soil infused with the composted matter from last year's crops as the soil level diminishes to comprehend the continuance of life. The probability of a coherent being making such transitions is about the same as the chances that an idea will remain unchanged through many translations. Nature makes variations, not clones.”

This question about souls remaining coherent entities beyond their obvious corporeal containment of observable life struck me at such an angle it peeled up an intuition that the transition may be like the communication of an idea from one to another. Does the idea exist anywhere but the minds of its holders and in the manifestations so inspired? Do ideas, like floating clouds of coherent mental energy, light those bulbs whose minds are tuned in to their frequency as they drift by?. Do we get messages from beyond the grave from loved ones whose jokes we sometimes didn’t catch ‘til weeks after they told them? The memory of a person in the minds of those he/she touched in life is still alive to them and quite possibly becoming better understood than there was time for in life. Each memory of an individual is a different facet of what might be called a spiritual hologram, might be called her/his soul. The mind of each individual could be considered a facet in a larger hologram, the gestalt of humankind, a collective memory some have dubbed the soul plane.

All I know for sure is that all I have to do to be as close to departed loved ones as I was during their lifetime is to think of them.

RESULTS DON’T REQUIRE A PURPOSE

Nature is not a doing.

TIP O’ TH’ TONGUE

No matter how blissed out I may be in the eternal present, my birth into and remaining proximity to a cult that practices scheduling the eventuality of yesterday becoming tomorrow with such self-important, acquisitive precision as to reduce the actual subject occurrance to a Kodak Moment seems to always drag me back into a view of such periods of meditation as killing time while waiting for something.

As I daily ponder the way the infinite variety of ceaseless manifestations and changes observable in nature seems to diminish in scope and intensity when I attempt to corral my free thoughts into communicative verbiage by eliminating much more than words can possibly include, I reenact the process by which our devotion to western civilization has mythdirected our appreciation of nature’s endless, spontaneous, random beauty by focusing only on facets deemed beneficial to inherited, imposed intent and purposefully manipulative meaning; a sort of preemptive strike against reality, so to speak.

My intent with this blog is to meet the challenge of talking about ideas beyond the mundane meanings of the words I talk with and find those rare metaphorical tidbits that awaken the most somnambulant to the call, albeit some may arise in the form of tantrums against being accused of wasting all that well crafted napping, to uncover their own meanings beneath the landfill of their education.

Civilization’s inherited intent is for the human part of Earth’s body to control the entire body by reason of, er, ah, the excuse, the faith that the rest of the body is under our stewardship by guarantee from the manufacturer’s sales department. NASA’s looking for a good trade-in deal — not even the Pak Murrah are falling for it.

Guess you can tell I’ve just wallowed in all five seasons and five movies of Babylon 5 at the rate of five episodes per day as a guest of fellow blogger and Dragoncon frequenter, Babyldorkgalactinerd herself, who, my trusty blog roll tells me, hasn’t posted in nine months. Surely Warehouse 13 should draw her out. Despite problems with the drama, or maybe because of B5’s frequent heavy handedness, some very cosmic realities about earth’s attitude about the rest of the universe make ironically poignant metaphors about the isolation from reality of civilized human’s arrogant exceptionality when they meet older, wiser, more sublime galactic civilizations which somehow have also become more technologically dependent to wage ever more atrocious suffering on larger numbers of beings. The authoritative DC think tank, Brookings Institute, set the national agenda for dealing with extraterrestrials by using the example of western civilization’s plunder of natural resources and exploitation of less avaricious peoples to state that Earth must defend itself against any contact with aliens because the more advanced race always dissolves, conquers or consumes the other. Ah, well. I know we're better than that.

I began this with something on the tip of my tongue and now it won’t stop waggin’.

PARBOILING THE FROGS

Back to the example of the frolicking frog, oblivious to the gradual increase in the temperature of the water of his pond (in reality a pot of water over metered flame), becoming the centerpiece of the main course for eaters of boiled bufos. This time I would like to use this perfect metaphor for the inculcation of the myth of human exceptionality as it contributes to the formation of the big mistake of western civilization.

I remember the fifties when news reels gave us pictures of Suzie Spotless pushing buttons and pulling out food and stuff from the precursor to the replicator, of assembly lines devoid of human beings turning out infinite copies of the stuff just to show the secrets of the replicator, of the ultramodern living room of Bob puffing his leisurely pipe while meditating on the meaning of words he’d read in the weighty tome lying in his lap in his mind in its smoke amidst the rest of the happy, leisurely Dobbs family eating the automatic food and playing with all the replicated stuff at once. Hally Loo Yah, ain’t gwinna woik no mo. It was just a matter of time until the five day work week would shrink to four, perhaps three not too far down the line. This is the period of my life I consider the parboiling of the frog.

Parboiling is a process of conquoco interuptus discovered in an area of China where the humans heated their rice slightly loosening the husks leaving the seed soft enough to be slightly edible and particularly facile in being made into a traditionally more digestible boiled meal. I consider public education a parboiling process artificially ridding budding question marks of the natural protection offered by the sublime guidance of their genetic memory, intuition and instinct by burying such sensitivity to the big picture beneath a landfill of brand new concerns about existing in a world demanding it be seen correctly as soon as possible — period.

Instead of boiling them directly onto the edible condition of slavery or indentured servitude, later versions of those-who-would-be-master found there’s less uprising, less spoilage if one parboils the product and leaves it to feel free to turn up its own heat and choose what variety of meal it cares to be for them. Public education, the first hit’s free.

So sixty years after the relief from whatever oppression the grown ups were feeling then lit the fire with the promise of more leisure, stuff and trouble free food that parboiled the entire industrialized world, the softened product is left to choose to fill its promised leisure with more work to satisfy a developing dependence on all that stuff as the dog adjusts his leash of choice about his bloated neck in the mirror of his well appointed home cage, drives his overburdened transportation cage to his work cage lined with paper through which he must chew to earn such a cush set up as his own kennel and the society of so many other like minded, willing kennelmates.

The choice seems to be that we awaken or die in an induced coma. Waiting until qualified to retire to begin thinking about it is the carrot on a stick program of the great Amurkyan dream.

THE "GIRLS?" AT 15 WEEKS

What can I say? Although time is an invention of history buffs and hope fiends, I have little doubt about the natural existence of constant change as evidenced by the six growing chickens I've been observing to be different every cycle of the sun. In none of those days were they the same nor did they exhibit any characteristics of being roosters; No comb, no spur, no exotic colors in their tails. In the consistanly 100-105°F temperatures these days, I've taken to misting them from the garden hose around 3pm when they're panting for air. These guys are at the midway point between three and four months old and could begin laying eggs any day now — they even cluck now instead of peep.

I am so enamored of them and the whole process of caring for them by hauling the rolling Hank's Hennery to new grassy pastures every couple of weeks that I am building a section on my website exclusively for my babies. Below is my preliminary intro to it.

If I can't say something good about my summer garden, I shan't say anything at all — which is all I am going to say about that. How 'bout those chickens?

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Time is required for language to tell the story of the experiences contained within the immesurable minuteness of the instant of now. We observe it all and admit only that which we can tell ourselves about.

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I want to mention that the music to the video is by Deep Forest's album, Boheme, and to recommend watching their uplifting video, Sweet Lullabye.