Tuesday, November 11, 2014

I keep having the same dream.

The building is surrounded, but there's no sign yet of them. It's just a feeling. It's just awareness.

It's just how it is, in the dreamworld.

You just know things without remembering how they got there as knowledge. It's eternal knowledge in a sense, a Platonic gift of immediate and total recall without any of the story, any of the misleading and confusing and obscuring parts. You know they are out that way. You know they also come from this way, up from there, and watch out for that wall's end. And if you particularly hate yourself, they come up from the ground. If you fear the ground, you are lost to humanity.

Because you either joined the sky people or you joined the metal people, but in either case you are no longer with us and no longer one of the others, the humans already dead.

Some times, I remember, I used to also dream about the dark people, the void ones who walk the planes. We don't fear them like we fear what's coming out and down from the woods and the hills, used to be long ago hunting-animals, animals on the hunt, but lately it's hunting-humans or something worse, a hunting-hideous. Maybe in making an understanding with the dark people, since I have a better understanding now about the light people—and here you agree with me: never trust a lawful paladin to let you slip up just once, the one shot you need to learn, the one memory where you broke another human being, the one ghost for each broken human you must welcome within—I'm not taking sides anymore in their conflict, but I won't compromise the lessons the sky people brought us. The only things who live are those who either adapted or spread. They should know. That's how they did it.

The humans out there, they're dead but don't know it. Or they do, but haven't accepted it. Consider: all the zombie movies are no longer a warning about the future. It's more like social conditioning. How do I know this? Simple. They are in cartoons. They are marketed to children as stable cultural paradigms, a lorry truck to move some product into a kid to stay put, for as long as the zombie image's network circulates. Cultures are a vehicle into minds, and zombies are hitting so many buttons. Consequently, so many people right now in the dominant cultures are seeing their own world inhabited by the living-already-dead. Maybe they are the ugly poor. Maybe meth addicts look like what we expect haggard undead will be. But we're all addicts and strung out, strung along.

We're all dead. We were dead ten million years from now; we will have been long since dead seventeen trillion years from now. When such time scales are involved, the human is dead because it was never alive for that universe the way virtual particles are never alive for us in our own universe. We're not even honored dead. We will go unmentioned. That has to be horrifying to people who even occasionally post a photo of themselves smiling at us, or whom they were thinking at the time was us.

So, what's so special inside the house? Why are we holding this house? We're losing people all the time. We're holding off. But it's quiet right now...

Why are we looking out boarded windows, knowing that there is no solution where we get back to a garden, and next-year-we-hike-the-trail, and sitcom reruns we stream while bored, and stoplights changing at deserted intersections, and arguing about how tall to let our neighbor's grass grow? There's no way, no way out.

What are we holding off for? What are we waiting on, knowing it's hopeless?

Some people say join the metal people. Link together, become something new, something metal-flesh. The metals will make the flesh last longer. That's not true. What's going to happen is the metal will live longer, long enough to retain a thought about itself, its state, its concern, and its untranslatable pain. If the metal-flesh can't talk to a human about what precisely it feels like to have the pain in the metal and not in the flesh, how will the human, having only ever known and diagnosed pains in the flesh—and it's easy to see what pain looks like in all the fleshy things: avoidance, curling, shielding, striking back, grimacing, crying, pleading, screaming, shrieking, silence, breathless, cold—how will this human ever know what the metal-flesh is saying, is describing, is fearing about its world?

Increase for humans a whole new dimensionality of pain? Create beings who will feel pain unlike any way we've know among our friends? Only in a dream does this make sense to choose.

Some people say join the light people or the dark people. I tried that. Maybe I still am 'trying it', but neither one of them is standing here with me, at these boards, looking out at them, for them. It's just us meat in here, no light or dark people. The sooner people acknowledge that their war isn't our war, and vice versa, the sooner we can really start to participate in the bigger struggles, the more-pressing realities—isn't that what the leftists always say? Permanent revolution, but across all the planes... (this means there are also permanent exploiters)

Besides that, how can you trust people who don't even feel pain in anything? It's not the meat/metal problem. It's the meat/ghost problem. Descartes tries—they all try—to explain it by making the point of the world's contacting a very small, tiny place of extreme sensitivity to subtlety. It doesn't matter if you don't believe him and find it bogus. The point is obvious. When the light or the dark people talk with us about their pain or what they fear about what's out there, they say how they don't want to suffer everlasting torment and weeping and gnashing of teeth, same as us, we need to pay attention to what the philosophers have been unable to answer so defined away the question.

Problem: how do the light and dark people feel pain, and how much more dangerous is the sort of thing who can inflict pain on something immaterial?

What sort of professional is capable of that kind of torture?

All we know about pain is material pain. Meat pain. We don't really know the pain of rocks, or ideas, or numbers, or trees, or occasionally one another. We know what it means for things to stop. When things no longer are things, when putting the pieces back together doesn't bring out the pattern itself. Pieces are not the pattern. The pattern flows only through pieces. Pain maybe has something to do with that. Either way, meat pain is all we really know, and a lot of us refuse to admit meat pain is very pervasive across this planet and wherever we take meat versions of us, even the little mice and dogs and geckos.

So, imagine a light person suffering pain. Where do they feel it? How do they feel it? What must it feel like—when does it feel?—to relieve pain, to relent into it, to succumb to the pain, to no longer exist as a person?

Or do they welcome it, and, like all people, lie accordingly?

I don't know. But it's a dream I've been having lately.

I think we're all having the same dream. It's coming down to waking up.

We're going to have to decide whom to trust. Meat, metal, light, dark, sky. Or maybe the one who pains them all.

Because they are coming, up from the ground this time.

To be honest with you, I also have this daydream, too.

In it, we have another a sixth choice: the whales.

Old ones who breath, sing, float in magicsong.

And perhaps that's what it comes down to.

Perhaps our heroes are wizards.

Except they are not old men.

Old cetaceans, sailing

the oldest oceans.

I think we're all having the same dream, again.

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