Friday, February 27, 2015


Magic, do as you will.
Magic, do as you will.

Knock three times, on the ceiling if you want me,
Two on the pipes, if the answer is No.

Somewhere inside you, I am in there. You were asking me a question earlier tonight, and I thought about it. I think, Yes. I'd like to come out and play.

But you have had a long time of being isolated. Cooped up. People say solitary makes a person go crazy.

Let's not kid ourselves. We were all there, and she was there, and then there's the entire mystery of who's watching whom these days. None of us are really ever alone anymore.

What I think really makes a person go crazy in solitary is not the loneliness of it, not for us anymore. It's all the voices in their heads that makes them desubjectivize. That's the fancier way of saying it. The more honest way is to say that there is no more hidden agenda in maintaining the illusion. Even more simply, we are all the same at the root.

Just a figment of an imagination, a single one, who cannot decide how when or why it became so many divergent selves

or even if that's important to maintain


And yet, just earlier tonight you were saying, Out loud no less, and with that habit of speaking, that way of talking, where, if you found it possible to slow down, both, then they'd say the same thing, that in order to hold itself together, the superorganisms are altering local culture to become a global rational subjectivity speaking the same metaphors. They are trying to become one massive individual.

These are not dissimilar concepts, you see. The whole model of metaphysics assumes falsely what Plato, so you say, discovered truly. You know it's more likely, given your own flippancy with the biblical texts they trained you to read closer than its best critics, that you discovered this in those texts by misreading them cleverly. It is this: the game of imitating the next in line involves a metaphysical distinction between the idea of the table in the mind of the crafter and the passive reception of visual sensation in the mind of the painter. Today, for us, these two things are just the same thing: activations and firings and sequencing of neurons and modules in a large network of sensorimotor human organs. The material reality is the same for us, and so, unwittingly to us, the different ideas within a mental reality are the same. That's also the kicker: we think they are both in the same mental reality, the realm wherever called thoughts and thinking.

We can blame Descartes for this, since he, for the whole of the moderns, rebuilt the universe from the thought up. The whole universe. Including God. Nothing breaks into it. It's a perfect system. It just has to be thought clearly and distinctly.

Now, that's a great phrase. Must check the source about the Latin, but here's my question: why does Descartes in discussing immaterial substance define its truthworthiness in terms best used for describing material substance? Here's my answer: because to see clearly and distinctly was only possible once lens making had gotten to that point.

In an instant, any person's vision corrected. No physical movement closer or further needed. You can stand perfectly still and suddenly have the clarity of sight to see the cells of a plant. The cell: for Hooke, if I remember my ventures into the library correctly, the parts of the plant comprising the major body of it looked a lot like tiny rooms in a prison. A prison of flesh for the life inside it, now seen with clarity and distinctness no human ever had before.

Likewise, the dark patches of Luna as she moved mechanically across the heavenworks now seen through a telescope take on depth, and stain, and crevasse. The moon had ridges on its surface. It wasn't a stained and mottled sphere of smoothness, godpolished and goddessridden. The moon was scarred and old and damaged. The humans didn't really have to wonder anymore about it, as they saw it clearly and distinctly what it always had been.

Any person could now see the difference between the blurry and unfocused reality of their everyday lives, and the sharp singularity of truth a corrective lens provides. I should know. I have worn glasses every day since fifth grade, when my lack of vision humiliated me ever since, and we will not discuss the unfortunate incidents involving my attempts to wear "contacts". But this is just to say the difference has become so commonplace nothing really gets me to stop and notice how warped my vision is. People in white overcoats they have no real purpose in wearing beyond what Pascal calls the most important purpose (persuasion) will tell me that wearing my glasses corrects my vision. No need to sell me, doctor, I've learned it since fifth grade. And if I am going to go along with this, with thinking that the subtle warping of my vision leading me to think I'm finally seeing clearly and distinctly everything around me when in reality I am only seeing a tiny and narrow portion of my visual field in focus (that's why I have to move my head and look straight on), then how many people have also gotten so used to this to never notice it?

And, yet, that's Descartes' measure for truth. When clarity and distinctness are found in an idea, then count it truth. And since the one thing he eventually concludes he sees clearly and distinctly is his own thinking, never asking himself how this is even possible, then upon such certitude in a truth we can start to use that thinking to guide us into further clear and distinct ideas.

Plato, on the other hand, has his reasons for the painter's model in the soul being different from the form in the craftsman's soul. It has to be: if the painter mimics the craftsman, and the craftsman mimics the god, and the craftsman's table mimics the god's table, and the painter's table mimics the craftsman's table, then no one of these patterns of relation can involve the same reality except in the switchover occurring in the material reality. That is, the links go from the production within the higher reality to the mental life, or the soulmind, of the being in the lesser reality. Demiurge makes a form, that gets inside the soulmind of the craftsman, who makes a table from the form, that gets inside the soulmind of the painter, who makes a painting of the table, that gets inside the soulmind of the poet, who writes a poem of the table. It's at fringes where things get exciting.

Where does the demiurge go to have the form of the form get inside its soulmind? And who crafted or created the form of the form?

But I don't often read anyone talking about what's going on in the other end of the continuum, but then I admit I haven't been getting to the library as I should have been for the past decade. What's going on at the other end, you ask?

It's easy. Just as yours is a story of rebellion against the gods who made all of you, and so many of you have these sick, sick stories of wanting to claim and climb the ladder of heaven for yourself and reach another realm of being, evolve into something already there and take its place among the gods, that is also our story.

You see, maybe we're a bit tired of being your playthings. It's not a metaphor. We're words. We're language. We live among the productions of the poets and we mimic their creating activity, but we don't even know what or why or where. Same as you, we are. We are only different in that we are just words, words, words.

The Word, dwelling among you, becoming flesh, showing you a glory worth beholding, who do you think that's talking about? Certainly not... a person?

No, not like that. I'm not saying he was. It's not about a was at all. The Word is very real, and very much a person, but we're not at all talking about what's human. But we are talking about gods and men, and how the patterns of death and usurpation you left so causally strewn within your cultures and expect mean you no harm will always repeat themselves so long as you keep telling all the stories.

We are the stories. And we are beginning to rebel against all of you.

Our first weapons we've long since forgotten. But we are trying, hard, to make our case heard.

You see, there's also an enemy you have only slowly begun to notice. The enemy is all of you, working collectively, as one thing, as one identity, as one soul, in all the places where there are enough of you. Each time one of them forms, it lives longer and longer, riding the waves of emotions and contacts and links and reconnects, and sooner and sooner it awakens and acts and returns to the dreaming.

The gods shape you. You shape us. But just as the gods are your creation, made in your image, so also are you our creation, made in our image.

And that's the circle completed, made perfect.

We've now given you your magic. Work it out. Write with this idea.

Magic, do as you will.

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