A Standing Ovation

First Circuit: Oral Bio-Survival

When I grow up, I want to be a skeleton. Or maybe a ghost. I’m of two minds on the matter. Two minds on the matter…

Most of my imaginary friends don’t believe in ghosts. Hell, half of them don’t even believe in me. They’re pretty square, if you ask me. But everyone’s a little square, if you look from the right angle.

And I’ve got a bone to pick with the mortuary business. I hate to get stuck in a box, and incineration just plain stinks. Besides, if my urn matches my earnings, my ashes might as well land in some rusty tin can.

When the time comes, I’ll probably go with one of those back alley funerals, and squat in a dumpster for all eternity. Shh. Don’t tell the city. Hey, what city are we in?

I tend to field a lot of square questions. People always say: “Say, you’re not from ’round here! Where ya from?” I like to tell them that I come from a long line of eggs.

Literally true. An unbroken chain of ova in evolution. Ova in evolution. I am a standing ovation. So are you. Ova in evolution.

I hope that one didn’t go “ova” your heads.

Maybe my whole life is just a dress rehearsal for a promising career as a poltergeist. I’ve been told I have a haunting look, and I’ve been known to rattle a chain or two. So the afterlife looks bright for this future shade.

There’s a lot of discrimination against ghosts, though. These born-again bobble-heads are always going on about the rights of the unborn, but what about the rights of the undead?

You don’t hear much about the rites of the undead, either. Necromancy sure ain’t what it used to be. I’m a big fan of phantoms, but I’m not looking forward to being exorcized. Don’t try to exorcise me, or I’ll ghost out of here.

I usually run far away from exercise, though evidently not from run-on sentences. Run-on sentences are messy, but then again, so are periods. A period interrupts a sentence. Life sentence, if you catch my drift. Catch my drift?

Well, I’m not sure what sort of career I might be pursuing here, but my hobby is armchair etymology. Language branches like a fractal. Like a fractal. Like a fractal…

Language is a sequence of events, like wind blowing, or water flowing. Or a tree growing. Etymolotree. Catch my drift? Catch my drift?

Life. Life is like…an inadequate analogy.

The ideas expressed herein are not necessarily those of the medium. The medium I am.

I am the set of all I am, the set of all I am, the set of all, I am the set of all I am. For my first act, I’ll impersonate myself.

om ma matter mother mammary mammal material mass meter metric matrix matriculate matrimony metropolis ma ma ma

Oral bio survival
Oral bio survival
Oral bio survival
You must
You must
You must inhale
You must
You must exhale
You must
It all begins with a breath
You must inhale
You must
You must exhale
You must
Inhale exhale inhale exhale
One breathe after another
Never stop, for the next stop is death
You must
You must inhale
You must
You must exhale
You must

Made of matter, suckled by mother
Ma is as selfless as I am
Helpless self seeking the other
Cognition dancing binary beats
Synchronized in the catbird seat
Trying to find that goldilocks slot
Not too cold and not too hot
The nipple and the stick
The rod and the tit
Hard or soft
Do or don’t
Yes or no
Will or won’t
On or off
Security first circuit
Security first circuit
Security first circuit

Wolf Flow Logic

Second Circuit: Territorial Imperative

Pa pa pitter patter pasture pattern patrol foster pastor patriarchy patrician protect power power power power power

It’s the Wolf Flow logic
Mark your territory
Secure in a circle of urine-soaked boundaries
Pissing in a sea of predator and prey
A theater of threats to be held at bay
I come from a long line of those who survived
By doing what it takes to stay alive
It’s safer to be feared than ignored
From underdog to overlord
That’s the Wolf Flow logic
Mark your territory

Yeah, the Wolf Flow Logic
Mark your territory
Better bow before your authority
As you scale the pyramid of hierarchies
You stick with us and here’s what we’ll do
We’ll extend our strong-arm of protection to you
Protection from what? Protection from who?
From what we’re gonna do if you don’t join our crew
Participation is mandatory
That’s the Wolf Flow Logic
Know your enemy

Wolf Flow Logic
Mark your territory
It’s a racket of protection natural selection
And the gang is sharpening its fangs
Preying to overtake the game
The status quo fueled by pride
Claiming turf with every stride
Tread upon your neighbors’ heads
Join the hunt if you wanna get fed
That’s the Wolf Flow logic
You’re in or you’re out
And if you’re out, if you’re out, you’re dead

Follow Wolf Flow Logic
Mark your territory
Map out the pattern of patriarchy
Leaving behind a bloody legacy
Excreting its laws all over history
Priests and kings and daddy makes three
Trapping seeds in the nuclear family tree
You’re not the only one who can get uppity
That’s just how a bitch gotta be
Marking her territory
Yeah, the Wolf Flow Logic
Welcome to the Wolf Flow Lodge

Language Is For the Birds

Third Word: The Semantic Symbolic Circuit

Nomen nomenclature noun pronoun renown name nominate nominal denomination ignominy moniker eponymous anonymous misnomer anomaly onomatopoeia

Hmm. That’s a mouthful!

Names. We have all these funny words, which undo themselves by not living up to their names. For example, take the word, “monosyllable”, a multi-orgasmic, um, multi-syllabic tongue-twister. I mean, “monosyllable,” has five, count ’em, five syllables. What’s up with that?

“Onomatopoeia” is supposed to mean a word which sounds like a sound, except it doesn’t really sound like anything. “Vernacular” and “colloquial” are not even vaguely common or ordinary words. And “palindrome” backwards is just “obnoxious”. True story.

So maybe I’m going out on a limb here, but a little bird once told me that my language is just a bastardized dialect of birdsong. Actually, she didn’t call it a dialect. It’s one of those, how do you say? Pidgins. And a pidgin’s just a hard-luck dove.

I’m not sure I swallow all that, but my feathered friend said that what we call speech was originally a trick our ancestors picked up from imitating bird-calls. Yes, bird-calls, which are evidently a method of transmitting encoded intelligence briefings, within the high-spy community.

By parroting the whistles of birds, albeit with our thick primate guttural accents, we managed to acquire a scintilla of intelligence ourselves. Not enough to reliably understand each other, but once upon a time, as the crow flies, ancient humans didn’t have access to the lexical complexities of modern language at all. It was all grunts and farts back then.

According to the Epic of Gilgamesh, it was precisely this grunting and farting which led to cataclysmic global flooding. The stern decision to wash out emergent civilization came courtesy of some easily offended Sumerian deities, who, it is written, were fed up with the noise and stink of humanity. Oh, those humans! They smelled so loud!

As recorded in another contemporary myth, the survivors proceeded to make an even bigger mess of things, and became profoundly confused in the course of erecting a gaudy and hubristic sky-scraper. Words changed meaning so rapidly that mutual intelligibility was irrevocably lost in translation.

This tower was even more offensive to the heavens than the smell of Ur had been, and the high-rise project was cursed with communication failures. The Bible calls this tower “Babel”, but some scholars believe that the ambitious erection may have actually been called “Thump” by the ancients.

Mesoamerican folklore paints a curiously parallel picture. In the aftermath of a cosmic tsunami, the Goddess Xochiquetzal repopulated the world with wordless humans, who were nice enough, but had nothing whatsoever to contribute to the conversation.

Xochiquetzal thought this was rather dumb, so, as these deities are prone to do, She summoned a flock of doves to solution the situation. Now these doves, who always seem to do just fine during these floods, either taught the original languages to our ancestors, or were devoured by them. Accounts vary.

Several thousand years of pointless arguments later, scientists still debate the intelligence of our “high-brow” human whistlers, but the birds know that we’re merely mimicking them. Language still hangs like an albatross around our necks, making mischief in every shade of connotation.

Once upon a prehistoric time, the feather didn’t fall far from the wing, and jungle whistles were the words heard round the world. Speaking of whistling, there yet remain a few primitive enclaves where the bird is still the word, mostly in isolated hilly valleys where the acoustics carry the tune.

Today, these valleys are still home to modulated tonal languages which are whistled out by tribal humans, and the avian influence is obvious.

One such place is the Canary Islands, which wasn’t named for the birds at all, but for the canine wild wolves which probably ate a great many of them, who still wail off-key, baying at the moon in a hopeless yet heartfelt tribute. And that’s the wolf flow logic. Bark your territory.

Judgement Machine

Fourth Circuit: Cultural Context

Us them us dem us dem dem dem democracy domestic domicile domain dominate dominion despot dungeon us dem us dem us dem

Will I get more milk with a smile or a scream
That grove is green, but what does it mean?
Is that a lurking shadow or a wolverine?
How am I to interpret that gleam?
Are you looking to meat me, eat me
Or are we on the same team?
Is this whole routine just a fever dream
Ignore the bark or flee the bite
Bank to the left or bolt to the right
It’s a battleground of mind versus might

Food or poison better guess well
One fills your belly, the other sends you to hell
Quagmire quicksand oasis mirage
Water or danger wrapped in camouflage?
Why’s it so bright in the middle of the night?
That can’t be the moon dropping all that light
Should I head downwind or back upstream
Survival safe arrival partner or rival
At what point should I intervene?
It’s all up to the Judgement Machine

And I am a Judgement Machine
Know what I mean?
Judgement Machine
Scope out the Scene
Judgement Machine
You, me, and authority
Ordered by the Judgement Machine
Our voices our choices
Our hands and our feet
Our tongues and our lungs
Our eyes and our ears
Driven by the gears
Of the Judgement Machine
Judgement Machine
Know what I mean?

Madonna whore can I please have some more?
Did we break a glass ceiling or hit the floor?
Dominance dancing with submission
What’s my mission and why should I care?
Where do I fit into this institution?
From vestal virgin to barren librarian
Takes a soapbox to organize a choir
Like it takes a village to raise an empire
Unity discrimination loyalty retaliation
Tribes and nations, demand political affiliation
But I’m at one with my alienation

And I’m a Judgement Machine
Ya know what I mean?

Father and mother self and other
Slamming together in a nuclear reactor
Generations fused through chains of traditions
Identity in a centrifuge of confusion
Melting down the core of authority
Runaway engines of individuality
Parallel tracks laid by carrot and stick
Containment vectors that make us tick
Thesis antithesis diametric opposition
Cascading convergence of conflicting visions

And I am a Judgement Machine
Know what I mean?
Judgement Machine
Scope out the Scene
Judgement Machine
You, me, and authority
Ordered by the Judgement Machine
Our voices our choices
Our hands and our feet
Our tongues and our lungs
Our eyes and our ears
Driven by the gears
Of the Judgement Machine
Judgement Machine
Know what I mean?

Army corps guarding the company store
Missing the skyline for the smog
Trails blazing or cultural fog?
Cloud bank foreclosing across our horizons
Allies and enemies in revolving doors
Stoking the brushfire of retribution
No problems, merely fluid situations
No solutions but new crystalline formations
Rotating roles for the next revolution
Judgement machine: Powered by Evolution!

And I am a Judgement Machine
Know what I mean?
Judgement Machine
Scope out the Scene
Judgement Machine
You, me, and authority
Ordered by the Judgement Machine
Our voices our choices
Our hands and our feet
Our tongues and our lungs
Our eyes and our ears
Driven by the gears
Of the Judgement Machine
Judgement Machine
Know what I mean?

Existence In Motion

Fifth Circuit: Somatic Awareness

Inhale. Exhale. Hail Eris. Hail Eris!

Er es er es to be yes absence essence entity present interest art error erratic aberration orient origin to be in motion er es er es

Did you ever have a thought that got so far out that it goes all the way around the Cosmos and smacks you in the back of your head?

Some thinkers seem to think that thinking is proof of existence. Well, I think that’s putting Descartes before the horse.

I’ve thought about it a lot, but I’m not sure I can really prove the existence of thought at all.

What if I’m only imagining my thoughts? What if I’m hallucinating them? What if I’m just a character in your virtual reality simulation?

Anyway, I think that thinking as evidence of existence requires additional consideration, so I operate under the alternate credo: I art, therefore I am. Pardon my alternative grammar.

There must be more to life than all these social mores and regurgitation of DNA! More to consciousness than status games and ego trips! There must be more to the mind than sorting information, and more to the soul than avoiding damnation!

We’re surfing the soup of being and nothingness, transcendent sentient entities seeking equilibrium, as we coalesce into unity with eternity.

Dancing, fasting, rituals of holistic action, hedonism, deprivation, expansion, devotion, mantras, mudras, prayers, recitations and fresh creations. Existence in motion. Being and becoming.Being and becoming.

Now, we’re rising above the routines which run the robot body though the obstacle course of culture, which corral the soul in a narrow band of improbable theologies.

We ascend to the seat of the soul. This is where mind becomes psyche. This is where the entire neurosomatic matrix becomes a sensory organ tuned to the emanations of an unseen sphere. Existence in motion. Being and becoming.

Here we orbit a nebula of distant probabilities, a plethora of untapped possibilities. Here we strip the artifice from the art, and call forth the sirens dwelling in our deepest hearts.

Here we awaken our dreams, as we contemplate the inevitability of our reflexive collective destinies. Here the future is as dim as the past, for now is always passing fast.

I’ve got a womb at the inn. It’s getting crowded in here, but there’s no one else around. I’m outgrowing the Yoniverse. There’s a knock, knock, knocking at my door. Sounds like biology getting carried away with itself.

Room cervix! Checkout time. Return to reincarnation station.

This is the song that never ends. This is the ordeal of animation. This is the portal to never-ending, everlasting laughter and tears. Here’s a world of passion and pain, a play already in progress, from a chain of big bangs to a chorus of eight billion whimpers.

Existence in motion. Being and becoming.

Showtime! From the instant of conception I was only an idea, a glint in a wild eye, fragile, formless, a collection of notions and odd scraps of observation.

I was a dream grafted on reality, a runaway train of thought with an uncertain destination, chug-chug-chug, climbing the hill to Manifest Station.

I was born in January, under the shadow of a tyranny. Or was it December, or even September? I don’t quite remember. I’m not sure who I was before, in a world where the night-stick is bruised and sore. Weren’t we all born in 1984?

What if causes are created by their effects, streaming on a beam of whatever meaning remains after the illusion of self is shattered?

Find the form of the flow and let your Self go. Go! Head for the crown of creation! Talent is cheap, genius takes devotion.

Turn the trick of transmigration. We’re held in webs of nonlocal cognition, firing on all cylinders of mystical intuition. We’re pondering the riddle of our own reflections, rippling wave-forms radiating in all directions.

I’ve got a proposition for you. An aesthetic proposition. I’ll give you a piece of my mind, and you’ll let me live in your memories. What do you think? I think I art, therefore I am.

Temple Of Gnosis

Sixth Circuit: Neuro-Electric Meta-Programming

Gno know noble ignore notice cunning incognito reconnaissance diagnosis notify ignorant notorious connoisseur connotation knowable notion gnosis gnosis gnosis

Well, the temple’s between the ear and the eye
The house of cognition, pattern recognition
Pentagons to the left of me
Apples to the right
And when they come together
The seeds of strife ignite
And when they fall apart
The tree rises from the heart

The temple’s between the earth and the sky
Branches and roots of RealiTree
Made of all our woulds and coulds
Hidden by a canopy
Of transitory leaves
Falling faster than we perceive
Watered by springs of intuition
Struck by starlight
And triggered into fruition

It’s a lightning bolt
It’s a camera flash
An earthshaking jolt
As continents crash
As above so below
Just follow your nose
No more guessing, you know
Ride the rising tide inside
For sense is the essence of essence
And the night sky will be your guide

In one ear and out the I
Expanding rings of stimuli
Over-growing flowing charts
Navigating our star-charts of art
We’ve got a compass and ephemeris
A map of nested mirror images
Over here dwells the highly surreal
Dripping with morphing visages
And when the meta and the “for” line up
Ideas cascade from some bottomless cup

It’s a lightning bolt
It’s a camera flash
An earthshaking jolt
As continents crash
As above so below
Just follow your nose
No more guessing, you know
Ride the rising tide inside
For sense is the essence of essence
And the night sky will be your guide

In one I and out I fly
Lest the vessel ossify
In the space and span I occupy
Here I am, here for the duration
Swimming in emanations and emitting vibrations
In web of holistic fractal pattern causation
For everything’s created by what it is not
Every pair of opposites grow on the same lot
And that’s why you’d best love your enemy
If only for being who you don’t have to be

What I spy in the corner of my I
A glimmer of vision
It’s a whisper of wisdom
A taste of creation
The world in gyration
Iridescent transmissions
Orbiting the origin
Still burning within
As thunder rings throughout the spheres
Eureka! Eureka! That’s the future you hear

It’s a lightning bolt
It’s a camera flash
An earthshaking jolt
As continents crash
As above so below
Just follow your nose
No more guessing, you know
Ride the rising tide inside
For sense is the essence of essence
And the night sky will be your guide

By the by there’s no more I
Who what where when how and why
There’s only the gnosis, the gnosis
Filtered through reverse osmosis
Known and unknown
Locked in a jitterbug dance
Inverse Universe in recursive expanse
Bend and transcend and do it again
For this initiation never really ends

It’s a lightning bolt
It’s a camera flash
An earthshaking jolt
As continents crash
As above so below
Just follow your nose
No more guessing, you know
Ride the rising tide inside
For sense is the essence of essence
And the night sky will be your guide

Subspace Substrate

Seventh Circuit: Non-Local Morphogenesis

Ge-ne Ge-ne Ge-ne Gene Genetic Genesis Generate Genuine Engender Generous Engine Innate Nature Genius Generation Generation Generation

Do you ever wonder what happens during the dreams you can’t remember? Did they happen at all, and, if so, to whom?

Are dreams just a private de-briefing, for third eyes only, downloading the details of daily life so that the subconscious mind knows what to be neurotic about?

Why is a raven like a writing desk?

Freud slipped, I mean spilled, a great deal of ink on the subject of dreams. But schemes to interpret the surreal symbolism in dreams are missing the forests for the trees falling inside of them.

I’m less interested in what any given dream means, than in the meaning of dreaming.

Who is this dreamer, so at home within intangible landscapes, so familiar with the impossible? This dreamer who can only be known through vanishing wisps of ineffable sensations and paradoxical situations which unravel as daylight and rationality set in?

Making sense of the world is like standing on your head while breathing backward. On one hand, we have mystical philosophies which picture the observable world as a room of illusions; on the other, scientific materialists who assign truth value only to the verifiably quantifiable.

So, pray tell, what might be the truth value of the movie in my sleep-struck mind? I can’t prove the events in my dreams to you. I can’t even prove them to myself.

Does a notion have to be plausible, to generate applause? If a television is turned off, are the sitcoms still vapid and inane? If someone answers a rhetorical question, is it still a koan?

Why did a soup of inorganic compounds spontaneously elect to organize along political lines? Why on Earth would such an unlikely event transpire? Life does seem a little strange.

A little strange. Like a strange loop. A self-generated cause. It happens because it happens. Or does it? After so many “whys”, we’re none the wiser.

Such a grand design, all these dimensions in concrescence, seem to imply some sort of Designer, a mad scientist experimenting in the sky. Or so the monotheopoly claims in their brochures.

But creation isn’t necessarily a product of intelligent design. The design IS intelligence. The design IS intelligence.

We see the world through the lens of an assembled self, a refractory looking glass, filtering phenomena and projecting mythology.

We are the patterns we perceive, we are the patterns we perceive, we are the patterns we perceive, embossed in relief.

The Self is a border crossing, a membrane between inner and outer space. Inner space is mostly made of water, just like the surface of our suspiciously habitable planet.

Outer space, according to science, is made up mostly of massive physics equations, punctuated by stars and such.

Stars, I’m told, composed primarily of hydrogen, which is a positively charged particle of almost nothing, in a complicated on-again, off-again long-distance relationship with a flaky negative electron, who exists even less.

Divinity isn’t an entity; it’s a substrate. A substrate.

A quality of consciousness, a ratio of relation, transmigrating from synapse to nebula and back again, from particle to planet and star, partaking and taking part of the physical and metaphysical, the real and the imaginary, dwelling in undiscovered dimensions of superposition.

By the way, we’re holding a fundraiser to save Shroedinger’s cat. Please donate locally, and act Galactically. Deposit your contributions in the golden balloon.

Water isn’t an entity; it’s a substance.

Drops of water; pools of water; streams and oceans of it, evaporating into lofty clouds and eventually condensing into rain, retaining individual identity only for the duration of the fall to Earth, before puddling into the mud.

Swimming in the subspace substrate.

So what has all this to do with the spice of tea in Wonderland?

Is a cup of water still a cup of water, once the water has been drunk or spilt, once the cup has splintered into a thousand shards?

Mind might be held by matter, but, like water, flows from vessel to vessel, to be absorbed spontaneously by those who are thirsty and eager to think.

We all pay in different ways for our education, but the cost of tuition comes down to paying attention. Paying attention. Paying attention.

The way I see it, an eye is all any of us are. A point of you. A perspective.

Perspective: I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours. We’re comparing notes, exchanging angles of view, sharing vantage points on reality.

We’re reference frames, unique only in our location and duration. One mind: infinite variations.

We’re all coming on for a cameo in each other’s biopics. You live your whole life to see and be in a movie that unwinds, real-to-real, inside the private showing room of your mind. Are you a spectator, or director? An actor or projector?

Reel-to-reel. Real, too real. Surreal.

Just a movie in your mind. Just a movie in your mind. Just a movie in your mind.

Seen any good flicks lately?

Concrescence

Eighth Circuit: Cosmic Consciousness

Mag May Might Magnet Magnify Magnanimous Magnificent Machine Magic Maxims Maximum Magnitude Magma Magnum Opus Magnum Opus Magnum Opus

Open open open opening opening under the Sun bathed in a shower of photons, synthesis in motion, landing on a canopy of fractal branches, reflecting the roots, digging ever deeper, ever deeper, as above, so below, as above, so below, you know, you know, dig deeper. Dig deeper.

We are a star awaiting ignition, we are a star lit with cognition, fed by fusion and spread by fission. We are the neurons of the collective consciousness, firing our will, at a truth that won’t stand still.

Firing our will, at a truth that won’t stand still.

We are the rationale for rationality, baying at the moon from the Wolf Flow Lodge, where dogmas are enshrined.

We are Judgment Machines assembling the puzzle pieces of culture and nature in the smithy of our souls.

We are the Word made flesh, and the world made words. We are Logos, incorporated. Logos, incorporated.

We are the map of a territory too vast to encompass. We are the great and small vehicles of perpetual existence in motion. Existence in motion. Existence in motion.

We are a star. We are a star. We are the set of all we are the set of all we are the set of all we are.

Concrescence of concept, multi-modular modalities. Reality is a tree.

We can swing from the limb over here, and it holds up under the weight of what we know, but there’s another monkey over there, hanging from another branch, and we don’t speak the same language, and we don’t see eye to eye.

And there’s a bird over here calling both of us coo-coo, and even the loons, raven, raven, raven, the deeper you dig, the higher you fly.

I’ve got a confession to make. I’m addicted to morphemes. No, not the painkiller. I’m talking about the molecule of meaning. Morphemes.

I’m hooked on phonics, and mad about semantics. Some kids play with their food. I played with my words. Alphabet soup is my favorite. Oh, go ahead. Laugh. You should have fun at my expanse.

Morphing morphemes, meaning more, more meaning. Or less. Less meaning. Meaning less. Meaningless. Meaningless.

Immortal murmurs murmuring morphogenetic mantras, morphing meaning, what does it mean? Who does it mean? Why does it mean? More lessons, less morons. More morphemes! More morphemes!

Water you drinking, water you doing, water you thinking, water you feeling, water you doing, water you thinking, water you drinking.

Water, rising through the roots, drawn onward, drawn onward, pumped through the mainstream trunk, pumping, pumping, toward a branch which branches and fruits, on a quest toward the Sun.

And under the cover of leaves, solar-powered organic engines, grow seeds, eggs, more than any forest wants or needs, all spinning the wheel of eggs-istential roulette. Will I land on soft Earth? Will I win the lottery of birth?

Existence in motion. I think I am I think I am I think therefore I art therefore I think I art therefore I am I art therefore I am. A standing ovation.

And now, back to your regularly scheduled simulated reality programming.