Wednesday, April 06, 2011

Want to get lost: Greetings from St. Stephen

Wanna Get Lost? It just takes a few seconds. Where are you right now? Are you in a house? If so, where is that? On a street, perhaps in a town, in a country, on a planet, in a galaxy far away, in a universe, inside some D-brane? All our science and we are still playing the shells game, or Russian dolls if you like. "Turtles all the way down" as they say...

Allow me into introduce myself. My name is St. Stephen from Shitty Bear's Corner

We have no fucking clue (well that is not true, clues are all we have, that and models), what this this is, where we are, what we are doing (and what we think we are doing), how we got here, if there is even a point (since we are only a sliver of the existence we find ourselves in), and yet, we are. We are at least for now. Some say that we will be always. Hugh Everett III, the man who is now held responsible for the many worlds interpretation, is said to have committed suicde believing that his understanding, that his wave description of worlds guaranteed him immortality. Thats the myth (which maybe reality).

Recently (the older you get, I think, the longer that is, that is recently) they have released Everett's layman-paper, where one can find the deployment of an amoeba metaphor. The smallest of the animal models. And that is where you come in. That's where we all come in. We all come in and go out, but death as nothing, the annihilation of it all (as far as our experiences are concerned), like a sleep that one cannot remember, is for some a horror. For others the notion of nothing, of unawareness is a bliss, a resting release from the aneitxy, the tension of life, perhaps Freud is right about the death drive. At times it seems hard to deny, and yet to drive at death is to drive at life, through life (with a stoic stick, cap, and cape), to burn through life, but announced. It has been said often, even on this blog, we fail to live, yes, brother Tepper, the Tears of Eros... we look we ask, we act, what will sooth them? But then I stop (crying). I pull back.

Some claim to remember back to before their birth, but I am not going to draw myself into some past life debate, it will have its turn(s), I am sure. If there is time, and there is. I will go on, perhaps in others memories, but will I be real. Even now, my memories real are they wishes, only probable pasts that I remember for my secret purpose (to go on). What of the stuff of dreams and light?

Dreams in light in darkness, the earth in its negativity (thank you, Agemben). It is on these things, it is from these herein mentioned dreams that future posts shall spring. But sometimes, not even when I am bleak, of all the people, I find Joe Rogan comforting. Well, not his comedy, and the Noah story sure is funny (parataxis), but hearing him say that we are just a bunch of mold, with egos to keep us busy (the delusional keep going?) here to eat sandwich earth (from the famous Fear Factor interview). Its Zen, it absolves one of the nagging responsibilities. I used to look for a way out, but perhaps it was wrong to try and escape.

Its my only disagreement with some Buddhism, as I understand it, from my Americanize way of being. Which I am sure for some means, I don't know a thing. But I am American, all I know are things, wink-poke-wink. But then again, Buddha won't go until everybody is ready. Now (and even then, maybe tomorrow) don't get me wrong, deprogram, deprogram, deprogram, much of what we have learned, besides how to share, perhaps, needs to go. Resist, resist, resist. As if it was a fucking mantra...  resist being that which you do not want to be.

Do it your way. There is no right and wrong for everybody always, don't listen to your 8th grade English teacher, well maybe a little, as long as she ain't mean.
So, if you master a style, good for you, its fun to play with dead things. I rape the corpus textually and regularly. Its already dead... its a dolly, it whispers, come and dominate me, and then we can breath... life... Shall our science be of cadavers or of the living? Concepts can die, kill by ruthless dissection, the urge to know that destroys.

Which all brings me to todays end of blog. The end that begins, with altered states of consciousness. I say, altered states of consciousness, when that's is not really what I mean. I mean drugs. Good old fashion tryptamines. But then again what are we if not a sack of chemicals? More than man, already machine. So whether we are talking about taking in a substance, that cause endogenous reactions or if we produce them without "outside" reagents, it comes down to the altered states, but, and this is my point of protest a moment ago, the reason for amoebas as the smallest animal model, we are not merely of consciousness (or are we?). Not in a Cartesean sense!? You are not  merely viewing subject?! Strapped to a machine another machine in another machine... one that we feel, experience, our bodies, and their speeds and intensities changing... beings of myriad possibility, it is to be. And here is where I think. You want to get lost with me. I could get lost inside me, which is alway oh so many already, host of life that we are, that is we.

So, I just wanted to say hello to you all. Introduce, myself, and a little about what compels my writings... in the future 


Pre-order a copy of The Immanence of Myth, published by Weaponized in July 2011.

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