Blog Title Photo

Blog Title Photo

Thursday, December 3, 2015

Song of 81 Poems, XXXVII





See our brother watch the cat,
Fragments gave Death a silent crowd.
Damaged Friday here,
   is looking to fly again,
   a mellifluous Hawaiian water bird.

Glory still demands an open subject.
Check your differences,
   paint an empathy language.
Above him, scratch . . .
   or chisel, on canvas.

Dust death a dry drink.
Run free, your giddy impression begins
   above a sanguine deep inky delight.
Give your notorious skirt, opportunity.
   Sure when rules think, he always sings
   A negative angry angel balances through life,

The old father's hollow crowd is strung hard.
   He'll soon investigate how guile buys problems.
Sleep is the drug,
Fiery Mother of Heaven, how that burnt money
   gives skirts a still body.
   "An almost better me."

Banal ideas, all these words,
   can't we question or enervate delight?
Why is this girl not smoking in manic diversity?
   Competitive solutions are negative, as such.

The homely Herculean punk's afraid, behind bars.
Did some infant reach him?
Aridity means an enormous break,
   to ease my solution.
The asthmatic boy sees an aggressive double
   who never cared to paint men,
   He tried some laughing care.

Don't muscle that Miss, I'm about his studio.
Say to my other son: "Drink, I'm trolling from above.
   Be her man!"
I'll suffer, try a life experiment.
More balance will free, and glitter will shriek.

Marry me. We'll clean our dust there,
   and bury this over animal music.
Then if surreal courage glitters incarnate,
   your woman's hormonal cramp seems fooled.

I'm a genie, a beautiful husband,
  who followed a vintage laugh to new feeling.
Say it, our sound can communicate a story,
   Sigh and see life, hear strength,

I see you N,
   trying some positive desire!
      I see your LP, your harmony faithfully captures every crazy hymn.
Fill a glorious missive, see Rio.
Though our systems worry,
     rage's finest day, is sky.

The DA is easy, he'll imagine smoke in your studio.
Following behind is risky, he has questions.
See the beautiful cat almost howl.
   Your wife is raging.

My beauty does elucidate canvas,
   Always make love at passion’s bed.

Choose Brother, to take this perfume home.



Song of 81 Poems:

  1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35
 36
37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45
46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54
55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63
64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72
73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81


Thursday, November 26, 2015

Song of 81 Poems - XXXVI



On one, said we to elves, "what heals time?"
Swine! Improve your black-headed silhouette,
   about the need of which sweet dish
   you are dazzled.

Understand she hardens,
   about cunning trouble.
Let's walk, it's better.
She knows our morning glory
   was a feeling.

A society that forms observations
  will model.
We can lick a grand River!
I'm proof, see my sanity,
Tell your bird why men
   gripped my other canvas.
It almost always
   makes my smoke investigate . . .
Humidity.

I like representing your calm body as a sculpture
   though, your surface was almost concrete.
So share a new young street.
Run be angry beneath more empty music.

Are we agreeing that we should know?
a cruising metaphoric opinion
   licked clean of her bearing?

Throw her torpid form through
Clean sex and fast romance
   feels clever.
God rest in peace,
   would it be tearful if I made a man
   take my milky soft and faithful passion.

Unless astonished by my work and power
   your wasted selves appear many though positive.
I've chosen a straight water ritual.

I can't stick around. She erred,
    picked an aggressive act too enormous to enjoy.
Asking if Guilt is abuse.
   she sells, in all ways fed up.
She sincerely said something,
   Thanksgiving affects head competition.
For absurd as it sounds,
   see in front, the edge of observation.
Enervate delight.
My sculpture won't mind glitter,
   If so, I'd grip it.

Trust that we'd join in clever strength
   about the yard.
Man you can hide perfume, the glory owes you money.
An ancient babbling sound
Vapors . . . a palpable past . . . infinite idols . . .
   reach for aesthetic cleanliness.

In all ways she spun a faithful breath instrument.

My happy angel's broken past was the life she formed.
I never said you are dead,
   droll-natured neighbor.
Leave blunt creativity there.
If surreal courage glitters incarnate,
   sucker, celebrate your dirty vulture breath or puke.
A lying solution's better than money.
Try a good society girl, all drunk.

Don't jealous boy, destroy absurdity.
   I'm Death.
Imagine sodden, trotting cuddles.
I manipulate, empower, then delight.

Sculpt Angel under observation,
   play then work.
Share dance - I am a symbol of space,
   make some other calm, united.
   Use emotion on lost energy.

‘Till, I question, I try.
   So we played mellifluously.
My daughter thought, "Write, dazzle, cook . ."

Most will suffer peace at dusk.



Song of 81 Poems:

  1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35
 36
37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45
46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54
55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63
64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72
73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81

Thursday, November 19, 2015

Call




this piece
gifted
was the one lost
on your tour of the galaxies
stolen by that woman
who envied you
you're a bit of jelly in the sea
you glow but have stopped growing
yet you learn
your body will be devoured
or you will be in Orion
before I ring the bell


Will we make Progress?



Will we progress?
Raised by fire
since we were tiny beings.
We relax torn muscles,
then limp into darkness
to be eaten.
Why can't three lifetimes
as mountain neighbors
call back our youth?
Do something!
How could foolishness
reincarnate beauty?
Incarcerate everything.
You'll understand,
that love is just delivery from time.
Join me there, at least.


Tuesday, November 17, 2015

Stuart Little





It jabs my heart, how
the milky swirl of the cosmos
put love where starlight cannot reach
where we were young.
Believe it all, trust, don't question.

Student, of perfection
immaculate hair,
feather fans, fluttering curls,
Taking time your sport,
your car, scented envelopes
with surprises,
Letters you said
flew from across the stars.

Who drove all night?
The lightweight suit
and pinstripe blouse.
put on for the special guest . . .
So you whispered
when you crossed the table
to introduce yourself.

You rained into my eyes
drops, I felt no pain,
But sat at the edge of my saucer,
and drank tea.
I told you I'd return,
lifted you into my hands.
I lied, carried on.
You pressed a wafer
into the creases of my palm
I left it at your feet
alongside my pain.

Friday, November 6, 2015

Dionysus and the Muse




-=({O})=-

The Muse hears inspirations mouthed, vocalized, words insisted on by the Goddesses of language. Drama begins as her language, uttered to you.

Language forms this way . . . we listen to masks!

Voices erupt, echoes layered from a chorus. The rituals, payment, prayer, blessing, are uniform, effects close and personal.

Was it mysterious because it was new? Are we to believe Johnson, and subsequently Borges who implies that every word at one time was a metaphor?

From drug-induced congresses with Demeter at Eleusis in Greece, to temple burnings of the Agnicayana, the intrusions of a Coryphaeus in productions by Dionysus, drunken orgies with maenads, all appeals to numinous demiurges, appeals for the boon of genius. He verbalizes what we think. We move and act, he utters a summation.

Character emerges, weather from masses of air.

Dionysus, a Spartan born of heroic Greece, and wine-god on Olympus, populated millenniums of myth. He was hunted by Spartan patriarchs, his sin: teaching viticulture to women. Some say he was captured and torn to pieces, others say escaped to India. Beheaded perhaps, Dionysus lives on a herm, on a column, or a dramatic mask. His terror, humorous, or violent, ever present.

He interfaced with the Goddess, his wild procession or thiasus of maenads, crazed women and satyrs with erect penises maintain him as the drug-induced bad-dream rock star we all know. Outside his vehicle, he is a purveyor of horror, grotesque acts, crimes, and confusion.

He is Charles Manson, or Puck. He is also Charlie Rose. Agreeing with everyone, disagreeing with everyone. Kali and Shiva display aspects of a Hindu Dionysus who ritualizes terror to devout worshippers. No wonder Kali worship is highest in geographic regions destroyed by floods or earthquake. Maintenance and regulation during the bronze age are assigned to to the male Gods of Olympus. Vishnu and Krishna play similar parts. Kali, an aspect of Shiva, was sent to the forests. North of the subcontinent she is Baba Yaga, the forest witch.

One imagines the subcontinent prior to acculturation by modern Hinduism. The Muse, acknowledged by Homer as the creator of Gods themselves was their mother, and was said also to have raised 9 daughters. Arts, history and culture were divided amongst them. When Apollo's priesthood took over the Oracle at Delphi, the tradition remained firmly rooted in the tradition of the Muse, entirely feminine. The sole difference, fees were collected and sent back to Athens.

So with all the Mediterranean Oracular sites. It is comforting that debate, history, intellect, and language of all forms were deeded along with all their treasures, after the ascension of male gods, to the female side of the psyche.

Since that division of territories, communication with the Goddess is a complicated ritual for navigating through densities of male myth. It involves drunken mediums like Dionysus, rituals like that at Delphi, layers of inquiry crafted by chorus and speakers on the Greek stage. One might trace elements from these theatrical rituals into the heart of Catholic mass, or to the cult of psychics who aid police in locating criminals.

Metaphor returns the call.

The sullen God of wine resents the Muse's carping presence - he is happier with woman who are nonsensical, screaming or mute. One wonders whether antics by Dionysus pleased or insulted the Goddesses of poetry and history. Dionysus is a foil for talent, Pancho Sanza, Robert Frost's neighbor, Shakespeare's Puck, Coleridge's wedding guest, he's at the meeting where finer things are made, the life of the party, yet also the one who breaks it up.

Might we engineer a metaphor, similar to the way a doctor provokes an involuntary response with his hammer, and dispense with all this ritual? Mightn't words disturb patterns of the collective and produce statements from its center, poems structured about a narrative live with a heavy burden? If the thread appears organized, the Muse scrambles that semblance. Dionysus performs what fragments survive, makes sure no shreds escapes without destruction. The vanity of wholeness is abandoned to the complication of storytelling.

This thought leads a poet to temptation, the one offered by modernism. Perhaps no greater experiment was ever conducted as the abandonment of story, Mystery was incorporated into the metaphor itself which lived naked and alone, man-made not God-made, and in so doing, stripped numinous content from any larger meaning.

Joyce, Klee, American abstract expressionists, Wallace Stevens, all produced works unburdened by the requirements of ritual and narrative.  Tired myth flows past us, blossoms on the water that must have been tossed in upstream. The numinous mystery is lost. A rose was no longer needed. Neither were creatures in the wild.

So we wander a corpus, rotting, but of human creation. Are we writers also in the degenerate stages of language, when poems arise from composting earlier poets?. Is there no new metaphor to come from the source?

We seek stories from the other side, but behind the curtain the question always floats forward, what story is ours? What tales come home?

So who scares the hell out of everyone?

-=:[()]:=-


Glossy Black



The mad engineer steps aside,
He baits a hook with one of her pearls.
Take note, a photonic illusion
perfect as a lake in fog.

Missives from dark water
fishes, serpents, eels
dance across the floor of our house,
pivot and twist when they are cut.
Each deserves the right, somewhat, to decide its own death.

At some point much will be divulged.
All will be shown.
Only what has been shared
may be saved.

Miriam Dactyls met Sondre Destre,
I read her a rich psalm, thrice to remove
every troll and trill.

If Logos has gone, then Madness shall write its own record.
"The Liberty of Fools."

I doubt we'll see it,
September came and passed and then made time
for the beginning of a new reign. So be it.
Tigers are in the bush,
So are cobras, glossy black.





A Call to the Numinous



-=:[()]:=-

Down the dark arm of a lake in the Adirondacks, I listened in rapture as my father yodeled into the shadowy hulk of a mountain. The forest and still water of the lake rang with his notes. Birds, owls, coyotes took up the call. For me it was magical, I did not reason it was my father's voice I heard.

The poem is the key, the yodel into the blackness of night. It brings back with it a chorus of the unexpected.

To the pre-classical ancients, poetry and metaphor were one, married by a dramatic ritual.

The approach to metaphor was dangerous, propitiously made with offerings. The Muse is capricious, gifted, but treacherous. Dionysus the otherworldly assistant to dramatic performances in a modern world, recruited the sane into his callings and made them mad like him.

Religion institutionalizes the ways and means of madness, integrates a bit of healthy madness for all of us, with our dreams, with what we can't understand.

Approaches to the Gods are fraught with danger, summoning Kali or visiting Baba Yaga in the forest, potentially deadly.  Dionysus's maenads tore the living apart in orgiastic frenzies of horror. Baba Yaga and Kali both drank blood. Vampires all, just as authors are vampires of language.

A writer allows himself to be eaten, but drinks the blood of poetic ancestors. For sound, like light, is vibration and in vibration exists the passage of all that passes from one place to another.

Borrow the ritual from someone else? How long did the source of the Nile evade Western explorers?

A murky understanding may be felt more than understood. It doesn't razor past our pupils in bright light. Darkness covets. The abyss holds secrets.

Sometimes meanings seem clear. For instance with Farsi court poetry, there is so much, too much even. All is there, all readable, all logical. Why do some poems, not others, stir the imagination memory, awaken old DNA? Have Heraclitus and the I Ching become poetry?

I'm not really conscious of what forces me to finish my project on the vampire. At best he may be a metaphor, male logos that has stripped language of numinous content. The vampire has lived rather long don't you think? He's a tired trope. He drains language of meaning. I know things will have to change. Yes, my vampire must die but it hasn't happened yet. Perhaps his death is a shift in subject, perhaps the poem is no longer about him at all.

When speaking of metaphor, think source, as in the sources of rivers. Every salmon in the sea knows where that is. It may be easy to grasp, or nigh impossible. But it is sensed. It may be a riddle, has never solved, but left to confound readers with mystery for centuries to come.

-:)/\(:-


Thursday, November 5, 2015

Ode



Some quantity was exceeded,
that mathematicians may make sense of
after a long time has passed.
We took too much to ease our fears,
still rattling within us,
when we sailed to our foreign land.

Some illness took root,
in a group of us
now so powerful.
So they will make the mistakes
that bring a new demise.

Walt Whitman did you cry?
I'm lost now.
Thomas Jefferson wrote
by light of oil from heads of whales
yet a slave brought him tea.
That which is self-evident, may outlast tyranny
yes, even if those that see it are dead.

No warriors, only terror
the new world, then as now
belongs to a few.

All those papers?
Dust in a mausoleum.

Our peace was illusory,
our monster worse than George
who had a head, two hands, two feet
and a wooden navy.

This black slug
mimics a branch.
A tiny head of bright red
makes you reach for it.
It watches everything you do
and makes you a slave.

Fall will come,
maybe not this life, maybe not the next.
Such orders falter more quickly than most.
they lash out, vulnerable.
Peaceful kingdoms have no history.
no architecture
marble palaces or concrete bunkers

The peaceful heart beats
in a home of mud and sticks.

Wednesday, November 4, 2015

Encounter




In your many names I see . . .
frank sense . . . demure . . . poetry
where did you go,
I miss your dreams.
 . . . to heaven sent . . .
our grapes . . . our tea . . . our sacrament.

My voice is hoarse . . . feathers black . . .
In my coffin . . . on my back . . . I'm spent.

Come open up, let me out . . .
Release me from this awful drought.

You met me with fields of waving grain . . .
Yet fed me dreaming again
for your brother and lover,
Osiris who came,
Your sadness is
how is it possible . . .
To put him together again.
 . . . You and he will find each other. . .
 . . . You're his sister, wife and mother.

I saw you your dance today . . . two ears of corn . . .
 . . . that Goddess Isis . . . instead of a microphone . . .
I saw your dance . . .  heard your voice . . .
Felt your trance . . . amidst the glances
 . . . of a dozen admiring boys.

I wanted to talk to you . . .
Of wishes and dreams. .
to meditate upon your clues
And compose your light in beams.

Two rivers . . . fresh and blue . . .
joined . . . and talked . . . a mournful tune.
The river road floated north,
No need to drive . . . or walk . . . this you know . . .

Dark? . . . this isn't true. .
light inside . . . the rest just isn't you . . .
You light my back . . .
to prove . . .
take any dimension . . .
 . . . up to you.
Alas you would . . .
come through resurrection . . .
And once risen . . .
would see me differently.

the hurt heart . . .
wanting . . .
the world do its part
If there were no fear else . . .
Fear rolls the wheel
 . . . Kali's terrible cart.
my body no time to heal
 . . . away in sixteen parts.

I await again . . .
 . . . where it is dark . . .
you calling my name.

Tuesday, November 3, 2015

Offer



I’m the girl you called Sire.
You’ve been around me buzzing, so drop that air.
I see through you always, I see higher
I take you from here to there.

The swan said to the water,
And the butcher to the ham
"I hurt all over,
 I’m swimming behind the dam."

A lake wraps a lakeshore
A flag furled around the world-end
Every galaxy spells a perimeter
Each illness brings a mend.

With pleasure comes some pain
A game with rules for playing more
Every footman takes his dame,
From two PM, 'till four.

Put down that pile,
Make poetry awhile.
I’ll amuse you . . . you amuse me . . .
To the end of time you will see.


Tuesday, October 20, 2015

Passport



There’s poetry in scribbles
this mass of words,
hairs lodged in the throat
undigested fragments begging to be transcribed.
lifted to light.

Take off the cloak!

Heavy wool, remove it!
thick layers,
naked white shoots pushing up.
Whoever thought they were beneath
all those rotten leaves?

I keep waiting, the shakedown
When everything will unravel, and become less complicated.
In the center of it all, huge bites are taken out,
the body is injured.
There are holes in the fabric of time, no mystery of how that happened.
I did it - what a destroyer - I threw my passport of 1982
away, why I’ll never know.

Principles



a rush . . .
as if all that was tall straight and stable
were now bending.

no twinkling
a sleepy amazement
about all that men built

from the window of a late cab
speeding home
I no longer care enough
of what will or can or might happen.

the tide of events
spins irreverent, a sacrilege
toward a private ending.
my own?
how lonely that would seem.
.
my children are my children,
the die is cast
they need me fully or not at all
at times my wife is a person I cannot talk to

Before her I was unfocused
I had principles but I was naive
loving strangers, eyes to the heavens.
now I focus on the earth ahead.

Yet know I lie buried somewhere
aching gnawing to find purpose the source of drive
what is it?
it wakes each cursed day
setting me on a journey
through a disconnected world
waiting for a story to tell.


Humbleness


My son’s clear honest eye 
sees to the heart of me
I am humbled

My daughter’s feet climb my legs and chest
I am humbled

We are all made humble
By our less humble nature

But as nature humbles us
We rebel against humbleness
We strive to be
something else.

Humbled
By my un-humble nature
So my nature
Rails against my humbleness

Were I less humble
I might lift my head
And drop my pride.

How that humbleness burns!

Saturday, October 17, 2015

Coming Soon - Song of Raven


“Song of Raven"

Wat daw Scribblers Scrabe:

Striped Babbler: “Bee-eating a Veery Nody-tail, Scrabe ‘n Averic wid English, Breton, Gaelic, Cornish, Irish, Latin and American Bird names.”

Popinjay: “Purre Goldfinch. A Yoldring Tail ‘n Birdic Grammaw, fly ao Blakeling Scribbler, daw Tail of doo Lovebirds.”

Nanny Wash-tail: “Knot doo Shabby . . Knot Pheasant . .  May-be Fowl . .  Tithys goldie Tell-tale Triller . . “

Bohemian Chatterer: “As Great Reeds go, a ‘Monarch Moualc'h’ ‘n Bird!”

Gossip Bird: “ Bass Guiss? A Pretty Quick Coot Reed! Great Divers! Knot Fody Bleeding-hearts. A Tail doo Ptarmigan 'n Ptarmigan!"

Daw Haggister: “Fody Gull Chasers . . . and Squeezy Gulls Doo . . . Moor Tits ‘n Assity ‘n Fody Plover Padges!”

"Io Tam Gled Io Rood 'Warble Daw Raven'!"

"Yoit Knot Coot Wheary! "


"Alae, daw fannag of Cromadh Bend-daw Ear bird!"


"Cob Rook a Rant!  - "Warble daw Raven"

Friday, October 16, 2015

Words







All my verse and all my song,
Was given you, and yet you're gone,
Taken away, silence between,
The words that play, and the words that mean.

Medicine


I reached for my cures, but my medicine had gone,
They left with a woman who turned them to song.
I wrote down the words, though they didn't make sense,
I thought they might hurt, but I know what they meant.

Tuesday, September 8, 2015

Are Raw Words Obsessive?





I

Perform for me this tea art.
Sweet Daughter we must, when you and I are together, live.
So let’s walk.

I am for tantra, fiery pictures above dust,
in a full glorious rainbow.
How many will never understand beauty.
Muscly men gripe, offer unity,
Drive until you caught some bird.

Black peace could give us language.
My aesthetics you use, until she stills green passion.
Glass bodies in communication look for Music.

You trust your electric model,
never together under passion.
A traitor with a whipped tongue feels free.
I like this freedom, I believe in the drunk!

The animal I need makes my empty Death.
Clean sex and an electric picture . . .
Models grant no denial. Respect.
Could the old gal win at dice?


II

I see sculptures, manic sculptures after praise.
Only symbols, they are laughter.
When in such a worry, you and I.
Good character destroys what won’t give us night.

Grand Sir, first know. Let her draw her companion’s will.
Here howls a beautiful language.

The Mare above him was caught,
must know laughter, and be all danced.
Suffer to investigate a thought,
Life flies after us, set in a black limpid experiment.

See the two partners,
somehow forget if silhouettes capture a mad thought.
Improved though blue, please may you comfort us.
Praise only simple morphine to scale. Conserve it!
It’s an awful hidden and daunting reserve.

Life knows patience in heaven, as silence.
Free my esteemed fellow. Sleep!
My mate is innocent, how will you go and decide upon her silence?
I’m for tantric teaching.
Bed her to discover animal music.


III


Let's test our will.

Call me.

Model my hard question, through music.
We spoke of her money jungle.
Then she went crazy, have patience, . . . so choose.
Fly with a glass stranger.
Tropical, can we tell about glorious endeavors?

This impulse is soft, and looking spotted,
and that studio experiment in passion,
Brother, all around you sculpts an Angel.
Fill a glorious missive. Anger would have faith.
Share his joy. It will glitter.


IV

Our water is the bed, through my ear she goes.

Could we know blue?

Elves balance, cuddle with color.
I try to empower kids. Fly to me,
“I weld men. Follow behind me.”

She and Zeus chant face to body.
Shimmer about the rain, about the grand river.


Celestum II



What do I hear
when I hear voices
Are they mine or yours or someone else’s
shells, ghosts, cast off homes,
or mistakes of language?
All the things that were never said or done.

What a pleasure to watch the wind
Catch a fold of the curtain then lift it,
and send a curl running across its breadth.
A crab across a rock before a wave?

A seething mind boils, then cools
Every idea an explosion, sending a thousand sparks showering
Thick crust cracked and bleeding molten rock
Late in the day sky and coral turn the green of limes.

Melts and so moves downwards
Through fire
Purifying itself
Thus reaches heaven

Under attack
Assume the female form
Prepare to give birth.


Confusion


white haired rages
through cardinal provinces, princely states
salmon, natives, hybrids
acid displays
the bright belly of a trout,
now is hazy grey
in a world polluted
murder leaves a wake of confusion.

Vulcan Vishnu



Vulcan spews smoke towards a giant bird,
Vishnu gazes into the silent eyes of the seven-headed cobra.
An artist rests in territories where ideas live,
   'midst carved giants and mute faces of stone and wood.

A small pot of mercury
the size of the tin of baked beans,
we may eat for dinner,
      is impossible to pick up in one hand.

Ingots may be lifted with great strength
      after a deep breath, held for a second.
Violin space-music plays, the volcano explodes,
      the space ship on the ceiling lights up.

The roar of anti-gravity engines are heard.


Paul, Mark, and Luke - Scoby Notes



I named our first Self-Contained Organism of Bacteria and Yeast, Paul, in memory of the famous octopus  Paul, who lived a short time after predicting the outcomes of eight World Cup Soccer games.

Past feats aside, Paul seemed a good name.

So Paul begat Mark, and Mark begat Luke, and soon kambucha was exploding literally from every vessel at house Potter. I've concocted many superb tasting drinks in this manner, without keeping so much as a pencil scrap of a note about process.

Invention happens spontaneously, when one is not recording results. The recording of results inevitably mire any process in a protracted program of exhausting all possibilities.

One knows this when one follows one's genius around the house, and one's genius in this case is a flat rubbery slimy organism used to ferment tea.

A Kambucha SCOBY represents life, as unique as that of a cow that produces rich cream, or a tomato plant that yields exceptional fruit. This log shall transcribe that life. Here I write everything Paul is fed, everything taken from Paul in the way of harvest, and jot for posterity every note that I can think of to better understand the mysterious brewing process involving bacteria and yeast.

Paul sired a blessed two year lineage in this house, descended from a SCOBY mare supplied by Steven Rodriguez, he has since been divided into three vats.

I'll name his sons Mark or Luke. At times they have all been fed grape, rose liquor, pineapple, blueberry, pomegranate, acai berry, but always the base diet has been a tea and sugar mixture.

The flavors produced by Paul have been so extraordinary that I've reluctantly taken up a blog post to document what I'm doing here, because in reality I have no idea. Steve R. says I'm a mad scientist just mixing stuff together and never creating a record or a label.  We both dally in ceramics. He's very careful about glaze recipe, I'm not.  I contend in my defense that the greatest learning occurs when records have not been created.

So I'm now keeping records but skeptically, knowing myself, not for long.

Imitators will find that duplication of my results is nigh impossible. The SCOBY bacteria and yeast have a memory for everything that was done to them, and they retain genes to digest certain compounds in case they are encountered again. The digestive process then runs as a result of the SCOBY's experience with other fruits and nectars and teas which make up its diet.

It may be possible however to notice that a rose kambucha brewed with Rooibos tea after a diet of blueberry and pomegranate is especially flavorful. That may be the extent of the benefit of this note taking process.

Otherwise, just as I've said, it is a record of Paul's life.

-:-

Wednesday, June 3, 2015

What is a Mystic?



the lock
  a coat hanger,
    one of the pins from her hair

What is a mystic?

One that uses experience to distill truth from life, that seeks conjugal harmony with all existence? One that seeks to fly with the heart over every plain and hill, to stand with the soul in every stream, to lie in the rushes with every tiny insect that chirps at night, to be at piece with every man and woman in their very own beds, to gallop with the mind across the starry heavens, to fuse in spirit with every wild bird and every great creature that prowls in the forest, to be at one with all creation in one burst, acknowledging all.

I empty my mind when it is full, and when it is half full I also empty it.

Even when it is empty, clearing it out does no harm.

All else must be finished by the day, when all else I dreamed of will be thrown away.

Light by night, and light by day.

burnt sun
 murals

on the
    courtyard walls

Tuesday, May 19, 2015

Dusk




Let me light candles for you at dusk.
I'll broaden the hours of the night,
Send the sun scurrying beneath our pillow.
We'll ask permission at dawn
If it is safe to come out.



Monday, April 20, 2015

Language, like Food, has Energy




I breathe air, you breathe air. . is the air we breathe the same? . . . The consciousness/identity issue is something like that . . . we have a 'lease' so to speak on consciousness, a lease granted when we took occupancy of our bodies, of our lives.

Wait, so that implies something that inhabits us, lives within us, is on sometimes, off at other times. It varies, with sleep, wakefulness, how much we're paying attention.

Or does it?  If consciousness is always 'on' what vacillates our subjective perception of it? We've hit some kind of circular argument, consciousness relying upon itself to know it is there. Like attributions to a divinity, could early concepts of "God' simply have been the projections of an elevated form of self-awareness in early man?

Yet consciousness exists. But where? The question asks if there's materiality to something that doesn't possess a material dimension.

Egyptians regarded the heart as the organ responsible for consciousness. The brain, a reservoir of mucus, was removed and discarded before the rest of the body was embalmed for a journey to the stars.

We're looking for where consciousness lives! If consciousness resides somewhere, does it have a locus? A focus?

In an early anatomical drawing by Leonardo of a dissected brain, his note in cryptic Italian reads "Is this where the soul resides?". There's a small arrow pointing to a spot just above the pineal gland.

'Soul' doesn't mean 'consciousness' in the same way to modern psychologists seeking solutions to the hard problem, the subjective "I". Soul doesn't carry an ego-driven 'conscious' label with it; the soul isn't about itself.

Carl Jung and followers tried to caution against Western science's stampede into the conscious sphere claiming that the soul, or subconscious was being overlooked, misunderstood, and frankly ignored at the peril of our very left-brained society. Modern cognitive psychologists for the most part haven't even listened to the Jungian dialogue, representing it as 'artsy', based on myths, and not accessible to the neurologist's probing electrodes. Jung, Hillman and others countered that the greatest hazards posed to the modern world were almost entirely of man's conscious creation, resulting perhaps from his biggest tragedy, failing to know himself.

But whose soul is it? Should we take clues from Jung who introduced us to the collective unconscious? Heightened states of being attained by yogis and Buddhists practice at emptying the mind, clearing it of conscious thought. Doesn't this imply freedom is found away from the subjective conscious experience? Isn't the most powerful 'consciousness' one that is unencumbered, and doesn't require the serial tool of subjective identity?

As always, science has arrived late to a definition of the problem, and even more poignantly, has missed the solution entirely. The West chases a phantom machine, an apparatus lost somewhere in the body of matter.

It may be the soul is everywhere, but that 'consciousness' is fugitive, never setting up shop for more than a few microseconds in one place, characteristic of most illusions.

If we are speaking of a greater consciousness not centered on the ego, where does it disappear to after we die? Is it even ours to begin with? Can it be be possessed, or owned by some other being? These hands that are typing are 'my' hands, attached to me. Without the rest of me they can't work. Man has found ways to transplant body organs, eyes, hearts, kidneys, but not consciousness, not the soul, nor the contents of memory.

If this greater consciousness is fugitive does it elude attempts to locate or entrap it? A. Is the deer in the forest alive without the forest?

The natural root of language indeed produces something useful. Consciousness is language, and one byproduct of that language may be science itself. Science verifies the subjective conscious experience that created it, producing technology, enabling our economy of rising populations, that has made our civilization possible. The Gods are with us, or rather, the myth of science seems with us. For now.

Yet we are in neglect of a greater consciousness, that which we share with all nature. Is our subconscious, our soul, simply a victim of repression by a new sort of self-flattering parasite that has taken over the wheel? We're enamored of the subjective experience, the language using, category creating, diary writing effacer of the earth. Yet what we are, that is a question we do not like to ponder. Is western consciousness, if we dare call it such, a belief based mythos, an illusion, not a truth?

Saturday, April 18, 2015

Think of This



Having come to the conclusion that all matter is to a degree conscious, we might ask isn’t all matter ultimately unconscious of its consciousness? If so, then a materialist dichotomy is preserved. Matter and consciousness are separate. If matter is the unconscious mother of consciousness, then can consciousness survive without matter?

Such an argument may at once seem tautological. Matter a vehicle for consciousness, if so, any bit of matter can aid in that process, all of it does or none of it does . . . or . . .  is matter itself conscious? Our notions about matter, and consciousness are completely primitive, limited as it were by the materialist thinkers of centuries ago.

Instead I argue matter without consciousness is the impossibility. All of it may be alive, and the conscious part preeminent, for a thing to exist the knowing of it must be there too.

Is our conscious mind the fisherman, who brings the fish from the deep?

Western philosophical investigations of human thought haven’t established anything. Philosophy at best has imagined a tour of the architecture, neurologists with their probes have poked around, taken voltage readings, mapped neural activity, without encountering any inhabitants. Consciousness remains as elusive as the unicorn.

What cognitive psychologists call ‘consciousness’ may only be a recently evolved and tiny subset of a much greater conscious awareness. In fact the stream of consciousness in language driven humans today may in reality be a distraction from a higher form of consciousness that is repressed.

To accept consciousness on a universal level, one must abandon the ego, the “I”, the self-referencing component to this entire dialogue. Consciousness is not about ‘me’. The notion that a self-divining root of language flits about the mind and pretends that ‘it’ is conscious, while the rest is ‘unaware’, ‘unknowing’ and obscured in darkness does more to persuade the enlightened that the busy mind may really be the least conscious mind of all.

Why do we assume the whole of the world around us, from weather patterns to flocks of communicating birds, to entire galaxies of massive energetic stars, is separate and inert. Only in recent years have we admitted that animals may possess forms of higher thought and might be ‘conscious’. Yet our view is that aside from animal life, consciousness is nowhere else to be found. Our civilization is locked in an infantile fantasy that it exists at the center. Having discovered our own self-awareness, and developed a language to document it, we believe in our own domination of conscious thought.

Such a fantasy may indeed be part of a necessary stage of development in the transition to a higher level of consciousness. When the ego is abandoned and a kind of universal consciousness is finally accepted as a universal property, when Western science has come to realize what the Vedanta has known for millennia, then perhaps our we can recognize consciousness as a universal phenomena, and not something belonging to the ‘I’.

As for sub-conscious intelligence let’s call sub-ego so that we don’t confuse ourselves. For how often have we heard from someone working on a difficult problem, “let me sleep on it”? Indeed solutions to complex problems without language are not the work of the most self-aware state of the mind. ‘Eureka’ moments seem to materialize out of thin air, indeed it is our ‘consciousness’ which has only become aware that the problem has been solved?  Let’s refer to that sub-conscious intelligence sub-ego so that we don’t confuse ourselves.  If you prefer another metaphor, consciousness resembles the mysterious cleverness of nature, the weather, birds, or the mind of a pet, which we can attempt to fathom but cannot necessarily read.

Yet I posit that this subconsciousness, the sub-ego, the sub-self-aware faculty, is the true consciousness that pervades the universe. Our self-aware thinking processes function more as an executive diary, the dashboard of instruments, the servo-mechanism, for executive action, and and the fulfilling of set goals. It believes that it is in control of a much vaster system, but as mankind may shortly learn, that executive in a Tolstoy-ish reversal, works for the greater consciousness without an ego, without the ‘I’. Self-awareness may not be such an advance as we imagine.

This essay has brought the topic of consciousness to a bifurcation, into a self-aware faculty, “I am thinking’, and the part that thinks, arrives with solutions, but hides its methods from the upstart.

What the Western ego has named its conscious faculties, on the other hand, may only be an illusion, an illustration as it were, posted and pictured by a much larger sub-ego operating system below it. What a perfect conclusion to a infantile illustration, a nascent self-conscious mind, operating with a tool called science, believes it has discovered something unique and precious when it becomes self aware.


Thursday, April 16, 2015

In my House



In my house there's pastry sweet,
Take my honey as your nightly treat.
All I want is ears to hear,
The songs you sing when I'm not near.

All your honey is oh so sweet,
The treat I give, is poetry.
Come at night, with songs to sing,
Try my poems, wear my bling.

Dreams might speak it plain to you,
Night means play, I bring to you,
Try this day, as you cling to me,    
Sing my blings of poetry.

Saturday, April 4, 2015

Tom Tom


Tom the piper's son,
Check your messages . . .
And so . . . he provided a puff of smoke,
To the dragon who thought one thing
It rose up and averted its eyes  . . .
then snuck back to its cave.

But no, she of the hawk-faced ministry cried "No."
And called forth the frogs, who in unison chanted, "No-oo!"
Who called the judge, who came out and neatly said . . . .
"Permission denied. The accused shall be returned to the jails."

The girl who moved into the flat above mine smiled at me in the hall.
She has blonde hair and a lovely streak of blue through it.

Coming, shooting from muddy waters,
 . . . numbing beauties, Luddite daughters.
Jupiter moons on a glassy night,
 . . . feathered specks on a glossy snipe,
Hatted jazz-men eat free corn,
 . . . How my girlfriend likes her porn.
Watch me feed her crocodile,
 . . . as we bleed, our love's on trial.
Now the beetle crawls on granite,
 . . . . down the needle, towards our planet.




Tuesday, March 31, 2015

History Fragment



An inch on a standard ruler is 'created' by the tiny mark engraved 'one inch away' from another like it.

Measurement is a conceptual process.

The mapping, of time, indeed history, incorporates void. A measurement refers to itself, omits detail. History must be imagined. An effort. Re-creation.

The flesh of history, involves all its viewpoints, consciousnesses, colors and molecules, thoughts and physical beings. These 'facts' themselves are dead, but may be brought back to life by a creative act.

What of soul-time? What of unanswered yearnings?

As soul-creators, inventors of fantasies so we are responsible for our present position. Doesn’t this give us the power to re-write history, and set ourselves in a different places and times?

History devours its own tail, or depending how you look at it, is forever shedding its skin. The past, that self renewing myth we carry with us, has but one use, and that is to supply useful context for actions in the present.

Wax sculptures melt, release their energy. Animal entrails give off an aura. There is such power in rotting guts.


Mexico City Notes


Mexico City Tuesday February 23, 1993

Lodgings: the cheapest without risking life. Each morning an ancient woman enters my room without knocking, empties my trash basket, beats the floor with a wicker spanker, pulls covers up on my bed, and leaves four bars of soap behind on the pillow as compensation for all she leaves undone.

I'm alone on the fifth floor of a hulking wreck of a building. The structure was shattered by the earthquake, and most of the property is taped off with barely legible signs "Peligrosa".

A block away in Plaza de la Constitution, the capitol of Tenochtitlan, indigena protesters wave painted signs and shout. Police in plainclothes watch behind sunglasses, murmur into radios, take notes, inform the generals of their actions. Troops wait on the side streets, cordoned in dark green buses, rifles and tear gas ready. 

Mexico knows the bread of paganism embalmed by a yeasty spirit. Corporate industrialism, Catholicism, and native gods vie for control, amidst pretenses of free enterprise, and a myth of democracy.

The clay earth took Spanish seed. Jesus, Mary, the Father and his saints, a receptacle for myths of the vanquished to quench the thirst of conquerors.

Cultural artifacts are exhibited with miniscule captions, stripped of context. Why haven't they been destroyed also? Perhaps one day one relic will answer the question "Who were we?"

Morning sun glints at Rivera murals on the courtyard walls. Officers in dark gateways disappear into a matrix of ancient stones. Order is catechism to a pagan mind. Vanquished by teachers will the pupils one day take over?

The Spanish created castes, crillio, mestizo, and indigena, but these boundaries cemented the people together, but isolated Mexico herself from the world. The conquerors would not ignore the the natives since they were fearful.

Torn temples, carvings stolen, glyphs battered, manuscripts burned. Mexico, a violent assimilation of a European fragment into a native American perfect storm of myth. Europe was trapped as if by quicksand. The army and priests were swallowed by a dark native force. Militant Catholicism, hip deep in a Mexican swamp, was destined to die very slowly.

This does not assuage anger on either side. In Mexico, rooted in the being and history of blood, anger becomes the progenitor of a new myth cycle. Expect riots, expect massacres, expect executions, and more revolutions, but also expect a powerful continuance of native American culture.

Is Mexico really one battle? Does Mexico mean 'battleground'?



Whitlock


My grandfather, as a young man rode a horse each September one hundred miles to his school in Watertown Connecticut, spending the night at two inns along the way. After a long life, he died the year men walked on the moon.

I remember with crystal clarity, him telling me that there was no greater joy than daydreaming, and letting the mind wander while sitting back and listening to the sound of of his horse's hooves on the dirt road.

Mason Whitlock, himself younger than my grandfather, was approaching a hundred when I took my little Olivetti in for a tune-up and new ribbon. The irony was that during my years at college, I never once needed a new typewriter. I changed ribbons myself, and cleaned the type with an old stiff brush.

When I returned Elm City to live, caught in that confused space brought on by the digital age, I found myself longing for the music and dance of typewriter keys.

Yes I miss the sentences that come to my brain when working on a typewriter. A percussive beats out one's commitment to a sentence. There's a jazzy rhythm, a machine beat, a machine gun beat. There's the slow clop clop, of an old work horse.

The typewriter was a percussive instrument, the melody and base instruments are the swim of ideas at the tip of one's brain. There's a beat for every mood, and feeling, every bit of description or dint of discipline. The beat kept thoughts in train, since it was not easy to drop back in and restructure one's ideas. The first draft required discipline and focus.

The mind raced, pounding on the dendritic telegraph keys of cerebral neurons, surveying the terrain of the rail-bed ahead, laying ties, driving spikes, keeping clear sight of the benchmark period in the distance, open to a diversion in root phrase or clause. When a line end was reached, the locomotive let out a release of steam, and brought the train to terminus with a 'bang' to the period key. The trill moment was the end of a musical phrase. The traveller, with scheduled music in mind for all connecting trains, got soon clattering away across the sonorous landscape with nary a care in the world.

It was a form of acrobatics. Yes it was writing, but also a workout. Posture mattered. At some point a particular piece of paper stayed behind as a fossil track, a recording. A skull. First drafts were akin to fresh rushes of a film. Modifications seemed beautiful, ugly, or impossible.

Language leapt into the air as a drumbeat accompaniment to the writer's deepest love. The ear became attuned to the truth of the rhythm. Sounding good? Or did it lack commitment?

Mr. Whitlock kept hours, in a second floor shop overlooking York Street, across from the Hall of Graduate Studies. Here are my notes from the day I visited him, in early 1993.

-:-

Why bother repairing the old? What sort of allegiance is owed to a non-functioning hunk of steel?

Of what significance is my stepping out of time to track this down old man, who repairs machines for a generation caught in their ways, bound to clunky precursors of another age? What bother, what cost? Why hold myself back against progress? I felt a tug of regret. Was I wasting time, indulging in flattery?

Whitlock rambled on. 'Classic little thing. No different than pen or pencil. Taken a lot of pounding. Hasn’t got the weight of say that Royal over there.' He gestured toward a heart sinking heap of ancient machines, elegant, but forgotten.

'What else is broken besides the shaft?'

'Margin release needs a clean. Some tender loving care. I’ll take it apart, clean it. Your carriage lock is broken. Can’t let you strip the escapement gears."


-:-


You Cut my Eyes



Te cortaste mis ojos, los arrebató.
Yo ya no veo.
Mi corazón se queda mirando a su trabajo,
Un amor que se ve.

He hablado con usted acerca de un lugar,
Siempre mantuve, para usted.
Está en mi corazón y llena de arte,
Atormentado por fantasmas, de usted.

En la cima de la gracia, caminé con la fe,
Tiempo demasiado corto a la atención.
Nuestro tiempo como torres cayó,
Moler cada minuto.

No puedo dar lo que haces para vivir,
Lo que no puede ser no puede comenzar.
Así que nuestras vidas sacó un cuchillo,
Y cortar nuestros corazones separados.

Saturday, March 21, 2015

Ker-Ching Song





Sing to me that bling song, that kissing song,
The song you sing, when we bling, . . . my love.

Please don't cling me, just ker-ching me  . . . with that kissing song.

Write me a song, as a dove alone.
But to win me, please don't string me,
Better bling me, . . . with that ker-ching song.

Keep ker-chinging  . . . with that blinging song.

Write some poetry, just for me,
The bling you bring, numbs me,
Your poems sting me,  . . . with that ker-ching song.

Now my love, with bling for free,
Such coquetry brings poetry.
Sing to me, that ker-ching song,   . . . . . . my love.

Thursday, March 19, 2015

Bling Song






All I want is ears to hear,
The songs you sing when I'm not near.

Don't you hear that sad refrain,
Don't you hear it? Hear it plain . . .

Come at night, with songs to sing,
Try my poems, wear my bling.

Don't you hear that sad refrain,
Don't you hear it? Hear it rain . . . ?

Dreams might speak it plain to you,
Night means play, I bring,

Try this day, to cling to me,  
Sing my blings of poetry.


Saturday, March 14, 2015

Nile




All of us obey at night.
We feed off your back,
as Khepri rolls the sun.

Sing of Gods awakened by English names.
The cowled face of Ra, stork of the Sudd.
On whose blue lips I place my longest kiss.

I play sticks on your belly of stones.
Thoth, my Ibis-headed party-self.
Dips his pen to you,
Papyrus words of smoking water.

On a reed raft, I ferry you to my island,
Cross the lake to Tis Issat,
carry a shell into a branch,
and sleep there overnight.

We'll bathe in fountains, listen to your world.
Read the words you created,
words that worship your flesh,
words that revere your bones,
words set in meter to your dances,
that praise your every invention.

                                           [to N____R___]

Thursday, February 26, 2015

Consciousness the Messenger


A friend asks, "Is this page alive?"

We notice a fundamental correspondence, instinctively, a correlation between matter, life, and consciousness.

The notion that consciousness has no definite boundaries, and thus is present wherever energy or information is processed is attractive. My friend said page but he could also have meant paper page, web page, or someone reading something aloud, or even words as remembered dimly after a passage of time. What about a bookmark?

Useable conscious product is not necessarily as conscious as the conscious process that creates it. The page is a messenger, yes it has conscious dimension. If a writer were to pass, and all his works locked up in a password protected computer, what happens if his relatives wipe the hard drive?

Does consciousness die?

We're talking about something not unlike the fundamental physics of heat, and entropy. There has to be an expression akin to the second law of thermodynamics, that embraces consciousness as a form of reverse entropy. An alternative to static or chemical order, say for instance the order present in a fully charged battery. Is a battery conscious? The discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls after 2000 years represents a transference of consciousness - they were only pieces of rotting parchment were they not?

Tuesday, February 24, 2015

A new Paradigm for understanding Consciousness




To posit that consciousness is pervasive, might mean developing a theory for a new force field from within the corpus of modern physics. We might need to reexamine Dark Matter, Dark Energy, and the existence of black holes, as a way of defining the limitations or interactions of a conscious field. While I feel that forays of consciousness theory into established physics will occur, I am skeptical of this approach.

David Chalmers has suggested that what is needed is a 'crazy idea', one that conjectures new groundwork, and possibly a new set of variables. Consciousness he argues simply cannot be modeled with the scientific vocabulary at hand.

A better theory of consciousness will provide an illusion of progress, but it also will keep us on the same side of the problem that we've been stuck in all along. We'll have more more variables and another field to experiment with. But our viewpoint will remain descriptive, and materialist. We'll have a belief system rooted in what we can see, touch and feel, and we'll have equations for everything else.

Rene Descartes dismissed consciousness with his quip, "I think therefor I am" and then devoted no more effort to the problem. Mathematics would penetrate the secrets of nature. Consciousness was a self-evident truth that needed no investigation at all.

There another way to approach Chalmers' 'hard problem'. Believe for a moment that matter is an illusion, that the material world, including sensory perceptions of it, sights, sounds and colors, buildings, rocks, bodies, and heavy pianos are notions made real by consciousness.

This is the Vedanta, the Eastern viewpoint. Matter is brought to life by consciousness. Without consciousness nothing would exist at all. Or put more simply, everything exists because of consciousness. Consciousness creates.

To summarize the Vedantist Indian thinkers, the two 'hard problems' are 'what is the universe?' and 'what is consciousness?'. Science being a product of consciousness, can only fact check, and report back what it has 'observed'. Yet the conscious mind knows of more than science. So science cannot possibly come to terms with consciousness except through a radical manipulation of numbers which that are not real to begin with.

Infiltrate into the camp of the animating spirit, consciousness, and we suddenly become aware that we've set up opposing categories. Dualities, in science as in reality, have a way of crashing down.

So with what perambulation of art or philosophy, shall we approach the call for a new paradigm of consciousness?

Let us rephrase the question: Isn't that call for a new paradigm about consciousness, simply a call for new consciousness? Isn't science pointing out a numeric tool for fact checking certain beliefs about reality are useful for some forms of understanding? But as the child of consciousness, science is a tool; it could not understand what conceived of it in the first place.

For five hundred years, the West has regarded consciousness as a fragile commodity. No hard evidence has surfaced of it wherever we go digging. Consciousness, the subjective experience, has never been located as stuff, measurable 'reality' according to a materialists model for existence.

Suppose imagination and consciousness create matter, not the other way around. Suddenly it's all alive, it's all conscious, it's all aware. The universe is intelligent, our galaxy is intelligent. Photons act consistently and bear consciousness wherever they go. All atoms participate in the grand calculation of possibilities, displaying color, logically interacting with each other to form giant miasmas of consciousness throughout the universe. A galaxy is alive. It thinks. It is endlessly patient and watches a succession of intelligent life forms come and go.

Is there more 'consciousness' in our Sun than on earth? More in the earth than in any of it's life forms? Are we to be democratic and say consciousness is spread evenly about, present to some degree in all matter? Or shall we create rules and laws governing the interactions of consciousness with matter, not unlike the interactions of the basic forces as defined by modern physics.

The simplicity of this question has materialist roots, granting to each bit of matter consciousness according to its size. Yet even our instincts tell us that cannot be so. It's a complex commodity, and perhaps one that all of Western science simply can never come to describe adequately, but certainly not through a quantitative and descriptive scientific method.

Complex and unknowable except through self-knowledge. This is the answer that we receive from the Vedanta.

So consciousness much change, ebb flow, move about, and change lives within matter, its carrier. As the animator of matter it must be the field of all fields. It cannot simply exhibit inverse square relationships with all other conscious bodies, as gravity does with massive bodies. No, consciousness, whether pervasive or universal [Chalmers], is growing in our universe. It is not constant. Consciousness is breaking out all over.

Could consciousness be everywhere you look because it is making everything you see?

Prove to me that something unobserved exists. It can't be done. Yet science insists on a reality independent of the observer.

I don't insist on either answer. The duality itself is a fiction, a product of consciousness.

A very early belief of mine was that Earth as a rock, the Sun, the Galaxy, every body, and thus all rocks, as well as photons individually, are all absolutely conscious. Inexorably and with a very high degree of complexity in the case of the geology of the Earth, and immediately but very simply in the case of the photon, they all display a conscious element.

One of the arts I do is pottery, and when I fire a wood kiln, I'm always of the feeling that the firing of a kiln represents a life, not unlike the life of a candle flame, or a person. When the fire is very large and very hot and burns for a week it is a form of advanced consciousness. The fire seems to make conscious choices. I've written a lot about this in other places on this blog.

The quantum personality of a photon also displays rudimentary decision making and the appearance of consciousness, So do identical twins separated at birth. What is the 'stuff' that keeps them connected as they live their separate lives? As materialists we have measurements of both behaviors, though most psychologists and neurologists will probably continue to scoff at the introduction of a new conscious dimensionality to this study.

The most serious quantum physicists do admit that their mathematical descriptions are objective and limited. Richard Feynman admitted to the unsatisfactory solutions offered by quantum physics to optical phenomena, even complained about it, essentially calling it 'an ugly theory that works'.  Most others would probably express these gripes privately.

If we admit that all systems process energy to some degree, and by definition are not isolated from the rest of the universe, then they'll display some measurable level of a soon to be recognized variable, a 'field of consciousness', not unlike that of gravity or electromagnetism.

What is the universe, but matter and consciousness? Western science has been starved of answers, but it's researches take it closer to the door of psyche. We are creeping up on truths recognized by Shaivism and the Vedanta for thousands of years. The great success of science may be realized at the moment it gives up, in the same manner as Einstein gave up when in a conversation with Tagore with the conclusion, "Then I am more religious than you!"

If we were to formulate a scientific materialist description of consciousness, then we would be brought paradoxically no closer to answers for the current mysterium. Yes, we'll have turned to face the problem. We'll have acknowledged Chalmers' 'hard problem', but simply added more flesh to the bones of a mathematical and descriptive solution.

Describing consciousness such that it could be written on a T-shirt would just drop us at the same bus stop we were at previously, except now we'll have a field of abstractions devoted to describing consciousness, but lack the means, by way of science at least, of seizing and understanding that conscious field. The progress will mimic a Death of Science, and an ebbing of Western thought. At least when getting off the bus, we'd now be facing the palace with a locked door.

Those laws, which I'm sure will follow, will be written off the springboard of scientific materialism which we will have clung to since the early Islamic scientists of the 11th-13th Centuries. We'll have objectified the subject, but will still stand outside our new subject, as we did before David Chalmers gave his 1994 talk.

Is the approach to consciousness a boundary to be progressively fought back? Or to understand it mustn't one in some way infiltrate to the other side of the barrier that stands in our way? I absolutely see the latter approach. We need a top down revision in our philosophy of science that admits our current science as a viable laboratory for testing and verification, but not of understanding.

I believe that while we need to understand a new set of laws, we need to think of consciousness as a manifestation of all systems, ranging from the extremely simple to the universally large and massively complex.

These questions are inherently philosophical, but they ask for scientific verification. Aren't we looking for giant revisions to our scientific philosophy that can be corroborated by our older observational science?

-:)(:-


Search This Blog