wonder.jpgIntro: I’m a bit drunk now. It’s a sad paradox. If I drink regularly, my mind becomes flaccid and vague. But when I drink, interest and enthusiasm are aroused. I engage. With people, with flowers, with words. With a bowling ball.

Drinking makes me a better man. I’m not likely to eat a woman’s anus if I’m sober. Even my bowling scores go up if I’m properly drunk.

In the short term, drinking alleviates depression. In the long term it causes it. In the short term, it can help with interesting writing. Long term won’t.



We get what we interpret as successive snapshots. A world filtered through the guise of linearity. Or lightning all at once insights. Awareness is not predicated upon language, but in our mornings, we awake to language. We strain to make meaning, and in doing so toss what doesn’t fit to that moment.

The speed of experience sometimes gets us into a flow where we forget to be separate from it.

Because being alive with-in the world is as normal as love, we don’t waste time pushing nothing important into places in memory. Talking about these non-memorized non-quantized experiences with language would be abusively reductive. No poet can put it in words. But we all spend a lot of time unaware of time, in a vague cloud of searching. We are not in the habit of making anything important of that enough to keep ignorance in memory. We discard semi-consciousness when we arouse, or when we try to make sense.

Dreamy vagueness allows for images that embrace varieties of correspondences. It’s hard to remember dreams. That’s a clue. A clue to not only dreams. A clue to an underlying pattern of pattern recognition; it starts with multiplicity and vagueness, and the wider your net of vague grasping the better. Memory needs place and time, but the fluid muse of finding new patterns is all about searching out and organizing – it’s a place that isn’t defined yet. It can no more be stored in memory any more than pain or pleasure can be recreated by memory. We trust this part of our process to handle it-self, and so put our habits of awareness in the place where we attempt to store memory. That’s not as fun a place as other places we can rest in. Memory is over rated.


Susan Blackmore did good research to highlight that consciousness creates a sense of time on the fly, out of sense data and memories of sense data that are not conscious. So, sometimes, we have a lifetime flash by in our consciousness in the blink of an eye. This doesn’t mean that there is no time, but it does mean that the brain doesn’t give us a one to one representation of it, through our experience.  We piece together impressions, and call the end product linearity, even when most of the impressions would never become conscious until they were pieced into the timeline, and even when their weaving into the order happens in a non-linear disjointed way.


Also, please consider the experiments on light – photons affect their near future and near past. Time is slippery even to photons.


The conclusion is that there is no ultimate storyline, no final conclusion to the plot, no specific ending point, to our efforts and to our meanings. We are, choicelessly, vagabonds and gypsys. For me, it makes a bit of sense to have an outward life that isn’t a defense against the bareness of reality. Security isn’t the point of it all.


This is a complicated post, and it needs a punchier ending.  That’s the irony in it.


Meaning is built on correspondences.  Correspondences aren’t particularly meaningful, in a human sense.   Data is impersonal.  We mostly know all this, but it’s confusing to be atoms with emotions.  Some of us try to get down in our boogie to dance in alliance and sympathetic resonance to why atoms shake.  Thinking about things seems a good approach.  But.  Mortality.  The hard question of the separation of subjectivity and objectivity.  Philosophical and mathematical questions about how final and encompassing concepts can be.  Rationality has maps, but all the streets are dead ends, for human concerns.


And yet now-ness still holds an un-still magic. A magic not caused or explained by a rationality that pieces things out. Nowness is not linear, nor apportioned. It includes mystery and presence.