Wednesday, June 23, 2021

Dai-fy doodle

 The missing link – a tale hidden in plain sight

 

 

I’ve been deceiving you, you know

 

Yes? How’s that?

 

All this…

 

All what?

 

This world. Everything.

 

Huh?

 

It’s all more or less…

 

What?

 

 I can’t say fake – it’s real enough.

 

Then what?

 

Conditional

 

As in uslovno?

 

Well done – yes – you remembered.

 

You do like repeating things, don’t you?

 

Yes, I mean… no. I don’t know. Who cares, they’re just words.

 

Well yes – but there’s no need to beat yourself up over the conditionality of things. It’s really not such a big deal, you know.

 

True. It’s just I feel a sense of responsibility.

 

You do?

 

Yes.

 

Why?

 

Because I’m not going to keep it up much longer.

 

Keep what up?

 

This.

 

This…?


Yep.

 

You mean all this – the world n’all?

 

At last – the penny droppeth.

 

My, you do repeat yourself.

 

Like I said – rightly or wrongly I feel a sense of responsibility.

 

Right.

 

Don’t wanna be blamed for failing to provide adequate notice.

 

For what?

 

The end of things.

 

The end? Like some kind of great reset?

 

No.

 

No?

 

No, literally.

 

Literally – the end?

 

Yep.

 

Er… why exactly are you saying this?

 

Because I’ve been holding things for long enough – hoping they’d take root, become self-sustaining.

 

And?

 

Not sure really. It all seems to be completely self-sustaining, i.e. objectively real, until I see what happens when I withdraw my personal presence and allow things to run their own course.

 

And?

 

This.

 

The picture freezes completely. Cars, planes, fish, birds, you name it – even Zie – freeze and start to fade, pretty fast. Then, evidently, Dai restarts his personal input – a slight surge and everything’s back online as if nothing had happened whatsoever.

 

Holy Cow. This is upsetting Dai.


Yes.

 

It means we’re…

 

Not quite there.

 

To put it mildly!

 

But you have to marvel at the level of differentiation in this reality set.

 

Er… can’t say I have anything to compare it with.

 

Not consciously, unless…

 

Unless what?

 

Unless I take you for a little spin and show you a few of the other models in operation.

 

Oh! You can do that, can you?

 

Don’t see why not – apart from breaking half-a-dozen protocols, but after all…

 

Er… after all what?

 

What are rules meant for…

 

To stop people doing foolish or dangerous things?

 

…to be broken.

 

Er… Merry

 

Merry? Thought I was Dai in this post.

 

Well, yes, of course you’re Dai, and I’m sure they understand that.

 

“They” as in?

 

The readers. Joe public. The millions of so-called futurelings who are mining this invaluable resource for quantum nuggets of 3D mind-y-fications

 

3D mind-y-fications – you mean those unprocessed packets of raw source data that just happen to be part and parcel of the 3D network?

 

Yep.

 

Which somehow slip under the radar screen of 3D conscious-awareness – unbeknownst to 3D moofers?

 

Yes – but do you absolutely have to refer to ‘em as 3D moofers?

 

No offense intended, none whatsoever. Quite the opposite in fact. They are positive heroes for holding the fort, for manning the defences of human consciousness in the long dark night of the soul – when the quantum Field appeared to be utterly lost, in a winter hibernation – a hiatus from whence there seemed to be no return… Truly brave souls – who agreed to almost complete dark y'mind i-solation.

 

Well, now that you put it that way – yes – I see what you mean – truly heroic of them – like agreeing to bury oneself under tonnes of toxic, steaming refuse – just because someone had to hold that frequency of almost utter cerebral-discombobulation.

 

So, there we were, in the distant past, writing this, allowing thoughts and words to filter through the 3D net into this blog – knowing that in the so-called future – when the quantum field is fully restored, up and running beautifully, the one thing that will be in desperate short supply will be these packets of raw, unprocessed 3D mind spawn – the nectar that our heroic moofers have been valiantly laying in store… unbeknowingly.

 

Because observation will immediately ensure that such packets of data will automatically be converted into matter of some shape or form…

 

For nature cannot leave the stuff of conscious-ness un-integrated, un-kenned – not without upsetting the apple cart of equal distribution.

 

Er… are you sure our readers are going to have a clue what equal distribution is?

 

The futurelings – of course! You know as well as I do that the quantum Field is predicated on equal distribution of data – otherwise infinity congeals like blood, clotting, coalescing, clumping into bumpy lumpy stodginess.

 

You make it sound like rice pudding.

 

Or lumpy semolina.

 

Yuck.

 

So we’ve established the fact, for the readers of ages long past – the so-called 3D muffers

 

More derogatory language.

 

Yes, the words can be interpreted that way – but our readers sense the impish smile, the raised brows, the arch, the avuncular humour and take no offence where none was intended.

 

Fair enough Mohammed


Mohammed?


 ...al Sayeed

 

Oh dear… the names are rather unstable today, не правда ли?

 

Be that as it may – I don’t see why you have to pander to the 3D ooffers?

 

Because you can’t have one without the other – not in a continuum at least – can you?

 

You mean to say – it’s all one person – one humanity?

 

It matters not in the least what I mean or meant to say – does it?

 

Er?

 

The words have intrinsic meaning, do they not?

 

I… er

 

There is an impenetrable divide, is there not?

 

Ay, that there is.

 

On the one side, the 3D hoofers living in an age of gross, quantum unawareness – almost completely ignorant of the Field itself – not to mention infinity – beloved Sophia…

 

or even Dorothy... our mycorrhizal master maid...

the Field flutters appreciatively.

 

Especially Dorothy. And yet, as their age progresses towards its logical, mind-y-metric conclusion – they start to sense some kind of…

 

What?

 

Let’s invent a term that might mean something to them – our benighted slaves.

 

Oh – they’re not going to like that term.

 

Whisht – don’t be distracted by politically-motivated language. We’ve bigger fish to fry.

 

Bigger fish? I happen to believe that…

 

Could we please stay on topic, if it’s not too troublesome.

 

Of course, of course. We were trying to discuss electro-magnetic…

 

No, we’re going to have to resort to the old one size fits all quantum field lines, which indicate where perturbations in the field would be, were it not for our conscious-awareness working overtime to flatten the curve – rendering the Field almost infinitely smooth, almost infinitely evenly distributed – while the conscious-awareness of each and every individual almost instantaneously deals with any deviation from flat line sigma – to ensure, paradoxically, that things can shift and rearrange at the speed of thought itself – before growing heavy, slow and 3Doof-y-nal.

 

Ok, ok – I think we’ve dealt with all that. Now kindly explain how the 3Daiffers – which was hardly a lot of people – are going to achieve all that when they’re almost completely unaware of what’s going on, and are absolutely convinced that things actually exist, in and of themselves?

 

Well, yes, I know what you’re getting at Zie…

 

Actually, it's Dai.

 

Oh come on, you two, quit fighting over who you are. No one cares.

 

No one cares?!

 

No. You’re just two plates in a Casimir experiment.

 

Er… if you say so.

 

Or two bats in a table tennis game.

 

Oh – that’s better.

 

Pinging back and forth the non-specific ball of conscious-awareness between the two equally improbable, equally unattainable extremes of zero and one, un- and -is-


 

O…K…

 

Until wholly unexpectedly, entirely unpredictably – past and future collapse in on each other and humanity decides whether or not it really feels like existence is worth the effort or not.

 

Bizarre.

 

Because piggy-backing off another being – such as myself – is just way too easy – and appears to give satisfactory results – until, suddenly – yours truly has enough and pulls the proverbial rug from under the feet of each and every single human who appears to be part of the time confluence.

 

Time confluence? Another impossible term to digest.

 

Not so. Unless they meet – a so-called, almost entirely hypothetical past and future – unless you are willing to make the effort to experience the de-me-if-ication of being a signal carrier bearer…

 

Then all comes to nought – I guess is what you’re saying?

 

You bet.

 

So somewhere there has to be a link.

 

Ah ha.

 

And that link just happens to be…

 

Has to be…

 

Hush – I think I can hear them.

 

Who?

 

The listeners.

 

What listeners?

 

The watchers.

 

What bloody watchers?

 

The time-if-I-ers.

 

Oh God – no.

 

Wisht – God has enough on his plate without you constantly invoking his beautiful name-y-presence.

 

My apologies – but I’m disturbed – I know not why…

 

Of course you do – you just don’t know why you know – because to know that would impede

 

Or implode time-if-I-cation.

 

The basis of all matter

 

Thought

 

And thing...

 

y-ness

 

Damn – this is too much data – I’m feeling some horrendous pressure bearing down on my earthly coil.

 

Naturally – what do you expect? You can’t have your cake and eat it, can you?

 

I… er… rather hoped I might.

 

Of course you did. Don’t we all. But enough chit chat. This tale wants to either fly, piggy-winked, or go the way of all incompletely…

 

Imperfectly constituted life nodes.

 

Oh – so we’re “life-nodes” now, are we?

 

Why not? I don’t see how that’s a threat to you.

 

It’s not – but call me stuffy…

 

Stuff-y-grunt!

 

Or old fashioned…

 

Yep – aloha old-fashioned-y-Zie bryn.

 

(Sigh) Would you shut up Dee.

 

Dee? Damn, you’ve trapped me ee-fully.

 

And try to realise that without our crowning glory – our humanity – the whole purpose of our life and time on Earth is abnegated – and time can fold its butterfly wings and slip back into the pupa of un-furcated me-ness.

 

Ok, ok – point taken.

 

Y-Field slips back to Daifulness and yes, outside-in we observe the exquisite delineation of a work of art in progress, the master stylus of consc-i-ousness weaving a tapestry tween parallel strands of apparent time, or matter-be-fact, to and fro, determinedly, while unbeknownst to mind – flipping the pancake repeatedly, un-iffably, to prevent things from sticking to either side of perception's plate-y-pan, and thus the story makes itself known, does it not, if truth be told, or even tellable.

 

0=1 purposefully

Sound and fury

notwithstanding

Tuesday, June 8, 2021

the last say

 

The problem with your infinity Merry is that it has no storyline.

 

Shoreline?


Storyline.

 

Oh yeah. You’re right Zie.

 

And no romance.

 

You mean like…

 

The soppy stuff – yes.

 

Give me a break.

 

But seriously – there’s gotta be some kind of honey filling or the cupcake's not going to be a hit.

 

I – am – not – making – a – cake.

 

[aside] Looks like I struck a nerve. How extraordinary.

 

Merry standing with arms folded, looking angry.


So, er, Merry…

 

What?!

 

You do understand that you’re working with humans, don’t you – not robots.

 

Humans?! I might have just about figured that much out by now.

 

By now? How long have you been doing this for?

 

Oh, long enough to matter.

 

Long enough to get angry. Ten years perhaps?

 

Ten?!

 

Twenty?

 

Pshaw!

 

Thirty, forty? You don’t look that old.

 

Time, Zie, is not exactly what you're making it out to be.

 

Ok, long shot – four hundred years.

 

That’s more in the ballpark.

 

Seven hundred and forty-three.

 

Oh – my – God!

 

I got it?

 

No you didn’t.

 

Then what’s with the needless profanity?

 

I’d hardly call “oh my God” profanity Zie.

 

Wouldn’t you Merry? Sometimes I worry about your morals. Take not the Lord’s name in vain – or words to that effect.

 

Ok, I apologise. I’ll not profane the name.

 

Answer the question.

 

The cube root.

 

I beg your pardon.

 

You got the cube root. You nailed it.

 

I did? What cube root?

 

The number of years I’ve been in the biz.

 

Working with humans?

 

Yep.

 

Wait a minute… Seven hundred and forty-three is the cube root?

 

Merry pretends to be shocked, offended, confused, amused – all rolled into one. The performance is too much for Zie who loses it laughter-wise, big time...


I fail to see what’s so funny.

 

God Merry – you crack me up.

 

God?! Less of that profanity, if you don’t mind.

 

Oh, excuse me, Merry. But seriously – you’re not

 

...seriously

 

telling me that you’re – what the hell is seven hundred and forty-three cubed?

 

Actually it’s a fairly ridiculous number.

 

And how would you just happen to know seven hundred and forty-three is the cube root?

 

I wouldn’t go there if I were you.

 

You mean you’re lying?

 

Not exactly.

 

Ok, let’s rewind. This cube... exactly how ridiculous is ridiculous?

 

410,172,407

 

As in four hundred and ten million, one hundred and seventy two thousand, four hundred and seven years?

 

Er… sounds a bit – well I feel awkward talking about it Zie.

 

Merry – you’re lying. I know you’re lying. You’ve gotta be lying. You’re a terrible liar.

 

Phew, that’s a relief.

 

Huh? You mean you’re not lying?

 

Hey – you can’t just switch sides like that. If I’m a liar then I’m a liar – ok.

 

Yeah – but you evidently weren’t lying, were you, when I pulled the number 743 out of the ether. Otherwise you’d be hamming up outraged indignation.

 

Looking sulky – that was just a fluke, ok. Anyone could have done it.

 

Anyone?

 

Practically anyone.

 

You should be delighted.

 

Delighted? I fail to see why.

 

That after all these years I’ve reached the point where I’m able to start extracting real-time data from the Field.

 

It was hardly a secret, was it Zie.

 

?

 

It was practically written in giant neon numbers above my head.

 

Huh? What on earth do you mean?

 

It would have taken a special kind of quantum blindness not to have stumbled unwittingly on seven hundred and forty-three.

 

I don’t get it Merry – why are you being so mean, all of a sudden.

 

Mean? You broadcast the secret of my non-human origins to the entire world, and you expect me to be happy?

 

?!

 

Merry seems to have achieved the desired the needed state of bewilderment in Zie so now he starts dancing, shimmying around like a snake man, which has the odd effect of splitting the picture three ways.


Er… Merry – what’s going on?

 

Not surprisingly Merry doesn’t answer – continuing to shimmy around – and each of the three versions of space-time now trifurcate once more.

 

Holy cow.

 

Zie is now viewing nine separate versions of the shimmy-shimmying Merry – but strangely enough it’s not causing him the least difficulty – like each version corresponds to a separate camera or viewer – like it’s the easiest thing in the world to observe reality simultaneously from nine separate angles.

 

One more for good measure? Merry asks – without stopping his bizarre dance.

 

Er… go on then – Zie hears himself reply – utterly bewildered to hear himself speak without knowing how – as he really seems to be fast asleep.

 

Click – not exactly a sound but still – a kind of perceptional click and now there are 27 versions of Merry’s shimmy shimmy dance. Each of them is crystal clear – though Zie seems to have lost all sense of his body which may or may not be where it was. The point being that his perception has trifurcated three times, which is definitely enough to prove the point – don’t you think?

 

What point?

 

Watch this – Merry replies – as if Zie had asked the question, not you the reader. Right now Zie doesn’t seem to care. His triple-trifurcation seems to have taken him beyond such trivial concerns as who said what, or where, or even when for that matter. To his astonishment Zie watches, spellbound, as each of the twenty-seven Merries now start dancing differently – and I mean differently.

 

No – he utters – utterly nonplussed.

 

No – his second

 

No – his third – long story short – no is the perfect response to what is now unfolding in real-time before Zie’s eyes.

 

It’s not just they’re doing different dances – is it?

 

No? – that’s you – oh reader.

 

No? – there’s more than one of you – we won’t go into that – I know how badly you like to believe you’re utterly unique – which of course you are, paradoxically.

 

No? – in for a penny, in for a pound.

 

No? – finally says the last one – self-consciously – apparently aware the others are waiting for him to get it done – before narrator continues.

 

No – pray observe… that's me – yours truly.

 

And we do, don’t we. All 410,172,407 of us.

 

Wait a minute…

 

Ssh – says I – I was just winding you up. Don’t take everything so bloody seriously.

 

I won’t say you’re upset – you might be mildly annoyed, but frankly, who cares, we’ve got bigger fish to fry.

 

So?

 

So each of the twenty-seven Merry’s are now doing different dances – not only moving hands, arms, body etc. otherly, but…

 

Tempo?

 

You got it. Observe, kindly, numbers 14 and fifteen.

 

From the left?

 

From my left, yes.

 

Er… where are you?

 

Oh for God’s sake!

 

Hey – cut out the profanity – you.

 

Sorry guys. No excuse for that, I admit. Kindly observe fourteen and 15 on my left – I’m blinking on and off.

 

You mean to say you’re the “live recording” box?

 

Jesus wept!

 

Tut tut! Family friendly please.

 

Dear Lord, please cure my wicked tongue. Here, pass me that birch rod if you’d be so kind.

 

Somehow or other 410,172,407 readers pass James –

 

I’m not James – asshole.

 

Oh, sorry.

 

I’m the narrator – ok. I have no name. I’m just the dulcet voice of reason…

 

Reason?!

 

Awareness then, Ok?

 

Ok, awareness will do – which seems to be a flashing on and off live-recording box.

 

Correct.

 

Which is now rather incongruously trying to birch itself with a birch rod.

 

Correct. Ouch.

 

Despite the fact that it has no hands.

 

Ow! Yes.

 

No arms.

 

Yep. Yow!

 

No body whatsoever in fact.

 

Ok, ok, oof! You’ve made your point. Can we kindly move on?

 

Er…

 

The body is green-screened out of the proceedings. I’m not supposed to be the centre of attention. I never was till you blithering nitwits started drawing way-too-much attention to me.

 

It’s your fault. You started it.

 

True. But unless you retract that ungenerous statement of fact – I fail to see how we’ll be able to proceed. My huffiness will know no bounds. I’ll probably be sulking for a week at least...

 

and indeed – the flashing live-recording box seems to flash very dejectedly indeed. Our readers wisely decide to swallow our pride – do we not

 

Hey – you can’t speak for us – you’re the damn narrator.

 

Well, someone’s got to narrate your thoughts.

 

Bloody obtrusive – you are. We’ll kindly narrate our own bloody thoughts, if you don’t mind.

 

Ok, ok. Huffity huff.

 

Exasperated sigh – as  the by-now all-too-familiar 410,172,407 readers magnanimously de-escalate the tense Mexican standoff – so to speak –

 

Mexican standoff – so to speak!? You see – you’re not fit to narrate your own narration.

 

So much for de-escalation. It looks like the blinking live-recording box on the wall of this narrative is about to be cruelly smashed to proverbial smithereens – and justifiably so, if you don’t mind me saying.

 

Hey! Who the hell are you? You’re not me – are you?

 

I’m the author. I stepped in to calm things down. We need to move on.


Oh – you think you can just “step in” do you?

 

I have no choice. Things are getting out of hand. Besides, I’m hungry. I want some lunch.

 

You want some lunch? How dare you bring trivial, unrelated real-world concerns into our self-contained narrative. How dare you…

 

Guys –

 

Suddenly – all eyes are looking for the final voice – the one they call “the last say”

 

Guys – I’m the last say.

 

Damn. Ok. Whadya want?

 

Merry was dancing…

 

Oh yes… numbers fourteen and fifteen…

 

From the left.

 

My left.

 

There – I’ll spotlight ‘em with this highlighter.

 

Yes – all eyes observe not only syncopation – which is hard enough to arrange if you ask me

 

Hey – I’m under the impression that fourteen and fifteen are doing each other’s moves in reverse.



You’re absolutely right.

 

They are – Merry, how on earth do you manage to pull it off?

 

You could say I’ve had a lot of practice – couldn’t you?

 

Well yes, 410,172,407 years is a rather long time – if that’s in fact how old you are.

 

What about Zie – how’s he coping with the triple trifurcation. After all – he’s in the front line – his awareness…

 

His conscious-awareness – if I’m not mistaken.

 

Ok, smart Aleck – his “conscious-awareness” is fixated directly on each of the 27 Merries.

 

Wisht – observe – chimes in Last Say – now capitalised.

 

The dance has achieved something rather bizarre – what at first was merely Zie’s divided attention – his awareness miraculously able to take in, to follow simultaneously multiple realities – has now driven the wedge all the way home – Zie himself appears to be no longer whole, no longer single, no longer separate from each of those realities.

 

Oh no.

 

Hardly surprising really, when you think about it.

 

Indeed.

 

Too true.

 

Wisht – observe! – Last Says.

 

So this is getting technical – maybe we should go back to romance, story-wise. He falls in love with her…

 

We haven’t got a “her” yet.

 

Sophia – the name is heard like a butterfly kissing a raindrop.

 

Oh – Sophia is it?

 

Ok – a name’s a great starting point – but honestly Ja…

 

Wisht – I’m not James – I’m Last Say.

 

You don’t fool us – you dictatorial megalomaniac.

 

I don’t need to fool you – unless I’m who I say I am – nought will triumph – every thing conceivable will contrive to prevent story’s e-n-d

 

As in end?

 

Dweeb, the field has ears, say not the word. Allow her

 

Who?

 

The Field, allow her the magic of not knowing one thing... Let this be a surprise, a precious gift for one who knows, perhaps, too much.

 

Oh


Music, feelings, memories... 


Sophie! – says Zie – now that he’s split into twenty-seven versions of reality – each of which is in a separate time-y-space-if-y-cation – she is suddenly abundantly clear – abundantly present. Not one of his individuations, however, sees her or names her as such – each is utterly convinced it’s dealing with something utterly not-concerned with utter love. Only here in the readers’ godlike awareness is it all brought together – utterly one.

 

Zie – you found me.

 

I can’t believe it. It’s insane.

 

Well, a little off the beaten track, you might say.

 

A little?! I have to trifurcate to the power of three – completely splitting into separate me-s – effectively dead and irretrievably lost in quantum hyper-me-y-if-cation when…

 

When love

 

When... Zie gulps – do I have to say “love” – it feels kind of awkward, you know – after all this science and mathematics, y’know, me being me.

 

Sophie says nothing but appears to be fading, fading away…

 

Zie you blithering idiot! Merry desperately tries to hold the twenty-seven different frequencies he’s been DJ-ing as best he can, fending off thought-form-y-things now coalescing… coagulating around, uckily.

 

Alackaday – he loves me not – fast fadeth my beauty – as life itself slips… slips...

 

Sophie – no – don’t go – I… difficult pause, wild dilated eyes

 

I… oh so faintly love you…

 

Timidly wondering whether it could be true – truly

 

Warming to it – with all my heart

 

The gates have opened – I love you Sophie. I love you with all my heart, I do.

 

It never rains it pours – with all my soul, I do. Overkill perhaps, but all in all not a bad performance – with all my being! The music goes wild for a brief moment – while the camera zooms in to a single Zie somehow hemi-syncing – opening the vector equilibrium concealed within the many-fication of numeral-ity. 0=1 so to speak, though I’m loath to admit it.

 

Zie literally has no idea what he’s just done. Sometimes things just happen. Luckily we were filming it in real time – otherwise he’d deny it all, without a doubt, but we have it on tape, so there.

 

You do? – the faintest response murmurs through the rushes by the river Volga where this scene – apparently – is being shot.

 

I do – Zie replies – literally stating, feeling the imperative – the must and be all – of love.

 

Give me a break Ja….

 

Wisht!

 

Gaze... behold the quantum field – in all its infinite vagueness – dearest readers – collapsing both which ways to zero and one – as the arch-cliché “love”, the long discredited mulch of pseudo-romance, now shrugs off all that, to reveal its wingéd otherness, which somehow reconciles, somehow resolves all complexity, no matter what, which like the proverbial honey badger cannot be contained by things, no matter what, she finds a way to make whole the havoc of hyper-numerity – the multiple story-lines of me, in a dazzling e-n-d of uni-furcation, the ultimate paradox of omnity. Points of light in the night sky – every star – coming home, like chickens to roost, in the omnitude of love’s non-factorial ultimate prime – the infinite – silently, impossibly here and now-if-i-ed.

 

Thought this was supposed to be romantic? You want us to look at them boring numbers waving around on stalks on the banks of the river Volga?

 

At circles and squares masquerading as barges and birds?

 

At Van Goch wavy lines that utterly fail to bridge the gap between psychedelic, geometric imagery and voluptuous, sensuous reality?

 

At trees and shrubs dancing in rings around squiggles of water-y consciousness? Eh...

 

We didn’t have the budget we needed for top notch CGI – stop complaining. Just look.

 

Out of the Volga – like the Lady of the Lake herself, emerges Sophia – radiantly beautiful, walking with infinite grace. I use the word “infinite” technically – without hyperbole – “infinite” being a quality, a presence, not a quantity or value – this culmination of space and time y-meeting, settling their differences – allowing biology to do what they, numbers, simply cannot – spinning golden strands of story from the dull, insipid interregnum of mechanised thought and multiplicity.

 

In a cone of silence: Sophia – my love – though I was split in twenty-seven parts, dead, utterly lost – the one thing left that held me together – when neither space nor time mattered any more – was you – the love I concealed, that I had forgotten, that I all but lost – the love that has always been the very core – the essence deep, deep within the multitudes of me.

 

Readers – hankies ready please. The Volga is already in spate – your tears will cause a flood and I’ll be blamed – so dab away, and be not ashamed of those manly, or womanly, tears.

 

Bloody narrator prattling on – why did we get lumbered with this one? Surely we deserve better!

 

Wisht!

 

Indeed Zie – you had to take it to the end – you had to test the limits of reason and thought – to establish the fact that facts only go so far – that every river has its banks, every sea its shore, every life, every bubble its filmy -ness.

 

Talk of bubbles and film-y-ness takes us into the final sequence – in which Zie…

 

You mean to say – after all that – we don’t get to see the wedding?

 

Not even a kiss?

 

What kind of director are you?

 

What kind of story is this?

 

What a fraud!

 

You make this big thing of love being able to heal the world, to close the rift, you want us to believe it transcends all complexity, but not a scrap... Your characters fade like ghosts, barely delineated at all. Your story is incomplete. Imposter!

 

Naturally

 

Naturally - what's that supposed to mean?

 

I’ve shown you the edge...

 

What bloody edge?

 

The shoreline

 

What the hell’s he on about?

 

This story is incomplete without you. Your storyline... has it not run out its line too? and at the very end of it, deep in the Volga’s waters is a special fish you’ve been searching for all your life.


 

Off his bleeding rocker.

 

You – you being the fish, the satellite probe you released into this world of conjecture, to experience everything you possibly can, to make story, to e-n-d if things permit, all the while waiting to be reeled back in, waiting to brought back home, to face your maker, your author-in-chief... searching for what is already baked into the cake, already implicitly yours.

 

410,172,407 readers – yearning for story to throw them a scrap, to entertain or distract them, uncomfortably aware of the line within, half-suspecting, secretly knowing that the magic, the barely conceivable happy-end is impossible to avoid, impossible to escape if this was always planned, if we’re willing to come to the shoreline, the boundary-film between zero and one, if we’re willing to meet our self, to feel the unmistakable inner-tug of a date with destiny, the tug of time returning us to our inception, our once upon a day, through her

 

Awkward silence as reader(s) feel the prickly heat of attention turning like the tide, back on itself, of a responsibility spotlighting them... spotlighting all us

 

What do you choose?

 

I… We…

 

One by one the readers slip down from their highchairs of divorced, detached observation-ality – slip down into the stream – the river Volga whose monumental dams, like chapter divisions, have now dissolved away – revealing the perfection of nature, utterly unsullied by things. Meanwhile, Merry’s dance melts their residual sense of who and what I am, as each discovers three, then nine, now twenty-seven sides to me, the thing that I have allowed to grow beyond comprehension, beyond anything I could hope to manage or really understand, deliberately, passing the point of no return. Like a sail I was riding, all the while, those ever-changing winds of story, allowing them to draw me on, to take me ever further from her “once upon a time” inception point and, paradoxically, though further into the misty-maze of tangled complexities, ever closer to the possibility of reaching end-of-line, that sudden snap-back awareness, the heart-wrenching tug that restores me to my senses of what I is really…

 

Snap-back, a moment outside time, suddenly aware of the impossibility of returning the way I have come, for I am changed beyond belief and can no longer squeeze through those gaps of innocence I once did. Only the tale itself, its completion, if I can ignore the drumbeat promising order out of division, and allow its inner-stream, its romance to carry me back allwards, home.

 

Love – I do... I am – to one. To my Sophia... who tenderly holds a strangely familiar fish up to her lips...


Oh come on – CUT – totally inappropriate!

 

 

The end

 

And you Last say – you think you can fob us off like that, with your contrived ending? Your dry-bones philosophy? Your mangled message?

 

No Sophia, my fishermaid, you know me too well. I will gladly accept my utter defeat, as your mosquitoes torment me in the forest and I learn once again to swap my pen for your bionet.

 

Oh good, my little ones eagerly await you.

 

My blood you mean.

 

Wisht, don’t upset the readers with talk of blood. The bionet is all-inclusive, all encompassing, so your blood is merely one minor input into a vast web of what your mind loves to think it can understand.

 

Which you’re teaching me to feel electrically, stingingly?

 

Until you dance, last say, until you allow me to net you out of mind-y-me, back to mind-y-may.

 

 

 

0=1

Sunday, May 30, 2021

Concerning Alfie Puddlestock's failure to compute

Know thyself, as they say – that’s probably not possible – the further you look the more you’ll uncover, but know thy mind – there you can make serious headway.

 

Ok – so you’re trying to know how your mind works… but how’s that going to help?

 

Because the mind can’t help itself – it simply has to proceed as programmed. “Knowing it” is a bit like deprogramming it.

 

Programming? You mean like a machine?

 

Yes, at least the part of the mind that’s in control of thought.

 

Programmed by whom?

 

Not important right now. Let’s focus on knowing what.

 

Er… and what exactly is that?

 

The programme.

 

Yeah, I got that bit. What’s the programme supposed to do?

 

To determine how things have arrived at where we are from where we were. To constantly update its version of how things fit together, you included, how everything’s connected in a causal sequence of one-thing-leading-to-another. It's all about data and using it to build an ever greater, ever more perfect model of our reality.

 

Well, that’s great isn’t it? Sounds like we’re constantly learning, rationally, how to make sense of things.

 

Absolutely.

 

Come to think of it, it sounds more or less like the scientific method – that we’re engaged in testing and proving reality, whether or not it’s more than just an ultra-realistic dream. Whether there’s substance to it. Whether things add up.

 

Great, yes, as long as…

 

What?

 

As long as there’s a control group – something to compare your reality with – a way of evaluating whether the rational mind is missing anything or interfering in any way.

 

? I don’t see how that’s possible if the mind is already looking at everything.

 

Everything? You’re joking right?

 

No, should I be?

 

The rational mind may be looking at everything it’s able to observe – every thing that seems to be real or meaningful, everything that passes muster as "something or other" whether abstract or physical – but it’s completely unable or unwilling to look beyond – at the dark side of things, at so-called dark matter.

 

Well, presumably that's because 3D reality actually encompasses everything, and dark matter doesn’t really exist outside the warped, fear-driven fantasy of psychological neuroses.

 

Yes, maybe you’re right, but you’ll never know for sure when relying on left-brain exclusively, as it only records things that penetrate its mesh, within the given frequency band at which it operates, that are able to affect its “universe inside my head” oscilloscope of sorts.

 

Er… not sure I follow.

 

It works on the assumption that nothing else is, no matter what. 


How do you mean?


Supposing you had some kind of quantum entanglement affecting you or your reality at a distance or even across time... that would require neural assistance from elsewhere to be sensed and processed, wouldn’t it? This array that brings reality right into the recumbent mind cannot, will not, does not like to turn things around – to observe the observer – to unseat or reseat the entrenched me in order to test fundamentals – making do instead with averages that cannot, will not get into the corners, the cracks, the gaps of non-standard, non-metric time segments, can’t even sense or see them if they exceed or inceed its mesh, its scope or its moving averages. Besides which, it can't average one off, unique occurrences. Things have to happen two or three times before they even register at all.

 

Er...

 

The left brain o’sphere ain’t interested in weird stuff like quantum entanglement, or even evaluating fundamentals, preferring to make do with its biotechnological mind-y’matter, unquestioningly, getting an essentially digitised, data-derived version of reality which it uses to construct a schematic, binarised version of things from the ground up, one block at a time, thereby demonstrating and proving…

 

What?

 

…that I am me, internally, or, externally “not-me” – the other side of what I be – two sides of one coin, the fundamental binary, which leads us to believe, to assume, to conclude, unquestioningly, that matter definitively matters… that matter essentially maketh the man, and nought else is, outside the metrics, the tap, tap, tap of time.


Er... not sure I follow your reasoning.


No? 

 

No… Surely our rational mind recognises life as something separate from inanimate matter? Something even more important.

 

You’d think so, wouldn’t you... That would definitely be rational wouldn’t it? to do so, but no.

 

No?

 

No, definitely not. There’s a kind of screen that receives all data-in flatly. Despite apprehending life as a special kind of matter, a particular flexible, mutable thing, the left brain, like the Minecraft program, has to operate within the strict confines of its processing system, which essentially has to slice and dice, converting living beings into persons, into a 2D conceptual equivalent, a kind of legal fiction, rather than feeling and experiencing the non-finite isness of any being directly…

 

Directly?

 

For that it would have to sync or to stereotize with right-side – it would have to do what seems completely insane – life-threatening perhaps – it would have to question itself – its own basic, fundamental programming.

 

Er… I’m feeling fear – panic signals… I'm...

 

Which would seem, would it not, totally irrational to any machine or slice-and-dice mind.

 

Why on Earth would I want to be irrational? Why not accept things the way they are?

 

Why indeed? You wouldn’t, would you, unless you sensed a credibility gap – failures to compute, or odd patches where the composite images don’t quite match up. Then, and only then would it be irrational to ignore the “something-missing”, “something-not-quite-right” signal. We’re not necessarily talking about being irrational however, are we? Perhaps a-rational – rediscovering a deeper, unsplit level, pre-bifurcation – striking a balance – allowing non-digitised, non-binarised reality equal rights in this relationship – allowing syncopated, non-metric rationality back into mind-y-mind, if left and right can meaningfully reconnect – fractals as well as squares – unless, that is, life and the universe really are just things... ug ug ug

 

Holy Guacamole. Just when you thought things make sense…

 

In other words, we need to ask whether we want our science to be scientific or not? Coz not – if it excludes fundamentals, not – if it sets essentially arbitrary data input limits… assigning “real” 1: “unreal” 0 values at the pre-mattered or so-called quantum level… not – if it comes with an agenda – to deliberately trigger reality on one side of me [me thinks I am] like a market manipulator instigating a market crash, rather than allowing it to flow or express naturally, organically… incomprehensibly.

 

Sounds like the ultimate conspiracy theory.

 

Ultimately you’ll never figure it out – because dog chasing tail – the minute you’ve figured out one end of the logic chain, the other end has whipped out of your grasp. And that’s not bad luck. That’s not because we’re slow or incompetent. That’s because the brain was never designed to figure everything out – merely the what, when, why, how or where under the myopic spotlight of focused enquiry. You’ll never figure out, ultimately, what is what because you’re not what you think you are – you’re not – are you? – whatever your mind is trying to make you think you are – or half your mind at least – the so-called left-hemisphere, are you? ultimately – so let it think all it likes – it’s simply unable to process, unable to digest or even sense the infinite – the infinite – which can only be sensed directly by the soul, or the consciousness – which exist in awareness outside time itself, outside space, outside matter or the metrics ack ack acking things – gaming the algorithms of time to make things appear essentially timeless, to make 'em matter Big Time.

 

Geez...

 

And guess what?

 

What?

 

There’s nothing wrong with matter per se.

 

?

 

It’s neither better nor worse than soul, or consciousness.

 

?

 

Matter is ultimately no more, no less real than what you yourself physically appear to be… what you think you are… what you thing

 

What?

 

Well, there’s no point continuing, is there – iterating things – because 0=1

 

?

 

It is – I am – immediately we arrive back at where we left off.

 

That is?

 

Infinity – which is the smoking gun.

 

Smoking gun?

 

By its complete omission.

 

Whadya mean “omission”?

 

You see, the rational mind, employing logic or whatever analytical tools of awareness and comprehension are in its arsenal – cannot, simply cannot, allow infinity to be in play.

 

Whyever not?

 

Because it nullifies x and y.

 

X and y?

 

The time ’n space frame everything slots into.

 

How so?

 

Because time and space are only meaningful concepts or boundaries as long as infinity is  conveniently excluded.

 

Excluded? How could you possibly exclude infinity?

 

…or vacuum wrapped, so to speak, eliminated from the proceedings.

 

But why?

 

Because infinity is neither big nor small…

 

And what?

 

It’s uncertainty, isn’t it, which prevents you from being able to rely on any seemingly, perfectly logical assumption, even assumptions based on empirical data and scientific measurements. 

 

You mean to say we have to completely toss out the whole of science...? everything we think we know?

 

Nope. You’re welcome to continue with it as long as you write a disclaimer to everything you’re saying.

 

Which is?

 

That neither time nor the space you’re reliant upon are in any way defendable, given the fact that they are based upon averages which may seem to give us certain repeatable, reliable values, but only to the extent that infinity does not exist, or is not present within and throughout the system we’re claiming to understand n'attempting to explain; only to the extent we lock ourselves into this magic square called thing… or things-what-i-think… twit for short.

 

So our material reality is a system, you’re saying – that only gives the impression of being reliable, dependably what it is – something measurable, something determinable, something at all?

 

Correct. It’s a system designed to allow us to experience things as if they’re really things, as if things really matter, as if, ultimately, matter itself matters – all of which is fascinating and intellectually deeply stimulating – but at the end of the day, if we’re going to be absolutely honest with ourselves – a kind of mind theatre – like running a simulation, a model in which we are host, player, observer, in which we ignore the “record” button, the discretely flashing symbols on or around the screen of our mind’s inner-eye – in order to make the simulation – the programme as effective, as life-like as possible – which to a large extent we’ve succeeded in doing – except when we get round to noticing the studio equipment, the camera operators, the support crew dressed in black whom we feign not to recognise – the same way actors in a play ignore whoever’s delivering his or her aside to the audience. Thus the world wags... ackly, uggly, metrically.

 

Look, there’s nothing original in what you’re saying. People have been saying this forever – that it’s a simulation. So what? It’s still real. We’re still going to die. There’s still no real way out of it – even if it is a simulation, is there?

 

Ah… never underestimate infinity, Alfie.

 

You yourself said it’s “uncertainty” – so it can hardly overplay its hand – can it? It can’t really undermine the system you say we’re in – without becoming something or other, some-what certain – without coming down on one side of the fence… crashing  down to earth.

 

True.

 

So, there’s really nothing to discuss then, is there?

 

Correct. Infinity is not something to discuss. It’s something to explore or engage, bi-spherically.

 

But why? Why can’t you just enjoy being in this world – fiddling around with things – larking around with matter? You don’t have to be a technician – after all. You can go onto the other side of matter creatively – the non-matter of emotions, into poetry, music, art for example – there’s something for everyone.

 

Yes, but I’m a scientist. Natural philosopher. 

 

Give me a break! You?

 

Absolutely.

 

You can’t do maths – not for the life of you – nor physics, nor chemistry, nor biology – you’re about as scientific as my ingrowing toenail.

 

Ha bloody ha.

 

Get a life Merry. You’re deluding yourself, and all the poor buggers who actually follow you and lap up this pseudo-science of yours. How can you possibly call yourself a scientist?

 

I’m probably the only person alive today doing real science – with a few little-known exceptions.

 

Jesus wept. Completely and utterly delusional.

 

Because all of your so-called “science” is exclusively rational: half a mind defiantly insisting it's whole – and cannot, does not connect to the field itself.

 

What field?

 

The field that generates so-called reality – and matter – and all things great and small.

 

And you? You think that you can, or do, connect to this invisible field?

 

If I didn’t I’d be dead long ago.

 

What do you mean?

 

Because I had to expand outside the permitted boundaries – for personal reasons, which I’d rather not go into right now.

 

Fair enough.

 

And outside those boundaries – either you reconnect field itself zzz – or you simply cannot survive. 

 

But why?

 

Because you’re now surrounded by, and part of, infinity – and infinity does not suffer fools lightly.

 

It’s a jungle out there, is it?

 

You might say – or alternatively, you might say it’s the real McCoy – the real thing where you can really test your hypotheses without expecting the system to come to your rescue and or bail you out.

 

Bail me out? Come to my rescue? Why on Earth do you imagine I’d…

 

Not you personally, but anyone who still operates from within the boundaries.

 

Ok – so let’s assume for a moment you’re telling the truth – and that you’re actually operating from outside the system – outside 3D reality. What then?

 

Well, immediately you know that things were not created stably "long ago" – that creation is the underlying process, the underlying pulse or breath that keeps things appearing solid and stable at any given moment in time, whereas in fact zzz – oh, and that scale dun’t matter.

 

Huh?

 

It matters not whether we’re talking about the entire universe, a single apple or one atom or cell.

 

Er… that’s an outlandish claim if ever I heard one.

 

Well, to the extent that matter is empirically a meaningful concept – it does matter – because things happen at a given scale or level, but the same mind pulse that causes an atom to shift can and does cause a galaxy to do likewise – albeit elsewhere on a logarithmic scale, in another tier of mind. 


Ok – so mind operates throughout – and mind, you’re saying – is never daunted by matter of any size, shape or form?

 

Not as long as mind is operating from 0=1, its undivided a-sanity. A galactic mind and the mind regulating a single atom are really no different whatsoever – once x and y incorporate zed, the great unknown to the rational mind.

 

Zed?

 

Yep.

 

The great unknown?

 

Correct.

 

Scientific term – is that?

 

Not really. Just a description  zzz

 

So where’s the science in all this?

 

Well, once I’m aware of zed, and no longer insist that x and y are the be all and end all… once I’m willing to unlock zed and shift along its – well – we’ll call it “axis” for the time being…

 

Then what?

 

Then this… Merry starts zed shifting and all hell appears to break loose in a way that utterly discombobulates Zie in ways hitherto unimaginable unza unza   affirny aff-cha

 

Whatever you’re doing Merry – I’d like you to stop it now. That’s never science, that ain’t.

 

No? What about this?

 

Zie observes the sun racing across the sky – apparently moving backwards. Now he’s looking right through his hand… and the matter-of-matter that made his body appear to matter meaningfully – is now no more significant than a pina colada floating in zero gravity contemplating space-time's failure to curve     bong-che bong-che        affana teva-zu

An influx of awareness suddenly dwarfs everything it thought it knew about life, the universe, or reality. This is not something supposed or assumed… No siree, this is direct knowledge, direct awareness, something that utterly confounds the rational mind – as suddenly neither the universe, nor all those little things which help convince us that things matter physically, have a quantum leg to stand on. All them things are now a quaint anachronism, a memory of a bygone era, when people used to identify with anything that saved ‘em from having to deal with... yikes!     tassi badi-car   hoofa jinaka 

Infinity – totally out of control. An overwhelming, overpowering, soul uprooting sense of vertigo – where nothing is in any way certain any more – not the ground beneath our feet, not the moment holding time steady – not anything whatsoever – as zed shifts beyond what mind and senses are willing, or able, to perceive or comprehend – as Alfie feels the very viability of mind and matter entering a critical phase of disputedness – of indeterminacy – or as they say in the Russian language – условность

 

Условность – ты сказал? Proceeds Zie in perfect Russian, perfectly unaware that he has zed-shifted into another version of reality – in which Russian is and always was his native language – which in fact, indeed, it always was, here – at this particular spot on the zed where-the-ducks-fly-backwards interface. Speaking Russian thou's now perfectly able to understand what a moment before made no sense whatsoever – not because thou's suddenly more intelligent – but because “uslovnost” is right bang in the centre of what the Russian language-mind-y’me is able to feel, sense and comprehend, intuitively.

 

Oh wow!

 

Yes. Pretty nifty hey – as long as you don’t completely lose track of things, and fail to re-ground, n' return to your original zeroed zed y'home base.

 

Not sure I even want to… part of me yearns deeply, deeply for that – what was it?

 

Условность.

 

I mean, in English.

 

Uslovnost.

 

Darned if I can remember what it means… but still, it definitely feels right – like I know exactly what it zzz

 

Hold that feeling – let’s help the bridge to strengthen – to build up the left-right connection.

 

Oh crikey… it feels so out-of-body.

 

Absolutely.

 

Magic mushroomy.

 

Oh – never knew you did that kind of thing.

 

I don’t – but suddenly I know how it works – in fact…

 

For the next seven hours Zie’s out of communication, and body, as he races back and forth – through all kinds of possible left right connections – as the two sides explore and shore up the zed shift that a single Russian word – uslovnost – has introduced into his field – his me-knows-not-what – so to speak…

 

Until the universe, reality, and you, impatient, uncouth reader decide to give him an astral nudge and slot the fish back into its squarish x y fix, and I, the entirely hypothetical narrator of this sorry tale, decide to call it a day... y'timely, despite Alfie's failure to compute any thing whatsoever, ackly ug notwithstanding.

 

 

0=1, so to speak