By Brian George
Please repeat: that there are no black helicopters, and that therefore there is not one hovering above us. The projected head is hollow but aware; our subjectivity is real. Its configuration files have been hidden in plain view. Access codes protect us from each other, from viral incorporation, from sex crazed hackers, and from interference by the muse of objectivity—who, though beautiful, can be violent.
There is no rest for the search engine. The unquiet dead play games with the subject/ object interface. It appears that our operating system is not a friend to Jesus. Logos flash through the sky of the Sinkiang Autonomous Region. Tectonic plates throb and ring. The unconscious has set up a black market to trade music with the world. Should the one world vanish—good, it is most certainly for the best. There are many more where that came from.
Dreams run through fiber-optic cables. Each of the six and one half billion—and still climbing—lives on Earth can now be mined for data by the NSA, and then simultaneously tested for adherence to the mean. A doppelganger posts one's childhood traumas on the internet. One's interpretation of a Rorschach blot has disturbed the CIA. If the Human Consciousness Project did not give birth to the world then its enemies would not have so great an interest in it.
“Character is fate,” said Heraclitus. It is YOU that the inanimate desires.
The hungry uroboros mistakes its body for a donut. Oral history resurrects a tale. If no end can be found external to the phenomenon that we sense, perhaps the end lies in the phenomenon itself. Its meaning is not linear, but circular. The turning self is the World Snake, who does not recognize the shadow he projects. Perhaps the goal of the Human Consciousness Project is in some way—very simply—to increase the flow of consciousness.
A Promethean technocracy floats upon black waters, which are pregnant. Self-knowledge takes a bath. Its spell broken, and now acting from a distance, Lethe liberates the superconscious acorn. The self’s meaning is revealed through the act of its showing forth. Its end is embedded at the depths of its beginning. It is certainly possible that the self, as a separate entity, does not exist, and yet, too occult for words, it is nonetheless the cause of which one’s lives are the effect. Roots reach from the labyrinth of the stars. Lightning deconstructs each city on the tree.
By their fruits you will know each blackened branch.
A primal fact—consciousness is here. No other place exists. “The silent earth is my witness,” I say, as with my fingertips I touch the revolving god.
(Illustration: Rene Magritte, Double)