"Smoke and wind and fire are all things you can feel but can't touch. Memories and dreams are like that too. They're what this world is made up of. There's really only a very short time that we get hair and teeth and put on red cloth and have bones and skin and look out eyes. Not for long. Some folks longer than others. If you're lucky, you'll get to be the one who tells the story: how the eyes have seen, the hair has blown, the caress the skin has felt, how the bones have ached.
"What the human heart is like, " he said.
"How the devil called and we did not answer.
"How we answered."

from The Man Who Fell In Love With The Moon

Sunday, July 15, 2012

Some notes on the hum of the mind

Endlessly these eddies curl and compact and stretch out.  Dissipate.  Arise.  Morph.

The mind, if this is where such things take place, is really a kind of fluid atmosphere, driven as much by chaos as by anything else.  Sanity in this way could be seen as a kind of order, however brief.  An island of negentropy.  Insanity the opposite.  And myriad kinds of intermediate stages existing not long enough to even be recognized.

It is as possible to observe this as it is possible a body of water doing the same thing.

Is the observation of one's own mind itself a kind of eddy?  A brief gathering of substrate (which is an absurd, but convenient, way of speaking because thoughts and mental projections are not measurable) in the flow?

What is it that allows for this to happen?  Who is it that can conjure?

Does the flow in which I exist flow into you?

It must.

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