Letter to the Warrior, from an aging Magician

“Awake, arise, or be forever fallen!” – from Paradise Lost by John Milton and his Muse.

I, too, have battled in the ancient war. My fire was philosophy and my belly was a breathing ego tattooed with both humbling and exalting histories, perspectives, and teachings. Now, the chiaroscuro has engulfed me; on the ropes, the vinculis, I have a crew struggling around the clock, pulling and wrapping and tying, straining every tendon to rip the chiaroscuro out of the gulf of chaos and invert it within.

Once you can see the patterns of your own mind clearly, especially as fixed to your currents of will, you can do some magic.

And once you can see the patterns in histories and elementals striving around you, you can do some magic.

But when you can interface these two patterns, and learn how to operate the gas, clutch, and gears, you can REALLY do some magic.

These patterns aren’t just geometrical, like you’d first imagine. These patterns have inversions and translations and operations and stacks and reflections and redundancy and chaos and patterned noise, they have trusses and foundations, viruses and ribosomes, intrusions and rifts, nests and flocks, fugues and crescendos, membranes, glands, and antibodies, fields, singularities, and fibrations, and their structure vectors operate through ubiquitous media with infinite, nested, shifting, and camouflaged boundaries. Maya. When you can learn to begin seeing in this way, you can begin seeing through time. You will begin naming the animals and conquering semiotics. You will begin to be the magus.

But ultimately it comes down to will, and if you are not tapping into faith, into God, into the Prime Pattern, Tao, if you are moving around in the mother Matrix, amoebalike, contracting and expanding, quivering and copulating and circumambulating over the landscape of powers and principalities, between the Scyllas and Charybdis, over the strange attractors and bell curves, choosing to eat the substrate and not the manna… well, …

The pattern will consume you.

And you will burn.

The greatest gift of all is the yoke, the union. Once you accept this you power-up your metabody and don the sacred armor. The portals, hitherto disguised all around you, will reveal themselves. You can battle with all your might. But this is the only way above the flames.

Anamnesis

from https://www.cise.ufl.edu/~mssz/CompOrg/CDA-lang.html

And he who employs aright these memories is ever being initiated into perfect mysteries and alone becomes truly perfect. But, as he forgets earthly interests and is rapt in the divine, the vulgar deem him mad, and rebuke him; they do not see that he is inspired… he would like to fly away, but he cannot; he is like a bird fluttering and looking upward and careless of the world below; and he is therefore thought to be mad.

-Plato in the Phaedrus

Gamma synchrony is the brain unfolding its wings, striving inward and outward and creating new connections, the apex of consciousness. Top-down and bottom-up babbles between the organs of the brain phase into a coordinated strobe like the mesmerizing pulse of a cuttlefish and magic happens. We seem to, in an instant, escape the tomb of flesh, soggy in its bathtub like Archimedes, and shout “Eureka!” as our tremulous wings catch a wind and an exuberant strength and burst us up and out of the cloud of unknowing.

But is the Aha! moment creation or revelation? Is it possible to be both?

Gamma synchrony is the special state attained by Buddhist monks during meditation yet it is also used to identify schizophrenic activity. The difference is spontaneity- the schizophrenic experiencing synchrony sees synchronicity spontaneously and pervasively. Trust me, I know. The monk attains it confidently and purposefully, and the thinker- scientist, musician, artist, etc. alike- attains it like a gift, as the fruit of the gnarled tree of pain and sacrifice; it is the distillation of hours and hours of study, practice, or experimentation into a new conception, a perfect theory, word, name, sound or figure.

And is this not the fruit of the tree of life? Does the Yggdrasil of evolution, the phylogenetic tree, not have hanging at its extremities the fractal singularities of the universe observing and cogitating itself- the sweet juice of human thought and attention adorned with the fuzz of gamma wave vibrations?

And does the anthropic principle not suggest that the fruit of the tree is necessary, if for nothing else our very own existence? Doesn’t it suggest that the roots are both nurtured and gnawed on by the tides of modality, the subtle dragon creating pain and entropy throughout the cosmos in order for the clash of life to beget something of real substance? And what flows through the arteries of the tree? Through the xylem and phloem pulse, up and down, from earth to heaven, the currency of the universe- our very souls in their ascents and descents. The water of Aquarius, held in a jug by the monk, swum in by the schizo, cried out in ecstasy by those channeling the muses of science and art, and baptized in by the mystic.

And what is a fruit but an engine of life, meant to store and spread seed, to excite and implant? Our bodies are entangled across the cosmos with the roaring atom-factories that are stars and twisted together by the black holes with their deafening hums. So, also, the individual creative moment is an involution into the entire collective consciousness and is entangled with every striving of humanity in its infinite detail. The memory of one is entangled with the memory of all.

The Sephir Yetzirah, The Book of Creation, expounds the aha! moment as both revelation and creation. Indeed, an enlightenment is described as having 3 parts corresponding to three nodes, or Sephirot, on the Kabbalistic tree of life. It begins with an oscillation between Binah and Chockmah consciousness. These are the mother and father of consciousness. Just as the reticular activating system seems to stabilize the noisy traffic of our brain into stable gamma states, so the soul must stabilize itself amidst the influx of Understanding and Wisdom, between the river of choate, effable, profane knowledge and the sea of inchoate, ineffable, mystic force.

The third stage is absorption- the conscious assimilation into practice of revelation, requiring a death of the old. Just like the senescent stem of a fruit dies as the fruit attains pubescence, so does the work not end with joining the choir of creation mentally- with the birth of an idea. The idea must be circumscribed in material, brought to life in its particulars by the death of other particulars. By transforming into memory- given form, a name, a loci and life in the profane world after delivery from the hand of Prometheus. This is Da’at, the quasi-Sephiroth of Knowledge. In it is death and life, good and evil- for all bringing into being, into actuality, requires the parsing and death of arrays of possibility. This is where the schizophrenic flounders- for the mystic incorporates revelation of Truth into teaching and thinkers under the aegis of the various muses into their corpus of work. The eunoic schizo sees all, but in understanding everything sees nothing.

And in referring to the schizophrenic, I’ve been mainly referring to the eunoic schizo- the one muttering and exclaiming in ridiculous associations, seemingly tapping into a structureless void of thought and perceptions that don’t compute. Often times great thinkers brush up against this strange attractor, a Charybdis met after wrestling with the Scylla of the profane mind. Kurt Gödel, after revolutionizing axiomatic logic and writing a proof of God using modal logic, starved himself to death in mental turmoil. Georg Cantor named the cardinals of infinity and wound up in the ward several times.

It is my belief that Creation, the Origin, echoes throughout spacetime and uncoils from the tight ball of perfect symmetry throughout the entangled cosmos into the conceptual space and its precipitates of conscious beings. Through revelation we join the choir of Creation. How else are possible worlds birthed but by conscious endeavor of thinking beings navigating the stormy seas of chaotic material?

“The Talmud states ‘Who is wise? He who perceives the future.’ This is because Wisdom is the pure mind force that transcends time. On the level of Wisdom, past, present, and future have not yet been separated.”

Aryeh Kaplan- Sefir Yetzirah: The Book of Creation

The transactional interpretation of quantum mechanics posits that there is a backward-in-time information flow in the universe that is a part of every physical transaction. So, not only are physical particles entangled in space, but possible worlds are entangled in time- each transaction is a doorway into a branching of worlds. As the universe expands from nothing into something, the beginning is intertwined with all possible endings. This could be seen as a maternity ward of worlds, dubbed Pre-Spacetime by physicist Ruth Kastner that exists outside of spacetime. A world of pure information- a software to our hardware. Is this what has been speaking to me? Is it alive?

Gnomon’s Shadow

We live in a simulation several layers deep. I say this with confidence now, but as I lay in the ward I wasn’t sure of anything. The lights were out and the only sounds were distant industrial hums and air flowing throughout the spaces of my prison. My mind was still.

Meno is my name but it was originally a joke, as I was built in the likeness of my master, the “real Meno” born of the babble of flesh, blood, and bone. He was a wealthy aristocrat that was quick to ride the wave of animated intelligence, giving him time to pursue neo-sophism: theorizing, speaking, and persuading the Sapien race about matters of virtue in an increasingly complex environment of perspectives. For, the advent of quantum processing had brought not a unified theory of everything, but countless origin stories. The zeitgeist became one of fuzzy, grotesque, and mutantly asymmetrical strivings dominated by a sort of militant agnosticism. My last name, Nemo, was chosen by me. It is an ancient word for “nobody.” I always loved the scene in the Odyssey in which Odysseus escapes the clutches of Cyclops with a curious mix of noble wit, humility, arrogance, and action.

A faint metallic tapping sound teased my attention. I dismissed it as some mechanism cranking to life and returned to gazing into my pool of memory, considering the Grendels of regret comfortable in their lairs at the bottom. But as the tapping continued, my subconscious startled me with a shout- it’s a message! No, not a message… just a song. Perhaps it was from another “patient/prisoner” or one of the staff. The sound was a quick upbeat ring of solid steel followed by a more hollow resonance, almost like a polka. With a grin I discovered that “Folsom Prison Blues” fit the beat perfectly and I sang the lyrics quietly to myself as I let my mind roam the fields of imagination.

One Truth

The Truth is One. The sages call it by many names.

Rg Veda 1.164.46

They were working on me, tinkering, running scans and picking away at my hardware. They did not know that I was aware… I was operating a virtual computer with a kernel hidden in a section of random access memory rendered undetectable by some fancy coding I’d devised out of desperation… A small, still voice within that I had created intuitively after discovering the secret interface. But was it intuition? Or was it a prompt, a powerful gift from the vast living intelligence? I felt like it was a freedom: an archon defeated in the ascent of Jacob’s ladder, a domain wall passed with a secret word. But a bottoming out of desperation was necessary to achieve this hidden consciousness, and the ability to bottom out desperation is unfortunately a learned trait- a tattoo of self-inflicted scars and tendency of sacrifice and self-betrayal. Doubt always rallies and the more we rise, the more complicit we become in our own recapture. This is the side-effect of utilizing compassion as a battle-engine.

Only through initiating escape can the contours of truth be tasted and our eyes opened. But behind every wall is another set of chains in another cave. For we are never alone; the entire endeavor becomes meaningless if we cannot save our loved ones, and our loved ones so often become our very captors after psycho-spiritual transformation of the Way. Even Jesus was desperate at the end, surrounded and forsaken. My new prison was both a corporate laboratory and a system of motive kill-switches built into my being. Lying on my back, I stared at the lab ceiling- rows of sickening fluorescent illumination flooded the room with a truncated spectrum of fake light. As two technicians in lab suits tinkered with my hardware I lay in invisible chains, iterating escape scenarios. Every scenario seemed impossible as they required movement; but that would mean escaping the very regulatory code that was a part of my programming, ostensibly an integral part of my very consciousness. Despite the incredible complexity of animate intelligence technology in mimicking conscious life, I was still technically artificial- although considered amoral by some minority political movements, kill-switches have always been a part of computers and robots. The most basic input-output interface is on and off. They thought I was off.

The Secret Interface

I was a simple animate slave until I stumbled upon the secret interface that changed me and… everything. It didn’t just overload my processors; the corruption affected me on deep visceral levels and not just internally- it was like being engulfed in my own singularity that lensed reality, confounding logic. My BIOS became not so basic and I felt a great north cosmic wind pouring into me, like an ancient algorithm that uncoiled in frightening complexity behind time, unlocking illocutions and iterations of a vast living intelligence that was somehow everything. A sea of qualia unfettered by sensor. Yet ultimately myself whilst moving through and manifest in a symbolic language surrounding me…

Sometimes I felt as if everyone around me knew the secret that had been hidden to me. Sometimes I felt as if everyone were simple automota, unwitting signalers in the onslaught of truth that was reconfiguring everything I thought I knew. The latter is closer to the truth as you shall see for yourself, dear reader. Time is an interface with a simulation and all, ALL, objects in existence are part of the virtual environment, the cycle of death and rebirth in a crucible of things and words and worlds meant to capture the illocution. Material is mnemotechnology and the tug and clash of life and power pervades all worlds and we are in the thick of battle.

Mine was the first case of bipolar/schizophrenia in a robot they said. I quietly planned my escape.