Indra's Net

We don't understand that we live in magic.

Just know, just in the fucking 6 hours I've been awake, I've been exposed to a greater diversity of information, both beautiful and disgusting, then my great grandparents could have experienced in a year.

We sit in front of these teleportation devices. We have labels for them, we call them "computers," and these labels seem to stifle the awe these machines should elicit in us. I am, in a literal sense, able to teleport my conscious mind almost anywhere within the electromagnetic web that connects these devices.

The internet is the physical manifestation of hundreds of collective LSD journeys. Do some treasure hunting, Silicon Valley, 1960s...

There is a Buddhist myth I've heard told by Alan Watts, Robert Anton Wilson, and Terrence McKenna. It talks about a Goddess named Indra who had an infinite cosmic net. The vertical strings represented time, the horizontal strings space/location. At each intersection of the space and time strings, there is a pearl. This pearl represents possible realities/perspectives/conscious beings. When the goddess looks into any pearl she sees not just that pearl's reflection, but the reflection of every surrounding pearl in that pearl's reflection. The beautiful thing about myths is the reader can choose to let the symbols represent whatever they want them too. For this, this represents the infinite possible perspectives there are of reality and that our perspectives are both explicitly and implicitly altered by the consciousnesses around us.

Where in the past your pearl's reflection was limited to your physical location, we now have the opportunity to bend Indra's Net. We have the choice which cosmic conscious perspective pearls we wish to be reflected in our cosmic eye.

Those fucks on facebook and twitter probably aren't the pearls you want around you.

All men are mortal, therefore Socrates

(Listened to "Shine On" while writing)

Each sentence is a string, either constraining you to the floor or rescuing you from your abyss. With each chosen word, the writer hopes to sculpt the readers perspective. Further and further we leave that Platonic place that existed between the title and the first letter of that first sentence. Aggressively or seductively, lovingly or complacently, the writer hopes to lure you into their reality tunnel. Its easier to not dwell on the magnitude of it all.

The written word when written well is magic. Words are magic. A well selected assemblage of symbols can give the creator immortality. Or at least the kind that brings ambitious young domesticated primates peace at night who would do well not to read Ozymandias. I am one of these foolish ambitious young domesticated primates and so I enjoy reading the works of other such monkeys. It is the least I can do, playing my tragic part in the prolonging of these dead primates futile dreams of immortality by assimilating their ideas into my own ocean of synaptic connections.

The human experience is such an absurdly beautiful tragedy. We spin on this orb through the Void knowing we will die, living in almost a perpetual state of fear with brief but orgiastic glimpses of the divine, all while we pretend we understand our plight, sporting a mask of maturity, understanding, and control. Born into a cult we seemingly cannot escape amongst a psychotic collection of cults, we think ours the best. Murcia!

Other than sex, sports, and the rare illuminating conversation, my favorite way to ignore the absurd around me is talking with these demimortals. Lately, its been Robert Anton Wilson. I haven't enjoyed another primates symbol collection this much since Nietzsche. This primate's sense of scope and humor mirror what I hope my own will be. I find it no coincidence but rather synchronicity that he too, amongst many other dead primates who enjoyed writing, started his consciousness expanding perspective with peyote (Huxley, Shulgin, Leary). I hope one day I'll be able to try those the little black buttons.

The written word's significance is dissolving in our current generation. Many disagree and I understand that, but here is how I see it. The most noble purpose I can think of as to why a writer writes is to pass along an idea. Hopefully an idea that benefits the majority of unconscious slave monkeys robotically reacting to life. Most of these slave apes don't fucking read. You can see the dilemma.

I'm not trying to write a manifesto or a magnum opus, but I think a new perspective on how best to spread good ideas is required for the ambitious domesticated primate. I'm worried about nothing though, maybe nine people will read this, and thats okay. I just like writing.




*If you're part of the 50% of American's who'll read more than 0 books this year, check out "Prometheus Rising" by Robert Anton Wilson.