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Each
of us starts life as a
world center,
indifferent to the
laws of time and
space, sure that our
call will result in a
response. At first,
our solar plexuses
have only a few
shadows, like the
cities on the sun. Our
unconscious minds are
as inhabited by
symbols as an ocean is
by fish. New sensory
data float on the
surface. We are
everywhere, but in
need of much.
Soon enough, we are
shocked. We find, as
we steadily expand the
sphere of our
discovery, that the
world does not
cooperate in affirming
our self-image.
Maddeningly, few
recognize our age.
There are theorists
who dismiss our
clearly audible
demands as no more
than mechanical
reflexes. Q: "Does the
young world center
feel pain?" A: "No, of
course not. He is only
a pouch of biochemical
intersections, whose
random spurts of
electricity cause him
to make noise."
Donations from the
maternal breast aside,
perhaps there is
something wrong here.
It is not that others
do not also come to
kneel, or offer
tribute, or express
their joy and wonder.
They do, but their
actions are
unpredictable. Colored
toys revolve like
intoxicated planets.
When we dream of other
lives, our hands no
longer return with the
objects that they
clutch. It is
necessary for light to
fall on objects in
order that we should
see them, and it is
more difficult to see
at night than in the
morning. Some whisper
that we are "cute."
Doors open and close
for no reason. A
revolt is imminent,
perhaps, and we note
that, one by one, our
caretakers have begun
to disobey. You then
discover that your
body has a skin,
"you," who were once a
"We." Will somebody
shut that baby up? It
is difficult to think
with so much crying
going on.
Earth is cold and wet.
Life will kill you. It
is probably better to
keep the real story of
your predestination
hidden, even from
yourself. Once
consciousness was big.
There was no fear. By
sharing songs all
species could
communicate. Little
art was needed to
interpret the
self-dramatizing
image, the
self-illuminating
text. There was a
mountain that rose
from the bowels of the
deep. To stand on it
was to scan each
period of history,
like a landscape. The
new body in which you
find yourself is
small. The mask you
wear cannot mediate
between incompatible
scales. After all, it
is a mask. The bigger
you get, the less of
your original face can
be remembered.
Mount Meru and the Continents, Bhutan, 19th century
As humans, we are not the puppets of the gods; no, we played a part in the
creation of the world, in the Shivirat ha-Kelim, the "Breaking of the
Vessels," in the lifting up of the first city from the depths. We played
our part in the removal of the future, in the far from innocent
displacement of the past. We played our part in the successive
reconstructions of the torus. The human function goes as far back as the
Bindu, as the scarab Kheper, as the Aleph, as the Orphic Egg, as the
gravitational singularity that preceded the Big Bang, and then even
possibly beyond. These bodies are the most recent version of an archetype.
The human role remains the same; it is only its associated powers that may
expand or contract.
You had come with a gift. It was not like any other gift, and there was no
one else who could offer it to the world. It was not that you were special, as
this word is normally understood; no, you were anonymous, and each
person ever born had brought some particular gift, however much they
may not have remembered what it was. This gift was not an object, at least
not in the usual sense. It was an aboriginal totem on the move, a baroque
feat of geometry, the fixation of one of the sub-powers of the zodiac, a
kneeling of the wind before the wind, a monstrous prodigy of
disinformation, the opening of a clean, well-lighted space, an offering from
a child of the gods to the beyond. It was, in short, an individuated
Uroboros, whose tale, from the first of days, was hidden in its mouth.
Mount Meru and Ananda, the Cosmic Fish, Bhutan, 19th century
How strange that it took the form of a not-yet-spoken story. Already close
to perfect, this story went in search of a new audience. Such a gift could
not be separated from your nature. It simply was, a matter of fact, beyond
argument, and also was why you were here. There was a task to perform
for which no one else was suitable. You should find some way to make a
living, yes, but there were other, more complex obligations.
There was a task to perform for which no one else was suitable, or perhaps,
for which no one else had been dumb enough to volunteer. Each year, the
path back to the instructions in the seed would grow more and more
circuitous. Not many of your goals would be achieved. That, too, is
something that you would earlier have known. For obscure reasons, like
the other 6½ billion people on the planet, you had picked this time and
place, a time of converging crises, a place where snake oil salesmen sold
only empty bottles. Leaps of imagination would be waiting to transport
you, if and when they chose. This was not at all convenient. You could hear
the ticking on an inner clock. This had led you to regard your more
personal objectives as irrelevant, to the extent that you had the sanity to
judge. It would have been so much easier not to care at all, not to sense the
growing disturbance in your bones. There were many modern devices to
which you could have turned.
To not have to see with your eyes: what a joy! To not have to hear with
your ears: what a joy! You were broken, perhaps. There was some sort of a
screw loose, or an extra piece or a piece that did not fit. Once, the spirits
had collaborated in taking you apart. They had shown great skill. They
were much less certain about putting you back together. Your brain was
left on some random shore. These spirits seemed to have more important
things to do.
Once, the seers of the World Maritime Empire had pulled you from the
waves. They were tall and thin. Their skin just barely covered the luminous
currents underneath it. Within their elongated skulls, points flickered like
constellations. Speaking mostly with their eyes, which were somehow both
peaceful and sad, they led you up white cliffs to the ruins of an
observatory. There, they showed you how your story looked from a great
distance.
Brian George, Homage to Dhyanyogi Madhusudandas, number two, 2023
They showed you how your life was really not your life, not as this was
commonly understood. It was not "a" life, nor was it only yours. They
showed you how wheel turned inside of wheel, each alive, each
psychotically complex, each wheel kept in motion by the wheels that
turned within it, each larger and more frightening than the wheels a
moment before. You saw how the Earth was no bigger than a pinhead—just
large enough to be visible—even as its circumference stretched to GN-z11.
You then saw how, should you go there, it would not take 13.4 billion light
years to fly back to the pinhead. No, at least according to what they told
you, this would take less than an eyeblink. You could see the many dozens
of chores that you left only half-complete, the messages unheard, the
promises you broke, the tens of thousands of hours thrown away. Some
might classify such a voyage as a dream. What cosmic irony. Steps would
have to be taken so you did not fall entirely back to sleep.
In the end, what luck was yours. What an influx from the dark side of the
sun, where you had once, so pleasantly, had sex. You no longer had to
depend upon your own imagination, not at all; there was no way to
determine whose imagination it was. You could hear the ticking of an inner
clock, the dead, with their long shadows, laughing, the Earth cracking
along its geometric seams, the birds weeping, the plants of the Amazon
shriveling up. You could hear the cities buzzing like white nuclear reactors,
the gods getting drunk, the hedge fund managers cursing as they jumped
from the roofs of buildings. You could hear the chiming of the eight
-dimensional vimanas in their clouds, the zombies gnashing, the snails
roaring. You could hear the continents arguing about the state of their
relationships, plate over groaning plate, the oceans whispering as they
plotted out their long-delayed return.
Peter Proksch, The Four Elements, 1968
You could see the four elements fume, the primal letters cut and pasted to
give birth to new cultures, the revolution shaking the sub-powers of the
zodiac. You could see the flying snakes, the crawling birds. You could see
the mountain rising from the ocean, the salt-encrusted ruins at its top. You
could see the wide eyes of its resident cartographers, the unspeakably old,
the curious, those able to look through your eyes as you tried and once
more failed to look through theirs. You could see the mountain rising from
the ocean, Mount Kunlun or Mount Meru or Mount Qaf, its peak towering
towards Orion, even as it rose 10,000 times before.
You could see how many times your story had been told, how you wrote it
long ago and far away. Why did you only just now decide to come to terms
with your mistakes? Who would have thought that a finished story would
take so long to revise? Utnapishtim did not leave a manual. Menes thought
that only stones should be allowed to speak. It would be useful to be able to
figure out how to diagram a sentence. Some help would be offered, but not,
of course, in a form that you were ready to accept.
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