Future & the Arctic

In the future, everybody will be linked to anyone they interact with, forever.
Omni-connection, omni-presence. Hyper-society.
Anything, Anywhere, Anytime.
A-memory. A-regrets. A-invisibility.
The unpredictability of the mind will be the last refuge for secrecy and privacy. (We will forced to be crazy to stay human). Or to create or own waves.

Later,
  Above The Groenland:
Purity & Infinity, as if the world had died and went in a fridge, and all died as they were impure, and nothing remains but the ground, slippery cottony cold as improper to our sins, a death-made vision of perfection.
Rolls, crevices of all beauty that staggers the eye, forgotten like perfume as too much, too big for us to remember, does not fit in the fridge.
It is the refrigerator of life, yet contains nothing, it is the place where Winter is born, with no clouds and perpetual sun.
A playground of hills and cryptic pathways that condemns any fun.
Hazy blur of flaky winds.

[[[ Coldness being required by too much energy. Is Mineral a life form? Is an iceberg alive? So vast a space of beauty yet so hard to see. Wrong place, wrong energy. An all-white Dark Matter. ]]]

A simple life

I want to live in a Japanese house, with clean surfaces, and no visible objects. No protuberance. Only surfaces. Objects merged within surfaces.
   Comes a time where too much pressure bundles like protuberances within a life, where all this pressure assembles a global obstruction to anything.
  Then comes a moment of re-invention of the space.
   A place such as Galatea where nothing exists but a request to speak the right words, the utmost difficulty (here reduced, in compartments, automated, but in real life open, open to research, undecided until solved).
     A place like a forest, where natural objects bundles in the surface of Nature.
   Like a church, where religious objects assembles in one vision, one message.
 An empty place offering resources to push back on everything else.
I want to be old enough to stop feeling anything, and young enough to not care, to not be obstructed by myself.

I want Time to give itself to me, for what it is exactly, a present void, a null entity that I can measure entirely, without disruptions.

What is easier:  to measure a piece of time or a piece of space ? I think we feel it's the latter, we trust our eyes and fear that time is rebellious, can't be trusted.
There are higher levels of awareness that permit a better sense, an aware ascetism of the self.

I want to live in the North, in Glenn Gould's North , in a moment between 2 notes, a respite.
I want to think when I decide so, to focus on what I decide, to feel an experience consciously separated from past and possibilities. "Past & Possibilities": like two brothers from Hell.

A clear time of vacating from oneself, the emptiness, energy source.

Nostalgia

Something very strange happened recently. I need to write it down since it's probably too unusual for my mind to want to keep this memory available. For a few minutes, or hours, I felt deeply sad and melancholic, and at the same time very alive. The past was coming inside the present, and felt more real than what was around me. At the same time, those fragments of memories were leaving the present with repetitive elements of sadness, so it was a constant stream of sadness. It was melancholy, nostalgia (1770, "severe homesickness" (considered as a disease) from Gk. nostos "homecoming" + algos "pain". "wistful yearning for the past" (from http://www.etymonline.com/index.php?allowed_in_frame=0&search=nostalgia&searchmode=none ).
  But it's wrong, not a yearning, the past just imposes itself, and imposes the sadness from losing something: one is aware enough that the what-is-going-away doesn't exist anymore, so any action towards trying to retrieve it is worthless, yet one isn't aware enough that the past was not something really present to not feel the pain of losing it. A constant realization of loss with a constant "bringing up" of past things, like an unreal realization. It's a fake loss, a mind-trick, and now it has passed, and my mind is trying to tell me it was banal, benign, yet I know it was not. I couldn't express anything while it happened, and felt connected to humans better than ever.

Rage Against the Machine

I do not believe in, think about, or feel much about death, death is too far.
Much more painful and dangerous is the terrible power, factual and immediate, of the disconnection between everything.
As I was jogging around my neighboorhood, I discovered a fantastic building: one of those factories remodeled as artists studios, containing an upscale restaurant, galleries, companies. Some cool people in it.
There was a band of musicians preparing to work a piece.
I also found nearby a gym, and a pet/bird/fish store.
Happy should I be of those discoveries, yet instead they silently but deeply reminded me of not just the relative randomness and absurdity of things ("relative" since there are, after all, good reasons for the existence and location of those buildings and people) but that, once again and increasingly every day, we live Times of Separation.
Nothing invited anyone to wander and discover those buildings or create them or make them or support them and nothing but random and absurd human relations has anything to do with those buildings and people pass by not knowing what they are doing and what they should do and people feel without saying and unemployment rage sprawls and there is no connection.
I have just finished American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis (often speed-read the most horrid pages, always superfluous) and decided that this average book had the good idea to present just this, our disconnected Times.
I wonder if, if we adopt the idea of the Noosphere, before getting to the point where that Noosphere exists, mankind wouldn't go through episodes of such great disconnections.
As humans differentiate (soon, biologically) increasingly from each other, creating divides that will manifest to us more often than wars, in parrallel the need to find meaningful ways to connect might replace and supersede the need for peace.

Mornings, fan club

Thoreau understood what Mornings are. Remix:

The morning, which is the most memorable season of the day, is the awakening hour. 

I have been as sincere a worshipper of Aurora as the Greeks. All memorable events, I should say, transpire in morning time and in a morning atmosphere.There is something cosmical about it; a standing advertisement, till forbidden, of the everlasting vigor and fertility of the world. The Vedas say, "All intelligences awake with the morning."

Poetry and art, and the fairest and most memorable of the actions of men, date from such an hour.

All poets and heroes are the children of Aurora, and emit their music at sunrise.

Little is to be expected of that day, if it can be called a day, to which we are not awakened by our Genius, by our own newly acquired force and aspirations from within, accompanied by the undulations of celestial music and a fragrance filling the air--to a higher life than we fell asleep from; and thus the darkness bear its fruit, and prove itself to be good, no less than the light. 

That man, 
 who does not believe that each day contains an earlier, more sacred, and auroral hour than he .. has .. yet .. profaned
   has despaired of life
and is pursuing a descending and
darkening way.

Morning brings back the heroic ages.

To him whose elastic and vigorous thought keeps pace with the sun, the day is a perpetual morning.
It matters not what the clocks say or the attitudes and labors of men.

Morning is when I am awake and there is a dawn in me.

To be awake is to be alive. I have never yet met a man who was quite awake. How could I have looked him in the face?
We must learn to reawaken and keep ourselves awake by an infinite expectation of the dawn, which does not forsake us in our soundest sleep.

To affect the quality of the day, that is the highest of arts.

thoughts on sensations

It is hard to describe the mechanism of sensation, the reasons why we feel: although it's an intermediary, a middleware, between brain parts and Nerve Management, there are circumstances preventing its proper functioning, such as:
- the excess of sensations, like schyzophrenia (or autism?) where one can't do anything as one is drown by common life, at that point one doesn't feel anymore.
- the absence of echo: this one is complex: due to either excess, or chaos, or triviality of sensations, then nothing happens deeper: the mind is played: expects something, there is nothing, so no echo, no vibration, no sensation.
- the brutal superiority of sinic and dictatorial Materiality over human feelings, also called the passing of sensations, dying mingled in a busy life where only materiality prevails. It's chaos over chaos, whereas misxing a thought with a memory with an emotion (the mechanism of feeling) is Magic, and Magic requires at least calm and order.
In the same category: Stress, the insidious and sneaky assassin. Horror, horror.
- the absence of mystery. We have lost secret islands to wonders of world transports, secrets now only exist in Arts and Science, not in life anymore, so we all need to be artists and scientists.
I want to write something optimistic and luminous, about Mornings.

The intimacy of immediateness

Towards getting into a religion that helps the self living, without the unnecessary extraneousness of past religions, only the self towards building an equilibrium of itself, giving proper attention to what can be done with and through the human body. Some meditative mediums: the attention given to small things in "Nadja" (by Andre Breton), me at a young age staring, amazed, at my own hands. We, as beings, tremendously lack the inner echo of our selves that would tell us the consequences of our actions. Blind-sided donkeys.
For a passion of righteousness: knowing with intensity what is good to do, the ethics of the muscles. The self as a two-parts invention.

Nonsense

"Electric car" shouts the electric car, beep, people walking really fast both ways - Altanta airport.
What's the use of describing - wish I had the ease of writing (the pretention of having an audience, for sure, pretention of the crook).
Passing by, so many, just like any other.

I feel I touched the heart of human population, that nest
      whereabout and seemingly various beings
Balance in-out, writing, reading, the way of life, searching for duality, everywhere, having a detector - A man knew of the powers around him, the forces in presence of each environment he would travel through, and he was aware of the tensions, could he shut down his sensibility?
Someone passing by for the tenth time.

Having notes, tracking the fluxes, as temporary relieve of reception? Hiding behind the activity of tracking time and movements
There is no cornerstone to duality, and no duality is specifically human, it's all already there.

L'organe-obstacle de la dualite, c'est elle-même - le reflet du reflet est lui même un reflet, il n'est pas lui-même mais lui ressemble beaucoup.
Voir, percevoir, recevoir, bientot savoir
La poesie comme liberation? Il faudrait traduire, pour les autres.
Personne ne voit, l'interstice.
Point d'interrogation, point de connaissance.
De l'interrogation comme maniere d'apprendre, technique de raisonnement comme passage vers la memoire.
le Memoire, Memory, Memory is a bubble bath. (not a quiet lake).
"Awesome", they say. the corridor is long.

Apprendre l'histoire comme le combat de l'homme sur la nature et lui-meme, mais ce ne sont que des variations, des histoires.  Apprendre l'histoire parce qu'on aurait fait pareil, parce qu'on continue de conquerir, de trahir, parce que c'est beau, parce que c'est là.
La dualite de l'histoire: les monde parallelles du present (et si Charlemagne n'avait pas été couronné? et si l'edit de Nantes...? et si Ravaillac avait manqué Henri IV ?...)
Forcer l'histoire comme une story, une stoire? Pourquoi?
Ne pas voir les relations.

Ne jamais oublier que la vie agit comme la mer sur nos yeux facilement captés, attrapés, pèchés par n'importe quel mouvement comme si c'etait la vie, et l'on se projète sur n'importe quel morceau d'ajitation (c'est pourquoi la campagne, le retrait du mouvement, c'est comme la ville: moins de vent, sans bruit, les grandes villes, grands espaces de vide. pourquoi la nuit est-elle si intéressante? Le désert? Se mettre dans une chambre noire, se mettre dehors dans la nuit: même chose? Le silence nocturne envahissant, la presque-lumiere, l' "à peine" des sensations.
(Charles du Bois decrit Gide comme l'eau du verre, qui transparait toujours sans apparaitre - le trouble et le gris de Glenn Gould)
Sympathie des passants.
J'aurai pu voir certaines choses.
Keeping track of so many details.

J'aimerai que les gens soient sympathiques, il faudrait pouvoir avancer sans inquietude.
L'Homme-singe, ca n'est pas un être, c'est une duliate très présente.

Gaudi

I want to explain how the works of Antonion Gaudi impacted me. Gaudi was inspired by Nature, it feels classical and to me evokes Rococo, at least compared to the surrounding minimalistic and inhuman architecture and industrial design of our times. Gaudi feels natural, to the point of obviousness, it's the feeling of the architecture and design that just fits, it's human design. I think we have lost even the desire, the classical will to reach nature back into our civilized worlds. We have forgotten this, maybe since the 70's, with the obvious failure of the hippies and associated movements, who tried to reach Nature too bluntly, too literally. We all became a little bit Republican after that, and forgot the need for humanology. Less became more, Small became beautiful, straight lines became the norm and anything else was purged out off everything. The Japanese in their genius have been trying to reinvent natural, ergonomic shapes however with not a big enough success that it would regenerate the old spirits that Gaudi shouted in my head each time I saw his works.
Gaudi means "it's OK, it's necessary to create more, to get more in touch with what feels right. It's OK and necessary to create curves and rounds and ellipsoid windows. It's OK and necessary to be fun, and it certainly is OK and necessary that it takes much, much more work to create the objects that support that fun, because that's what feels right and the fun is not only about the fun, it's also what works for humans and what is good. It's absolutely and seriously OK to experiment with decorations, until the decorative aspect of things reaches the point, the balance when it's no longer unessential." We have mired our vision with the opposite of superfluous rules, we have accepted straight cubes and flat worlds that felt wrong for the sake of a short-term efficiency which faked being durable.
I link this to the current disaffection of our school system and thereby of our intelligentsia, of our social conscience (our superego), in social sciences, what the French also call human sciences. It is the same false belief in the need for utilitarian economical viewpoints that creates for a big part the falsehood of people's perceptions.
What is terrible with such a fantastic idea is the simplicity to deny its truth, to answer "no, this is not needed" in front of Gaudi's exorbitant greatness. To say "his work does not contain anything specially human" because we cannot prove or define what feels right. It would be wrong to respect or celebrate Gaudi as a cerebral artist, to define round shapes as conceptual design. However we can complain about straight lines being inhuman, as they shout their fakeness with perhaps the same obviousness (at least to me) that Gaudi's work implies about what humans are all about.

nature/ideas once again

Ideas after Harper's Magazine, Wallace Shawn, Essays, published by Haymarket Books.

..Consciously, I'm aware that I'm a product of evolution and that I'm part of nature. But my unconscious mind is still partially wandering in the early nineteenth century and doesn't know these things yet,

Wallace talks about sex, but I want to identify each movement that

..sometimes appears with such great force that it sweeps other feelings and other thoughts completely our of the way. And on a daily basis it quietly and patiently approaches the self and winds itself aroudn it and through it until no part of the self is unconnected to it.

That's what psychoanalysis is about, that force is why it gets artistic, the drama of the self-realizing-it's-not-itself, the vertigo of disillusion. Sex may be what Freud stumbled upon at first becomes it's so biological, so in-your-face, the elephant in the corridor. I feel there is a world out there of other

extraordinary meeting place[s] of reality and dream... of the meaningful and the meaningless

Fantastic discovery?

Perhaps it is the power of sex that has taught us to love the meaningless and thereby turn it into the meaningful

But that's only the direct consequence of the power said above to turn things inside out. And there is a reciprocity: it's not just nature appearing suddenly in our thinking thoughts, it's the ideal surprising an moment of mere living, as a perfect desert taking by surprise the eater of a cold sandwich. What is it that makes this so obvious idea so new? The parallelism of the mind/body issue being put inside the mind, the face that our mind changes, is controlled from the 2 angles, and maybe the fear of realizing the links between the 2: that yes, there is very much of nature in the highest of thoughts, and that there's idealism in pure action.