Bigsley the Oaf

Notes on Reality

Posted in Uncategorized by bigsleytheoaf on December 27, 2011

Notes on Reality
By Christopher Bisignani – 12/26/11

My goal is to communicate this moment, but also this eternity… can I say “this eternity?” This particular one, which you and I are moving through. Because, if space-time is a 4-dimensional object, then isn’t it in a sense static, an “eternity?” And if not, then how can I say “this moment?” Because isn’t a moment just a 3-dimensional slice of eternity? And if not, what is it? And even this metaphor of “moving through” the 4-dimensional object is actually itself unclear. Do we move like balls move? What movement is our movement like?

But let’s just restrict ourselves to my 80+/- year life. I can break it down in any way: 1 second now, 1 second later, or 20 years now, 20 years later. The now and the later. A trim ontology of planning, reading and waiting for me to insert the proper time/place constraints and then it just GOES. Like, fix it at 40 years. The next 40 years are then “now” and the 20 or so after that are “later.” When are you going to have kids? “Later” not a realistic answer, here. Not like if the next 20 years were now. And how it changes!

Oh how the ontology sings! Like a violin, as I sweep the bow of my caprice across it. What mellow tones it emits as I draw my now from the hour to the day to the week to the month to the year and beyond. What colors and shapes and elements of basic reality and how they shift, from the fuck to the outing to the work-a-week cycle to the specific fitness goal to the General Fitness Goal and beyond! And beyond! And when I work my way out way beyond, to think of “now” as 10 years and then 20 and then 1000 and then a billion, how it changes what I think! And the way I think! It changes the writing of this. This!

Oh how to think out a billion years. That’s almost eternity! And I’ve known almost no time. But isn’t it weird how we think we know infinity? Even schoolboys can tell you the basics: 1/Infinity = 0. Infinity + Infinity = Infinity. This, the backbone of the modern ego must be deconstructed for the soul to flower. How can a child know infinity? Doing these basic arithmetic tricks makes it feel like it knows. Like it can almost taste it.

But what is knowing? Perhaps this is what I wanted to talk about. There is a deeper knowing than that which we know. And here we have the ontology of knowing. Do you know that man’s name? Do you know the most populous country? Do you know the square root of 4? How about the square root of 5? And is there something that you know, but that you don’t know that you know? Like, the deep knowledge which compels me to cry at sappy movies, or sometimes when I think about my mother, or when I think about God and Christ. Like, my desire to fuck. Is not that desire a kind of knowing?

There is this feeling that I know everything, this feeling that I could know everything, that I should – this feeling that everything is attainable, that the universe is not infinite, that all the information in it could be grasped. It’s like the throes of a suffocation in a great information-desert. This feeling that everything is knowable is equivalent to the desire to know everything, is equivalent to the desire to know more, to always know more, to know more and more and more and more. And isn’t that death? And loneliness? The not knowing. The not feeling. The non-friction of soul against reality.

Information is hills and valleys and teeth and eyes and magma and unicorns and fetish and every metaphor possible. Information is ______. Information is ALL.

Did you know that you win at evolution by having the most information information? You win at life by it. You win. You are the one who grew the primordial wing. You know, minimally, that flying exists. So as the flood sweeps through the plains you hop/fly to a tree and live. And your children now know it and theirs and theirs. And this knowing is their victory over all those creatures who didn’t know? But how did they not know? How did you, you half-winged creature? So, anyway, information is winning.

And humans know. And they know and they know and they know more and more and more. They make little circles and look at each other. They look at things. They look at each other looking at things. They look at each other looking at each other looking at things. Each little nugget of information is stored and it’s known that it’s stored, and so on. And these circles intersect and intermingle, and the information moves around, and they use it to grow, to conquer, to win. TO WIN!

And if they die, the dynamic will still be there. Do you hear that!?! The dynamic of information = winning will still be there. There will always be unhad information which can be capitalized upon to win.

You know deep things. You know your mother and father, even if you’ve never met them. And how to walk. And how to make the sound “fffffffffffff.” You know how it feels to slide your penis in a woman (even if you’re a woman!) and how it feels to take a penis in your vagina (even if you’re a man!) You know love. You may not know that you know it, but you know it. You know what that means. You KNOW what love means. You KNOW IT. I am adamant about this. Your history is not disjoint from love. It has left its mark on you.

“Keep away from love, it’ll fuck you up, fuck fuck you up” – The Blow

You know how to throw and you know what it feels like to kill. You know wind and trees and fields and the savanna and the steppe. You know information and spirals and fractals and all that shit. You know what it feels like to smoke weed and you know what it feels like to eat psychedelic substances. You know what it’s like to cry as a baby. You know what it’s like to cry as an old woman/man. You know me and I know you.

You don’t know eternity, though. And you never will. And you’ll never know what it’s like to be a plastic bottle. And you don’t know what it feels like to stand on Mars and you don’t know what it’s like to be a god.

Fuck, do you know eternity? Do you know infinity?

How can man think about infinity, if he doesn’t know it?

I remember an argument in first grade, about whether there was a number bigger than Infinity. The first boy said that of course there was – there was a number bigger than anything the other boy could name. But the second boy said that there wasn’t – that this thing uniquely had no number bigger than it. For instance, 6 is not bigger than infinity.

What were they talking about? What was their intuition? Did they know infinity, or were they just saying things?

If infinity is madness, then we are all mad. When did man become mad?

This is a poor essay. It contains many questions and almost no answers. I’m not sure that I have too many. I try. I try and try, you have to believe me.

I want to understand how I can know so much, why I love women, why I get scared of psychedelic drugs, why I am challenged by certain types of thinking and unchallenged by others. I am thirsty for these informations because I have to win GODDAMMIT. I have to win! God, what am I doing if I’m not winning? Am I mad with my desire to win? Am I already mad or already dead?

Where do I go from here? Where the fuck do I go from here?

Back to the beginning. Cuz I got caught up thinking on a billion-year level, about man, and evolution, and life, and all these things I know, and how I’m transforming that knowledge into symbols, how I’m relating those symbols to each other, how those relationships are growing in strength and robustness, how I’m transforming myself into a knowledge-crystal, with signals being sent around like a singing wine glass, but no movement except a dim, sad, hum. And then I fit in with other crystals into mega-crystal, etc. etc.

But now I’m on a second level, and now a half-second, and now a millionth of a second, and now drilling down into the nowhere space the nowhere time the nothing behind my eyelids and my fingers have attained a mind of their own and it’s just this music this sound this circuitry and it’s scary and dark and my eyes are closed and I’m thinking and it’s hard to resist the urge to come back to time and it’s hard to not think about that and this is and I’ve stopped and I’ve stopped and I want to stop this moment, though my head hurts, but that’s not a millionth-of-a-second thought, it’s a 5-minute thought. Can this typing really go on externally to what I’m thinking? And in that “can” isn’t there an eternity, hidden? What words do not hide eternity? I can now feel it everywhere. I can now feel it rising up around me like a thick blackness, like a dirty wheel, spinning uncontrollably, like an inky demon crying and whirling and drawing me in and in. It’s all of these things. These things are all mad.

But perhaps to escape from it I must become yet madder. Madder than eternity. How anguished I feel when I catch myself thinking 20-year thoughts: kids, house, wife, love, plan, career. How sorry I feel that I would pass this deception on to these structures. That they would spiral out to live 20-year lives of their own, and eventually fall. And I become so sad when I think 60-year thoughts. To live to be healthy when I’m older – don’t smoke, don’t drink, don’t smile excessively, don’t climb mountains, don’t drive. And as my horizon spins out wildly again it is merely constraints that I see: do not pollute, do not kill, do not steal, do not cause anguish, do not lie, do not do not do not. Because there can be no DO in the hell that is eternity.

In this moment there is enough DO to go around: do scratch balls, do type, do rub temples, do process information, do strive, do love.

And so I am crushed between the DO NOT and the DO. If you are honest and you look in all places, there is really only the DO NOT and only the DO. There is nothing else. There is no maybe, no try, no thought. A thought is a doing or a not-doing. A transformation of information, or a destruction of it. A birth of sentiment, or a nullification, a suppression.

How can a person think about reality seriously and not contemplate suicide? We are mad! How can suicide not be an option. A way out, finally. And what happens if you do it? Does your information get squished with your soul? Or does it slowly seep out of your pores? What happens to your mother’s memory, when you die?

(I am nervous about discussing suicide as it exists in a particularly bizarre state of taboo wherein the discusser suffers the worry of those who perceive his discussion as a cry for help. I have contemplated suicide, but not in the sense of someone who is depressed or psychotic, but as it is, face to face. The reason that these worriers worry is that they are unwilling to do the work and face it, themselves.)

For one thing, a great many great men and women have committed suicide. And what has happened to them? What did they know, that they could not bear to know it anymore? Or perhaps they were they mistaken. Maybe they saw reality through a distorted lens. What did David Foster Wallace know? Sylvia Plath? Hunter S. Thompson. Such beautiful names and souls.

To live life as a sentence requires a period.

I often think that great minds spring from a deep tension. Can you tell the difference between a great mind and a mediocre one? How could you not? A mind exists on the level of its strain. If you experience only superficial discomfort you will experience only superficial thoughts.

And perhaps these great minds were digging furiously into themselves, to find this pain. Or maybe they thrived on it, in a way. Perhaps it was their drive. Perhaps their souls told them to dig furiously, but they ignored them, stealing the fire. Perhaps they weren’t digging at all, these suiciders. Perhaps they were cheating – using their deep tension – their deep knowledge, to other ends.

What the hell is deep tension, anyway? It’s when you know that something is a certain way (deeply) but are forced to live as if you believe it is another way. The superficial hooks of your attachment to life and pain and love and women and sex and money have long lines which sink into the ether and are wrapped around that deep, heavy, truth, preventing it from falling into the abyss of your soul. Maybe you know that people suffer. Maybe you know that animals feel. Maybe you know that a cock feels great in your ass or your mouth. Maybe you know the scent of women. Maybe you know that your mother or father or sister or brother is sexy. Maybe you know that we all eventually die.

It’s impossible to live forever with this tension. Because life is accumulation of attachment. Suffering is the tension between apparent and actual truth. Cut your lines!

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