Lyrics to TreealisM: A Play On Words in Eight Fits
Eighth Circuit: Cosmic Consciousness
Mag May Might Magnet Magnify Magnanimous Magnificent Machine Magic Maxims Maximum Magnitude Magma Magnum Opus Magnum Opus Magnum Opus
Open open open opening opening under the Sun bathed in a shower of photons, synthesis in motion, landing on a canopy of fractal branches, reflecting the roots, digging ever deeper, ever deeper, as above, so below, as above, so below, you know, you know, dig deeper. Dig deeper.
We are a star awaiting ignition, we are a star lit with cognition, fed by fusion and spread by fission. We are the neurons of the collective consciousness, firing our will, at a truth that won’t stand still.
Firing our will, at a truth that won’t stand still.
We are the rationale for rationality, baying at the moon from the Wolf Flow Lodge, where dogmas are enshrined.
We are Judgment Machines assembling the puzzle pieces of culture and nature in the smithy of our souls.
We are the Word made flesh, and the world made words. We are Logos, incorporated. Logos, incorporated.
We are the map of a territory too vast to encompass. We are the great and small vehicles of perpetual existence in motion. Existence in motion. Existence in motion.
We are a star. We are a star. We are the set of all we are the set of all we are the set of all we are.
Concrescence of concept, multi-modular modalities. Reality is a tree.
We can swing from the limb over here, and it holds up under the weight of what we know, but there’s another monkey over there, hanging from another branch, and we don’t speak the same language, and we don’t see eye to eye.
And there’s a bird over here calling both of us coo-coo, and even the loons, raven, raven, raven, the deeper you dig, the higher you fly.
I’ve got a confession to make. I’m addicted to morphemes. No, not the painkiller. I’m talking about the molecule of meaning. Morphemes.
I’m hooked on phonics, and mad about semantics. Some kids play with their food. I played with my words. Alphabet soup is my favorite. Oh, go ahead. Laugh. You should have fun at my expanse.
Morphing morphemes, meaning more, more meaning. Or less. Less meaning. Meaning less. Meaningless. Meaningless.
Immortal murmurs murmuring morphogenetic mantras, morphing meaning, what does it mean? Who does it mean? Why does it mean? More lessons, less morons. More morphemes! More morphemes!
Water you drinking, water you doing, water you thinking, water you feeling, water you doing, water you thinking, water you drinking.
Water, rising through the roots, drawn onward, drawn onward, pumped through the mainstream trunk, pumping, pumping, toward a branch which branches and fruits, on a quest toward the Sun.
And under the cover of leaves, solar-powered organic engines, grow seeds, eggs, more than any forest wants or needs, all spinning the wheel of eggs-istential roulette. Will I land on soft Earth? Will I win the lottery of birth?
Existence in motion. I think I am I think I am I think therefore I art therefore I think I art therefore I am I art therefore I am. A standing ovation.
And now, back to your regularly scheduled simulated reality programming.
Seventh Circuit: Non-Local Morphogenesis
Ge-ne Ge-ne Ge-ne Gene Genetic Genesis Generate Genuine Engender Generous Engine Innate Nature Genius Generation Generation Generation
Do you ever wonder what happens during the dreams you can’t remember? Did they happen at all, and, if so, to whom?
Are dreams just a private de-briefing, for third eyes only, downloading the details of daily life so that the subconscious mind knows what to be neurotic about?
Why is a raven like a writing desk?
Freud slipped, I mean spilled, a great deal of ink on the subject of dreams. But schemes to interpret the surreal symbolism in dreams are missing the forests for the trees falling inside of them.
I’m less interested in what any given dream means, than in the meaning of dreaming.
Who is this dreamer, so at home within intangible landscapes, so familiar with the impossible? This dreamer who can only be known through vanishing wisps of ineffable sensations and paradoxical situations which unravel as daylight and rationality set in?
Making sense of the world is like standing on your head while breathing backward. On one hand, we have mystical philosophies which picture the observable world as a room of illusions; on the other, scientific materialists who assign truth value only to the verifiably quantifiable.
So, pray tell, what might be the truth value of the movie in my sleep-struck mind? I can’t prove the events in my dreams to you. I can’t even prove them to myself.
Does a notion have to be plausible, to generate applause? If a television is turned off, are the sitcoms still vapid and inane? If someone answers a rhetorical question, is it still a koan?
Why did a soup of inorganic compounds spontaneously elect to organize along political lines? Why on Earth would such an unlikely event transpire? Life does seem a little strange.
A little strange. Like a strange loop. A self-generated cause. It happens because it happens. Or does it? After so many “whys”, we’re none the wiser.
Such a grand design, all these dimensions in concrescence, seem to imply some sort of Designer, a mad scientist experimenting in the sky. Or so the monotheopoly claims in their brochures.
But creation isn’t necessarily a product of intelligent design. The design IS intelligence. The design IS intelligence.
We see the world through the lens of an assembled self, a refractory looking glass, filtering phenomena and projecting mythology.
We are the patterns we perceive, we are the patterns we perceive, we are the patterns we perceive, embossed in relief.
The Self is a border crossing, a membrane between inner and outer space. Inner space is mostly made of water, just like the surface of our suspiciously habitable planet.
Outer space, according to science, is made up mostly of massive physics equations, punctuated by stars and such.
Stars, I’m told, composed primarily of hydrogen, which is a positively charged particle of almost nothing, in a complicated on-again, off-again long-distance relationship with a flaky negative electron, who exists even less.
Divinity isn’t an entity; it’s a substrate. A substrate.
A quality of consciousness, a ratio of relation, transmigrating from synapse to nebula and back again, from particle to planet and star, partaking and taking part of the physical and metaphysical, the real and the imaginary, dwelling in undiscovered dimensions of superposition.
By the way, we’re holding a fundraiser to save Shroedinger’s cat. Please donate locally, and act Galactically. Deposit your contributions in the golden balloon.
Water isn’t an entity; it’s a substance.
Drops of water; pools of water; streams and oceans of it, evaporating into lofty clouds and eventually condensing into rain, retaining individual identity only for the duration of the fall to Earth, before puddling into the mud.
Swimming in the subspace substrate.
So what has all this to do with the spice of tea in Wonderland?
Is a cup of water still a cup of water, once the water has been drunk or spilt, once the cup has splintered into a thousand shards?
Mind might be held by matter, but, like water, flows from vessel to vessel, to be absorbed spontaneously by those who are thirsty and eager to think.
We all pay in different ways for our education, but the cost of tuition comes down to paying attention. Paying attention. Paying attention.
The way I see it, an eye is all any of us are. A point of you. A perspective.
Perspective: I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours. We’re comparing notes, exchanging angles of view, sharing vantage points on reality.
We’re reference frames, unique only in our location and duration. One mind: infinite variations.
We’re all coming on for a cameo in each other’s biopics. You live your whole life to see and be in a movie that unwinds, real-to-real, inside the private showing room of your mind. Are you a spectator, or director? An actor or projector?
Reel-to-reel. Real, too real. Surreal.
Just a movie in your mind. Just a movie in your mind. Just a movie in your mind.
Seen any good flicks lately?
Sixth Circuit: Neuro-Electric Meta-Programming
Gno know noble ignore notice cunning incognito reconnaissance diagnosis notify ignorant notorious connoisseur connotation knowable notion gnosis gnosis gnosis
Well, the temple’s between the ear and the eye
The house of cognition, pattern recognition
Pentagons to the left of me
Apples to the right
And when they come together
The seeds of strife ignite
And when they fall apart
The tree rises from the heart
The temple’s between the earth and the sky
Branches and roots of RealiTree
Made of all our woulds and coulds
Hidden by a canopy
Of transitory leaves
Falling faster than we perceive
Watered by springs of intuition
Struck by starlight
And triggered into fruition Read more: Temple Of Gnosis
Inhale. Exhale. Hail Eris. Hail Eris!
Er es er es to be yes absence essence entity present interest art error erratic aberration orient origin to be in motion er es er es
Did you ever have a thought that got so far out that it goes all the way around the Cosmos and smacks you in the back of your head?
Some thinkers seem to think that thinking is proof of existence. Well, I think that’s putting Descartes before the horse.
I’ve thought about it a lot, but I’m not sure I can really prove the existence of thought at all.
What if I’m only imagining my thoughts? What if I’m hallucinating them? What if I’m just a character in your virtual reality simulation?
Anyway, I think that thinking as evidence of existence requires additional consideration, so I operate under the alternate credo: I art, therefore I am. Pardon my alternative grammar. Read more: Existence In Motion
Fourth Circuit: Cultural Context
Us them us dem us dem dem dem democracy domestic domicile domain dominate dominion despot dungeon us dem us dem us dem
Will I get more milk with a smile or a scream
That grove is green, but what does it mean?
Is that a lurking shadow or a wolverine?
How am I to interpret that gleam?
Are you looking to meat me, eat me
Or are we on the same team?
Is this whole routine just a fever dream
Ignore the bark or flee the bite
Bank to the left or bolt to the right
It’s a battleground of mind versus might
Food or poison better guess well
One fills your belly, the other sends you to hell
Quagmire quicksand oasis mirage
Water or danger wrapped in camouflage?
Why’s it so bright in the middle of the night?
That can’t be the moon dropping all that light
Should I head downwind or back upstream
Survival safe arrival partner or rival
At what point should I intervene?
It’s all up to the Judgement Machine Read more: Judgement Machine
Third Word: The Semantic Symbolic Circuit
Nomen nomenclature noun pronoun renown name nominate nominal denomination ignominy moniker eponymous anonymous misnomer anomaly onomatopoeia
Hmm. That’s a mouthful!
Names. We have all these funny words, which undo themselves by not living up to their names. For example, take the word, “monosyllable”, a multi-orgasmic, um, multi-syllabic tongue-twister. I mean, “monosyllable,” has five, count ’em, five syllables. What’s up with that?
“Onomatopoeia” is supposed to mean a word which sounds like a sound, except it doesn’t really sound like anything. “Vernacular” and “colloquial” are not even vaguely common or ordinary words. And “palindrome” backwards is just “obnoxious”. True story. Read more: Language Is For the Birds
Second Circuit: Territorial Imperative
Pa pa pitter patter pasture pattern patrol foster pastor patriarchy patrician protect power power power power power
It’s the Wolf Flow logic
Mark your territory
Secure in a circle of urine-soaked boundaries
Pissing in a sea of predator and prey
A theater of threats to be held at bay
I come from a long line of those who survived
By doing what it takes to stay alive
It’s safer to be feared than ignored
From underdog to overlord
That’s the Wolf Flow logic
Mark your territory Read more: Wolf Flow Logic
First Circuit: Oral Bio-Survival
When I grow up, I want to be a skeleton. Or maybe a ghost. I’m of two minds on the matter. Two minds on the matter…
Most of my imaginary friends don’t believe in ghosts. Hell, half of them don’t even believe in me. They’re pretty square, if you ask me. But everyone’s a little square, if you look from the right angle. Read more: A Standing Ovation