Subspace Substrate

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Seventh Circuit: Non-Local Morphogenesis

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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?

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