Wednesday, March 16, 2016

Raziel - Sleeplessness

I'm almost convinced that I'm never awake. I'm not sure if I'm not in fact dreaming when I live, and living when I dream, or if dreaming and living are for me intersected, intermingled things that together form my conscious self.   I don't sleep.  I interexist.

Fernando Pessoa, the Book of Disquiet


I have never slept, I haven't - yes, you told me, but I knew.  Back and forth between waking and dreams, each world seamlessly shaping the other, amnesia narrowing the hourglass. Experience is relentless - there is no such thing as sleep, its a delusion, a lie I tell myself to forget. The only substrate is continuous, contiguous thought, a duality between that which is willed and that which comes unbidden.  I am one cell amongst many, experience is the fluid I bathe in, self consciousness my nucleus.  I am a whisk in a fish bowl. I am a bauble with a painted interior - characters, events, stories diffusing from the bloodstream of time becoming shadows on the walls of my glome. Locked in the hypersphere of the self, a cellular bathyscaphe, I dutifully replicate events - respiring, digesting, sweating; remembering and forgetting - I work these wheels for the necessity of time. Somehow break away on a tangent and I'll find the loop again or die. But this means no end, I'll sink and resurface; experience is relentless.  An incredible exhaustion comes over me, have I never slept?  How long have I been here? Every moment of my life branching into still breeding daughters, even in the dead ends where nothingness spawns matter. My own fallen daughters!

Studying the occult both exhilarates and terrifies me in how it continues to flip my world view.  After early studies in occultism, alongside my degree in genetics, I remember the Metabolism of Time crystallizing in my consciousness during my supervision of a trampolining competition.  Afterwards, I wrote the four acts in two weeks.  I knew it before, but now I understood - and that understanding was a foundation.  I no longer looked through my eyes I looked at them.  I heard my ears and felt my feelings.  The membranes went live. Intricate details followed for years upon years. The key to the great mysteries?  The letters are chronosomes and the stoics were right about the soul.

'tis magic, magic that hath ravished me!

Dr Faustus, Christopher Marlowe

The lines between my own thoughts and that of my daimon are increasingly blurry.  To what extent do I own my thoughts as an achievement of logical reasoning and practical experimentation or are they granted to me as boons, falling as manna from my higher consciousness.  Zeir or Arikh Anpin?  Both host and guest?  Watching those trampoliners rise and fall, run and return - something flipped my mind upside down and inside out.

I watch celebrities or philosophers talk about how the existence of deadly pathogens in the world disproves the existence of God.  All it disproves is the existence of a Just Good God and they are too frightened to go further down that road with an evil God, a set of morally ambiguous ones, or one for whom the virus was made in its image.  They'd prefer a dead universe to a terrifying one.  Atheism is their nuclear bunker.  The universe is bristling with higher intelligence, replete with macrobes.

Weirdly, its a similar fear that keeps occultists rooted in the shells, a fear that betrays what should be their wonderment.  Fear that keeps them circling the 101 track, discussing anything, anything but the thing, barely talking about the trampoline - certainly not jumping on it.  Fear, ill-discipline and laziness.  Easily distracted and eager, rabid, to avoid the work - I'll tidy my room instead!  Don't make me get on the trampoline!  And pride, oh pride, because they know when they take that first bounce they are going to look like a fool. There is nothing wrong with walking the earth, groundlings, except with your posture and your stature as you do so.

You've forgotten how to trampoline because you pretend that you sleep.

I am only half-asleep.

Fernando Pessoa, the Book of Disquiet

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