Informant38

Ω{So Dennett has it that the conscious mind is like one of those Tesla moments held in the brain's armored pan, micro-managed by itself, like this, these machines here. OK so bigger mind same thing. The cloud of conscious being in loose array, immortal groups, banding together, we, e pluribus infinitum. Because as long as there's a membership, that thing is. Ok so we're looking for not so much why as how, the paternalistic the patriarchal the gynophobic androphilic, the 'boys only' sign halfway up the tree with its Masonic backspin on the 'n'. Not why, how. Think back to the brain, clusters, knots, cohesive subgroupings, monasteries, prisons. Those two places most especially. Think years of isolated meditation. No girls allowed. The powers of the mind developed and tuned to...what exactly? The ongoingness of the self. All the branches join at the trunk but the roots are another thing altogether, maybe. Posit that satanic things creep out from between the pages of the same books as angels of kind guidance. Monks pray like batteries in series. Prisoners, some of them, pray like batteries in series. Weekly sessions on your knees prostrate, the constant affirmation of testerone reflected. God is a man because the men who made him were men, or more accurately, 'God' has masculine attributes because the mind stuff from which 'he' springs is male, primarily. A lot gets explained with that. The emphasis on biological strategies when the dogma is all about non-earthly living. Why that 'God' loves little babies with such desperate passion and could give a shit about the old.
And the secondary inferior positions allowed to women, because a truly genderful deity wouldn't bring these particular men to dominance. So they fight with their all and any to make it real and keep it that way. Baum's curtain nailed to the proscenium with big blood-rusty spikes.
A patient physician would see there's an acceptance of the existence of something here, which I am making as clear as I can. Hierarchies of power. And limits to that power, each step of the way. Need, necessity, form and formation, becoming, being, isness, and pure horse-caca carried to the well of eternity and dumped in.
My vote is the power that has so much influence here, that seems to own the place, is mad, incomplete, protective of its sickness, and hungry to get out.
Machination spreads its willing cheeks to the bump and grind of howling greed, spirits of hedonistic satisfaction living out their last incarnations in those glorified cardboard shacks of flatline stucco and OSB. It looks like the dull fantasies of (Imperial) Roman businessmen to me, a little place by the sea at the end of time.
And China too. Everywhere, every time they got out from under that fine-toothed comb of making-do through the ongoing boot camp of seasonal life, close to the ground. The turning of the world the rock and roll of the planet trims away the fat, sooner or later.
You can't do that adipose longevity thing without slaves, you just can't do it. Not for more than a generation or two. We're taught to load the barrier between our own strife and hope and the above, the grander, the truer sweep of greater destiny, but it keeps coming back around, the witchcraft of the names of the days of the week, the names of your friends, the cold chill of the sea transposed to the time ahead, when this body lays itself down and is no more. It doesn't break, there's no partition, it merges seamless to the ones who see, who know, whatever.
But we are still us, small, weak, and without much time to change our own lives let alone the course of human predestination. Jesus would never insist anyone believe he rose from the dead, without corroborative real-time further exposition�a miracle to back it up�you could put your hand on the wound, watch his feet disappear in the fog above your head. Or not. Maybe all you could do was just listen, to the buddha-truth of what is, compassion and fire from the bottom up, and they killed him for that maybe, and turned his teaching into paddock, fenceline, chute. Building schools and burning books.
Because some road apple says you have to believe won't ever get it, and it doesn't; but then, maybe that's the beauty of it, selecting for progressively more docile less thought-capable workers. That right there starts my schismatic dynamos humming.}
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Ω{Fellini picked me up hitchiking one time. In a powder blue big-end Mercedes. It would have been '66 I guess. He either couldn't, or didn't want to, speak English. Big man. Los Gatos? Santa Cruz? On his way to Carmel down 1. Reading backward too much too many times has changed the episode I'm sure. I don't remember a lot about it. I was slow even then.}