As gods in embryo, the main job is building new planets. Planets to enhance. Existence is a creation. It is an egg. We have to crawl out of the egg. The egg was a rock. We had to grow it, tend it, fertilize it, and survive on it.
We are now gods. Our DNA came and conquered. It is paramount. It is no different than a virus. The virus is Satan, trying to keep us from succeeding. It is trying to kill us, so that it can survive. Did we make this planet, or is this our jumping off point. Are we butterflies just after chrysalis, or are we caterpillars building the cocoon? How can we even know?
One idea is stories. Stories are what win and lose conflicts. Who has a better story? Whose story becomes an icon? Whose story wins?
Occidentals battle the Muslims. They have a strong story. I don’t have time to learn it. I am working on integrating mind and body. Trying to make my body conscious. Break free from the boundedness of words. My ancestor’s story has been deconstructed and reanimated. Those who are trying to live the story are just putting on a revival. A restaging. I have to move forward as a post-abstract reconstructionalist. Rebuilding the concept of existence using nano logic and string theory. The theory of music. The end of history.
What I really meant earlier, you know, about the Muslims... They are living the hard edge of story. The word made flesh. What was really meant is the flesh made word. Live the tribal story, the way it was told for generations. The story of the word, as recounted by the living flesh. That is how we lived and guided our DNA through the stage of history. Get on the path, get on the story, get with the program. We followed the story.
Now the story has been decontstructed. It has no meaning, sitting there fractured, separated, alone. It is just a bunch of pieces scattered across the garage floor, waiting until one of us has a free afternoon and can reassemble the pieces, or should I say, recycle the pieces. Hopefully into something really cool, yet practical.
That sounds like a rule. Cool, yet practical.
The story was a rule, a rule to live by. Since the story of my DNA has been deconstructed, I have to CHOOSE what to do with the parts. This is my gamble. This is my turn to lead the platoon through the minefield on point. Am I up to the challenge? What do I build with the parts? Will it be cool, yet practical? Will it be a new story? A new rule to live by? Will it be a song? A song to dance by? A pupa to transform in?
This is where I am in my life. Ever since I was a small child, my grandmother told me with absolute sincerity that I was directly descended from Alexander the Great! My actual ancestor did something! Yeah it was a long way back, but I was as good as royalty! I could do anything!
I never lost that belief. It was one of the few times I was given permission to dream. A building permit, of sorts. Use the pieces and build something.
Kurt Vonnegut, in one of his books, had a character say, “You know how to recognize something that is actually true? When you make a statement of fact, and your neighbor responds “Boy, ain’t that the truth!”.”
Here is the $64 billion question? (inflation): Does Kurt Vonnegut know when he is deconstructing, constructing, or can he even tell?
I think that when you are on point, leading the platoon, like Field Commander Cohen, you have to be constructing. Constructing a path. You have to have faith. Not blind faith. But you have to have enough understanding of the physics, the psychology, the biology, and the theology of the story to know what the pieces are and how to use them.
The story has been growing. All those fleshy words. Almost erotic. Almost interconnected. Almost becoming one, a singularity. Growing right from the start, it has. The memory of raw existence, a time of void, void of time.
The word formed in the cave. It was the key to remembering. Remembering for both learning and decoding. We had to start with basics. The first word was just a toehold on our memory of our past, used as a tool to conquer our future. Food, reproduction, genealogy, and order. The power of the word allowed us to evolve, to conquer the next level. It made us aware of forgetting. Quite a toehold!
To protect against forgetting, we had to pass our lessons learned on to the next persons to lead on point. Our platoon to our children. We didn’t have critical mass yet, so we had to sell our kids on the story. We had to dress it up. We needed them to keep building the story. Finding the truth, dragging it back to the campfire, sharing it with as many comrades as possible. The truths were then tested, day in and day out, under the strictest form of the scientific method – survival. Some call it evolution, I call it story building. The one with the best story wins.
This is the duality of life, the duel. The conquest of dimensionality and living. Our first tool is the word. The word begets life. Life is the continuum of truth.
All those stories told around the campfire. All those shared truths. Some stronger than others. The stronger truths win out and get added to the story. The others just aren’t as shinny, and they get set down, get damaged, and mostly get forgotten about.
When dueling truths are both on point,
it is impossible to go forward as a group.
We go from the duel to the trial,
from 2 to three.
From yours and mine
to Judges, Numbers, and Deuteronomy.
History puts on priestly robes
pronounces the word,
the word that will be followed by flesh.
It helps if it rhymes.
The weaker truths sometimes get preserved as artifacts; words kept in libraries, just in case they are useful in a construction, the repository of relics, of photos, of campfire stories, a storehouse for words.
The campfire truths get retold, become words in books, books in bibles, bibles in hotel rooms. Historical truth decomposes into pornography on the internet. Did I say decompose? Graphy implies dimensionality. Word was a toehold, the zero dimension of original existence. Two words created a line. Two lines a paragraph. 1080 lines create a high definition visual of our known truths. A google of lines is the repository of unproven and forgotten words that are awaiting placement. Stem cells cryogenically frozen. A virtual backup for damaged A, T, C and Gs, in case the mythical Spock needs to reboot the system. The seep of reserves is there.
I am practicing today. Memories of basic training. Soon my number will be called to lead the platoon on point. I go through my karate moves, allowing the zen to enter. I wonder did I study enough? Did I have enough extra curricular activities? Did I really learn anything? Or are words just sounds. Do they mean what they say they do? Or am I making this up? No one told me. But I think I can feel the warmth from the campfire. I smell the ancestors. I am aware of my hands slicing the wind.
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