The (near) total memory of a few studied individuals shows, perhaps, not their enhanced capacity but a present capability already available but not yet accessed by each one of us. The subconscious is an apparently necessary sinkhole. Sink whole, I wrote.
(The whole stink sunk somewhere.)
Those who display this vastly capable memory may have a subconscious without holes? We others hold our memory as a limestone sunken lake into which sacrificial victims have been slung. For the peace of this surface community the depths hold troubled offerings.

A total memory surely alters time – the moment simultaneous.

Time is emotion memory action (both thought and physical) reaction (physicality both emotional and intellectual); reaction and action and memory and emotion are filtered by intellect or transferred emotion or habits of remembering. Every filter forces experienced time into a line; relax any one filter or remove and time blossoms as an experiential field. For to unpack even a moment; that: can That be unpacked? The ever finer focus revealing connection, fertility, event, meaning, a single moment becomes an hour or more. And can unfolded Being ever be returned to a merest moment?

The written word is all too apt to follow the memorial cruelty of the sacrificial lake; a great limestone chasm, the white page. As each sentence is forged so others must necessarily die. And yet, as the sentence grows and curls and pushes into paragraph, do not the dead sometimes return to life? Each neglected flash of possible, the ignored option, the buried aspiration seeps into the questing, furtive, hopeful wording. These scattered remnants will gather, a growing formation integral to the resultant life. So are the people an alphabet, persons express meaning and combine to discover new meanings. All life is present to all life as each brush mark of the calligrapher carries ink, one ink for the whole text.

Adam did not require the subconscious, he knew not death. Becoming death, Life intended not this, and yet it is here and the meaning must be expulsion, hardship, pain. Meaning making, knowledge, pain, hardship; these are a few of the raw elements from which a subconscious is forged. The unconscious as an invention of an experience dragged back and forth between abysmal lake and surface community. The unconscious is an indefinitely delayed sacrifice and, at the same time, the primeval gods’ repayment for their bullion and fat.

The grace of limitless movement without sacrifice and without impatient delays made of egoic gods; the realm of God is such a narrative. Such a narrative is encompassed in but a single moment, it may be spoken only in one Word, it is not a Word ever to be said and yet it is Spoken.

The egoic MacGuffin of a hidden trauma; this generates an enthralling and appropriately Hitchcock-like shadow world. A pseudo identity set on intrigue and a progressive layering of veils and feints and sleight of hand results and pain is projected into the on-going moment. You do not want to suffer so you try to make others suffer upon your behalf. This is a childish habit, a defensive reflex more than malicious intent. It aspires to control and yet more often it results in an anxious and ongoing loss. Projection is an experience of the despised and contested suffering returning; this pain may now be altered but nonetheless it returns and there is an amplification of the experience because it has been boosted through the wounds of others.

To withdraw pain’s commerce cannot be done by forgetting or hiding the wound. A lack of consciousness is not implied by either the subconscious or unconsciousness. These terms rather indicate the presence or penetration of awareness. Awareness is a volatile substance which most of us dare to touch only with extreme caution. So often there seems to be a need to disavow responsibility and it and a sense that the enormity of our complex emotional situation simply cannot be processed in a “daytime” form. Awareness of a fully conscious spectrum of functioning overwhelms the persona. Consciousness is greater than persona.

As persona is dragged up into consciousness so it becomes personhood. As personhood suffers the wounds of persona it realizes that such wounds are easily suffered and really do not harm the centre. As this moment is itself suffered (an ego humiliation), so consciousness is allowed to remember other suffering. There is a becoming awareness to the wound suffered in consciousness; if not turned to “should have” or “could have”, not guilty affliction, aggressive accusation, or defensive self-justification then the aware trauma in consciousness is the root of resurrection.

Can this become a corporate or community activity rather than a more simply individual choice? The basis of communion is the withdrawal of projection, the removal of an intervening narrative; simple present to present presence, this is knowing brokenness and it becomes the medium of our wholeness. The basis of communion is making oneself vulnerable and so it appears that any solitary instance of a wound consciously held is already communal.

The individual suffering wound in full conscious remembrance, as full as possible, is to reflect into the community all mercy received. This is by no means morbid. It is indeed deathly to project pain into the corporate body, and to do so unawares, yet should a solitary person choose instead to stand with their own dying, so is this companionship and love.

It is an outlandish project yet the community who experiences some measure of reflected mercy may actually taste it as their mercy, from this savour a further choice for remembrance may begin to grow. Amidst lessened narrative stress a freedom is found.

To articulate the possibility of suffering wound; to sense that it is feasible to no longer project, defend, or be oppressed by aggregated supposition; thus is the corporate body freed. Cast over a broader area of individuality each moment of freedom becomes a paradigm shift, or moves towards one. The astonishment of just two or three gathered in the suffered wound is genuinely full of wonder, a healing. Living in wound turns around to a coming alive through wound.

From the one suffering wound to mercy reflected to two or three gathered in remembrance. The freedom discovered is awareness, awareness of original awareness; the root of resurrection. These interwoven processes move mercy and love outwards without ever dismissing, burying, or denying hurt, difficulty, stupidity.

There is a gate into the ground of the real called Reconciliation. Original awareness flares up to light the path toward it. And it may be no coincidence that this gate into the ground looks somewhat akin to a grave or an open tomb. We say this is not a burying but reconciliation does actually need to step over a corpse; it is a tragic phase wherein persona is allowed to die. It is possible to imagine appropriate ceremony and dramatic music to accompany this initial opening.

As silence trembles to the fore from in between the last dying notes, so the loosened strictures of a person flex, as if an invisible sensor, and it probes a dark supposition: From me, it says, comes the greater than me.

Wounds are not healed by forgetfulness. Nor can repetition and additional narrative alter or appease that which was.

That which was is that which was. Additional narrative offers a gamut of filters and re-sizing, an imaginative refit by which we fill the present with a busily regurgitated past. Why do we do this when no such measures are capable of changing historic events? In theory the mental re-savouring and commentary thereon is able to provide some self-taught corrective to future actions.

Are habits to be broken by daydreams? This could be taken as the neurological justification for such imaginative activity, the process is called “Making fit for future action.” But the transactions between past and future are made as if an emotion were subject to taxidermy or pickling. Happiness becomes a bloated glassy eyed game bird and anger a vinegar soaked trotter; we will visit and re-visit these grotesque memoirs habitually so that any pathway toward an actual emotion must be dutifully re-routed to encompass the museological idol. Forgetfulness of the real intervenes because the sheer familiarity of an ever re-run moment gathers to itself an illusory radiance. This object bound glow shines greater in our materially cultured seeing than the infinite, and yet infinitely subtle, present. For each moment of the present missed a wound is enacted.

That which was and that which is and that which shall be to come; so each moment of our attention is a tense, a tension, and there is a muscularity to the present. A yoga of temporality may be described as honesty in presence. Presence cannot be pickled.

There is an incongruent normality for each of us, a disingenuous appeasement of the tenses that confuses relaxation with idolatry. It is expressed as pampered repetition pampering repeats. That which was becomes “could have been” and that which is has already been bracketed as “should have” while that to come is a buffer zone of “this is how it will be”.

The day was. I did. Let me now release that and ask for mercy. No amount of reassessment will truly reveal what the day was or how a presence and action within it influenced the day. Naturally certain traces will have certain effects, in time some of those alterations will return to source as measurable or noticeable although, in returning, it becomes apparent that the presumed source is itself (you yourself are) trace and effect. The whole is a marvellously interwoven brilliance. There, in that brilliance, there is a responsibility to presence and allowing Presence in this moment, or, to reflect the mercy received… By being loved one must indeed love and this high responsibility is alone service to all the past, to the fullness of this present, and to a future whose arrival will never be subservient to buffer zones or petulant sandbags.

The devalued imagination of cliché and habit seeks to impose narrative veils or grow narcotic mists between every real to real encounter. This is popular emotion; sentimentality as if empathy saved from itself; outrage as if anger made the comfort of a mob and therein drained of all its bitter solitude, although it is from this sharpness alone that courage may be born.

How can a wound be remembered without its extension and amplification? A wound not appeased in recreational refitting and a wound not forgotten becomes a wound suffered.

The same and the more, as breezeblock and cladding, so is the construction.

I pile on the impossibles and this crude build becomes a delirious cake

blunting all knives

cut by one

by one.


Construction of the same and the more, it is called Upper Reach

and the cake not so sweet.


The action between things is force and force

leaves trace.

This tracing outline becomes solidly categorized. The pushed and resisting

thing. An illusory solidity of many things, Martha, Martha

your many things

the harried in between apt to darken and dim and press

this relationship

down.


There is a flat floor for our building, the same and the more.


There are some solids so entirely empty

but a resonating frame of possibilities.

This is terrible, the accumulated absence of matter.

And this the secret freedom of stuff.


Freedom is the most terrible thing. Such terror is not

to be feared. It, it and things, absence and rarely proper

names, none of the above can every enter a soul.


Let us suggest the soul is a bell,

never penetrated but sometime struck.

All events resonate across this quivering skin

only as the bell allows.

The most lucid chiming rings free even of freedom,

that terrible thing, it rings out clearly releasing

moment after moment,

stillness in every movement.

Things do not enter,

actions pass, and from within the empty

between brings a great shining.

The violence of standing still. Inside a system, bound to one’s environment, it is possible to discover an optimal energy level to define matter. An optimal interaction of matter to proceed to simple and then complex structures or elements, to proceed to life, to complex organisms and then back again.These optimal states are echoed in the complex societies of complex organisms. Once such states are attained they offer up great scope for ambiguity… The mistake of a dominant and true paradigm ordering a complexity of interaction is the primary mistake and yet everyone senses that there is a dominant and true paradigm ordering a complexity unto completion. Such an over model cannot be accessed by under model and every higher model entered must by definition remain under the over model or the order within its experience will be made illusion and become disordered because it is lacking an overriding model. This is dysfunctional and this is also the demonstration of just how wide a width band certain optimal states are provided with. Indeed, dysfunction is also the noise of one optimal state skipping over into the next or another or into Death.Dysfunction needs to be made to feel more comfortable. It needs a reprieve, to be made to feel less alien when discovered side by side with adaptation. If not then the negative function of dysfunction, its ugly familiarity, will continue to perpetuate an ever more simplified progression of tragedy (soon to be barely indistinguishable from celebrity).There does remain a distinction between one order and organising. “What comes into appearance” writes Goethe “must segregate in order to appear.”

Duality is a graceful functioning of unity. Sensation, our senses, some curiosity and our communication – no matter how muffled or desperate – these are our feeble yet persistent needs that always stand at the start of organisation and our feeble organisation is but the gracing function of duality echoing that which cannot be echo, unity.

The Great Death Pit… little was left of the tomb chamber to which this death pit was presumably attached. In the pit itself were the bodies of six guards, four musicians with their instruments and no less than sixty four women in ceremonial dress… The earrings were large and crescent shaped…. Each body probably had its own bowl of stone or metal, and the presumption is that the participants in the macabre ceremony died by drinking poison. As usual, the identity of these people, their status and relationship to the principal occupant of the tomb, remain unclear. About 2600 BC. From Ur, grave P1237. British Museum

A great yearning brings the chase to a ravished and ravishing nothing. All the light you pursued becomes darkness on an impregnable path.

Delusion is now possible for a time, if time it is. Begat phantasm shall keep you company. If you demand satisfaction here it will fatefully curl into painful self-fulfilling prophecy. You may impale yourself on branches or flay your hide in the briar and then construe this as a victory of Self. Emptiness is opportunity to become bloated full with the visionary camouflage of envy lust hate and self-pity. It will all be underscored by self-pity for you are lost and in pain and this must be taken to prove something, to prove your self is full worthy and it was neither your fault nor your responsibility.

Alternatively emptiness may continue the chase, emptily. A kenotic no victory and no self hurrying to nowhere; this is the flamboyant subterfuge of creation.

To take responsibility without forgiveness is an equation for great anxiety. The great anxiety has certainly provided fuel for the chasing reactions, and one must be grateful for this. Our adrenalin has served. Up to this point, this sharp cutting point, the ravaged gestures of panic have served and now the trace has scribbled around a thick crown of thorn and no battle will overcome it. Angst and resisting indignation only deepens the hurt. If you struggle and insist on being a righteous identity to set an example for the world, so this increase of “you” becomes nothing. It is all wound. Can I not abandon that and let me play or at least medicate? It is all wound and this cut must flow and be nothing but flow, ceasing struggle, anxiety, identity, and thus dying. All flow is death. There, a discovery to be made over and over, a discovery that can be written about but understood only in experience: flow without source ceases. Every woeful cascade and each fountain of joy, one after the other they all pass. We often do not allow them to pass, splashing around in stagnant waters as if to simulate an ocean. Yet once they have all drained, and as each moment of turbulence subsides, there is one flow remaining. One remaining, one sustaining, one very deep current never to be disturbed by any petulant floundering; the yearning. It is an invitation to swim and an invitation to drown, both at once, and it will not invite nor can we ever refuse.

All failing and all becoming, all order and this black impasse; all is entrusted grace, the only possible ground. The ground is not ours.

One, the only ground that is trust, one is the ground that is not ours. Everything is in this field, God and of God, pasture even while we hang, ragged and knackered in some shitty scrubland by the side of the ring road, we are in God now. Imagine a secret liquor from an unknowable gland, heaven, and it has leaked into the cage. And once heaven touches the broken gestures of the caged, there can be no more cages.