There is a fountain in every human being. Something like those delicate white stone ones at the center of Moroccan riads.
Your head is the courtyard; the fountain, and its gentle, continually bubbling water — your true self. By “true self” we don’t mean anything silly, or pop metaphysical — just what is essential about you — the inexhaustible, tight swirling of aspects that makes you you. Your deepest loves, fears and primordial supplies.
Your proximity to the fountain determines your strength — because it is the sanctuary of your vitality. All difficult answers come from this place. All joy comes from this place. It is the voice of pure, unfeigned candor; it is the strongest and most reliable thing that any human has access to.
When you are confused or become diffuse, you must return to your fountain. It is not always easy to get there — but it is essential.
If you have forgotten how to get there, it is simple; you must get quieter. Like all quiet things the fountain is surrounded by much louder things, infinitely louder things — but the signal is there; listen.
Once you hear it you will be restored.
The morning is atypically foggy. From our parked car we can see a modest cooling tower type structure billowing thick rolls of steam. Through the dirt dusted windshield we watch the two vapors contrast and merge. The steam is slightly darker than the atmospheric mist that surrounds it. The steam has a kind of belching violence, whereas the haze is soft and floats gently like transilluminated cotton.
It feels like we are watching some sort of philosophic principle being literalized. We are definitely witnessing a process — but a literalized principle, that doesn’t really make much sense. But then, what are principles and thoughts? Foggy compromises, that have a sense of being useful abbreviations, but are likely dilutions. Cognition vapors that recursively grope to impose temporal order on endless reaction-diffusions?
What is the mode that follows a scenario where everyone is to blame?
To a significant degree we humans are all apophenic (the condition of finding meaning and pattern where such connections are highly dubious, if not complete fantasy). To be sure, apophenia is not a choice but an involuntary reaction to continually abutting against all manner of aporia (irresolvable conundrums/dilemmas). Aporia then apophenia, aporia then apophenia; forever and anon?
It seems that the existential, mordantly messy end of Modernism/Enlightenment is the corporate superstructure — a kind of greed grid (an involuntary drone construction of the apophenic, idiotic, and phantasmagoric battle of tradition and utopia). A foundation so dumb and so dumb-causing that we now see it as the dawn of a renaissance not a decline — as we refuse to accept the endless industrial, scientific, computational shifting of paradigmas (apophenias) to be yielding to mindless control. This is highly personal and does not feel like an epiphany or anything quixotic — but a reasonable reaction. (It bears saying that we are not interested in anything like religion; as said elsewhere, we feel all religion and confident science to be idolatrous. This is said flatly, without sanctimony).
The morning is atypically foggy. From our parked car we can see a modest cooling tower type structure billowing thick rolls of steam. Through the dirt dusted windshield we watch the two vapors contrast and merge. The steam is slightly darker than the atmospheric mist that surrounds it. The steam has a kind of belching violence, whereas the haze is soft and floats gently like transilluminated cotton.
It feels like we are watching some sort of philosophic principle being literalized. We are definitely witnessing a process — but a literalized principle, that doesn’t really make much sense. But then, what are principles and thoughts? Foggy compromises, that have a sense of being useful abbreviations, but are likely dilutions. Cognition vapors that recursively grope to impose temporal order on endless reaction-diffusions?