Friday, 5 October 2012

The sharp, hot stink of fuel

It is a singular sensation, when I can feel the inspiration starting to spool up in my mind. The dynamics of it really do resemble the behaviour of a giant turbofan, even if it often decides to awaken itself without any impetus from a decision on my part. At first there is the inertia to be overcome by whatever mystical starter motor turns the spindle -- at the perimeter of my attention, I become aware of that up-curving whine, matched by a faint, smooth line of vibration as the power stage gains rotary momentum.

It’s as if the pressure of concepts has been building up behind the turbines for some time before the low-pressure fan is finally clutched in and starts to turn. That is the equivalent, for me, of my ideas visibly gaining real traction, cooperating in the precursor of actual thrust. What was once an airy collection of thoughts becomes both concentrated and linear, and when that happens, I know I’d better wind up whatever else it was that I was doing. Because when those igniters light up, it’s all over, and I will be in the grip of an irrepressible creative frenzy that will flatten or ingest anything in its path.

Once the fuel is burning, the kinetic properties of my creative spirit have more in common with a solid rocket booster than a docile airliner powerplant. I believe it was a NASA technician who said there was no throttling back those things: “all you can do is light it and ride it”, and to me it often seems as if I can barely hold on tightly enough not to be peeled away by its sheer explosiveness.

However, as the personification of Lamarck’s complexifying force, I am discomfited by such a brutishly simple analogy. I would much rather imagine the intricate synergy of my neurotransmitters as operating like the J58-P4s that powered the iconic Lockheed SR-71. I love the idea of a completely unique propulsion system that thrived in Mach 3 cruise, at whose heart was a captured sonic boom that actually caused fuel consumption to decrease as the airspeed went up.

And on that note... I think it’s well and truly time to jam the throttle forward and haul back on the stick.

Tuesday, 11 September 2012

Sky Ended

It’s incredible how even the smallest throwaway comments can have significant effects on a person’s emotions and frame of mind. And this is even true of a hard-assed old bastard like me, who is consistent and level-headed to a fault.

I was listening to a remix on YouTube about which the uploader commented that “This artist has improved considerably in just four months.” I felt a genuine pang of jealousy for people who have so few responsibilities and the luxury of devoting four months of concerted effort to... well, anything. The point is that they have such time at their disposal. To me, four months’ worth of useful time seems like all the riches in the world.

I do admire the person in question for applying himself so conscientiously to his art. It is very commendable that he didn’t fritter away those four months on gaming or drugs or chasing tail or any of the other myriad inconsequential things he could have chosen to do. And in truth, I chose my responsibilities myself, and it is my own decision to continue meeting them. I have no misconceptions about the causes of my cruel temporal poverty.

Also, I would not trade the insights I have gained for the luxury of more time. If my life had been easier, I doubt very much that I would be on such profoundly good terms with the universe now, and the sense of understanding and being a part of all things is worth more than all the riches in the world anyway.

However, I would be lying if I didn’t say I dream of having some real time to spend on more beautiful things one day. And I’m sure that when the time comes, I shall apply myself to attaining this goal.

I am a man of action, and I do what is required to achieve my objectives.

Monday, 6 August 2012

More beautiful than fiction

I identify very deeply with the late Philip K. Dick. One of the great reasons why I enjoy reading his work, is because I believe he was describing his own daily reality, concealed by only the most diaphanous veil of fiction. Time and again, I have experienced phenomena quite similar to concepts that Philip explored; ironically, they often made me think, You couldn’t make this shit up. Or if you did, nobody would believe you.

Philip, sadly, was said to have had a lot of trouble in comfortably assimilating his experiences into the context of his daily life. I am relieved to say that the same is not true of myself. Perhaps it is because of my high-functioning Asperger tendencies, but I delight in all the remarkable transflections of reality I witness as a matter of course.

I do not feel threatened by my experiences, many of which are by definition impossible, even though I know them to be real. I feel at home in being a part of all things, no matter how inexplicable, and I accept the non-physical realities of life as a natural part of the universe that I am privileged to be personally attuned to. I have been privy to transcendent visions of the highest order, and although I suppose I worked damn hard for them, it was a labour of love, and the difficulty of such labours is quickly forgotten.

This very entry is an example of how my non-standard approach to consciousness can yield so much joy and fulfilment and positivity. I was desperately stuck on a suitable subject to write about; I had a very clear idea of what qualities I wanted to explore, but I was lost as to what context these could take.

Upon meditating on the issue, I was presented with a suitable course of action almost immediately. I have the distinct feeling that I did not come up with it myself; instead, it felt as if I was interacting with a great, external repository of ideas, and I had submitted a formal request for a suitable direction. Within a matter of minutes, that request had been filled, and I had at my disposal a spectral wellspring of useful advice on how to proceed. From there, all I had to do was sculpt the information into some reasonably cohesive discourse that people would find useful and hopefully rewarding to read.

I am grateful and proud that it is so effortless for me to reach such an ethereal Library of Alexandria, and I personally believe this vast network of concepts and inspiration is just as easily accessible to all people. But then, irrespective of whether one frequents such an invisible, organic metropolis of wisdom, or simply browses the internet for their information high, or even visits an analogue library: in the Western world, we are spoilt out of our minds when it comes to gorging ourselves on the accumulated learning of others.

There are times, to be sure, when I feel as if I am cut off from the net, and at those times I bitterly curse my fate. Even as I am enduring such torments, though, I am embarrassed to be aware that it is my perspective at fault -- not the nature of the universe. I realise, even as I am in the throes of quite ghastly tribulations, that my indignation has much in common with the genuine distress and execration experienced by a child, for example, who has a tantrum when they are forbidden from eating nothing but apple sauce for dinner. And they really, really had their heart set on that apple sauce.

I believe the true nature of reality is far more complex than people could ever truly understand, in a comprehensive and rational sense. Therefore -- typically -- when people write imaginary narratives in an attempt to mimic real life, they are inevitably limited by their own incomplete understanding. Ironically, I think that this is part of the reason why fiction exists in the first place: it revises reality into a simplified equivalent that conforms to what people believe it should be like, as a reprieve from what it actually is.

I am thrilled that my own reality is filled with a richness that exceeds the parameters of ordinary fiction. Instead, I feel as if the unpredictabilities of my life were spawned by the imagination of the gods. That may be an amusing way to account for the sheer scale of my wonderment at being showered by all these mysterious nuances of existence, but it is also a suitable metaphor.

My great hope is that I can share with others a suitable path to an equally fulfilling reality, no matter how different the reality they choose may be to mine.

Whether or not you compare it to fiction, I believe you will consider it more beautiful than anything you could have predicted.