Panpsychism: a low-quality high-metabolic-cost note

Everett-DeWitt-Wheeler MWI and quantum electrodynamics taken together seem to basically add up to an event/process ontology with no concrete difference between subjects or objects outside the hyperflawed ideologically-individual neuronal world-simulation, only difference in relation half-assedly summed up by the idea of some high-dimensional manifold X's topological/geometric perspective(s) on itself. Maybe defeating almost all the arguments against some kind of panpsychism probably in the realm of some flavor of neutral "meta-monism" or like a monism of quantum fields, that gives a platform for the co-arising of a second order corresponding to dualism which may or may not be dual-aspect monism or whatever the kids are calling it these days. Brainstorming at work to kill time and record some thoughts....

There is a meaningful sense in which the many worlds interpretation is in fact the quantum theory with zero assumptions or conserved attributes...every other theory is in some regards Everett's math adjusted to conform to certain qualities of the "real world" that the designers of whatever theory don't wish to lose. I believe this lack of assumptions, this Occam's physics, to be isomorphic to the way panpsychism of some as yet un-formalized variant is the theory of consciousness with minimal assumptions and conservations. It answers maximum questions while treating adjusting the rules to account for certain expectations as a violation, regardless of how we feel about the necessity or lack thereof of certain components of our picture of reality.

QED=semper aliquid ex nihilo

Galen Strawson makes an interesting point in the linked article, that we must actually practice thinking process physics else we slide toward object dualism.

http://www.academia.edu/8226285/Mind_and_Being_The_Primacy_of_Panpsychism_2016

what is

Smashing together thoughts for the introductory chapter of a book I think I might get down on soon. A tweaking and reworking and expansion of all experimentation thus far.


|||||| A virtual prison of mimicry and transfixed hypnotism, the complacency and ultraviolence of the life- and gain-obsessed male-aggression culture ensures and entrenches this turbulence while amplifying attempts to contain or expel death’s effects such that gained power may never be relinquished. Death emerges from technocratic transhumanism as ultimate horizon of control : this trajectory carves open a necromantic channel of revolution. Neoreactionary technosingularitarianism(working title ;))|radical paranoia|bleak-hole nihilism irrupt as advanced strategy but even these have difficulty coping with the wave upon novel wave of pathology that breaks upon the mind as the organ of infinite imagination seems to have as many ways of malfunctioning, as many ways of hiding information, as many ways of covering its tracks, disguising itself... This problem is intensified by exponential growth in input streams - a “being-opened” that often decays into an always-closing-off in defense against the constant evisceration : a closing-off that mirrors the psychoanalytic concept of repression : compulsively pre-emptive strikes on anticipated potentialities - people really don't like to talk about death. This defense mechanism amplifies the difficulty of the transformation from being turned inward (the passive nihilism of insignificance) to turning inside-out (the active annihilism of self), adding complexity to this lock, the picking of which is a prerequisite step for the accurate tuning -or excising- of the consciousness, of the Self, of Mind. The reconfiguration of this isolating and oppressive feedback loop called my individualised “ego” by skills that are explicitly developed in the twin disciplines of self-destruction and self-construction is the navigation of my own mirror maze.

 //”...The organism cannot live the death that gives rise to the difference between life and death.” To which the yogi replies, “Au contraire, Mister. I’m living it right now. So are you if you did but examine yourself.” - Timothy Morton, Thinking the Charnel Ground//

The neuronihilism herein is my sketchbook of shadowmirrors, a record of necrologic autopoiesis : a bag of poetricks and artifacts : a zentheogenic gloss on the archetypes of zero through a sustained concentration on the dissolution of self : a sketch on the utilization and analysis of multiple methods for reliably generating Mors Mystica - the neurological suspension of the default mode brain operations known as the mystical death : a tracking of representations of this death before death/death-in-life - scrying art, exposing the apophatic topology that seems to be a dimensional enlargement of an headless image of Self/Mind/God that is neurologically and (non)/ideologically consistent, expansive, imaginative, compassionate and constructive. This text will attempt a collation and codification of some techniques and results of experiments in the performance of ritual death. To perform and keep a recording of my thoughts on what it may mean to experience the mystical state - primarily the complete deactivation of the phenomenal self-model, the complete delinking of the default modality of the brain from a position of top-down organization and modulation through literally any means - Cantorian hyperpluralism, he says, only slightly jokingly. This deactivation sh[r]eds new light on so many religious and mystical tropes, witchcraft practices, meditation styles, physics, mathematics, neuroscience, and yoga - revealing how the circuit of deconstruction to augmentation and back attenuates the attention and quiets the mind in addition to setting the stage for profound psychogenic experimentation, exploration, and play.

drilled killed eternalised metabolised and falsified

several hundred internal near-catastrophes per hour. i was gifted a vision of a framework, mother earth divorces father war and begins an almighty custody battle for the kids. i lie down with the bloody bullet-riddled body of a wolf and slip into blessed unconscious. in the dream we huddled around funeral pyres to inhale the burning corpse like incense to chase away the I.

I want to be with those who know secret things or else alone.

Rainer Maria Rilke

an impossible extradigital wheel, exploded. step inside the wheel and a vast file tree, infinite card-catalog of experience. zero-lag, subjective precise recall of anything anywhen. experienced in 0-time. work out your own salvation. ("Oy vey, have you got the wrong vampire!") 

That weapon will replace your tongue. You will learn to speak through it. And your poetry will now be written with blood.

i see an end…parts of my body fail. a soreness, a physical expression of ennui, pervasive. i will push my own burning boat out onto the river styx and fall asleep, peaceful. painting face with blood for battle that doesn't come/sits across the street, points and laughs, comfortable in the knowledge that it pulls every string, everything. as if on cue, a headache drags mental faculties back down to the physical realm and thought is vapor. 

Rise now, and drive your cart and plough over the bones of the dead!

hear music softly from another room. soft crooning. pipes creaking in the cold. what a sham, this body. 

a revolution to be had (but not ours)

we are not wanted here.

where is Out?

"Easy, John" they said as they wheeled him back to HQ. 

But they all knew he was dying.

"He walked straight, with firm proud strides, without a doubt. He was doing something that would never end; he would go through death without hurt."

**you can hear the howler monkeys in the background
**it dissolves you into a confrontation with authentic being tmk
A less-than-surgical removal of illusion, fantasy's stage lights switched off abruptly, intimate encounter with the Real. unspeakable unknown death truths. when i go to the jungle, the key is to find your secrets. 

"i lubricate my rifle with liberal tears." he said.

funny, i just soak mine in pig's blood.

"the spiral pilots everything" but, then it isn't really a spiral is it? It's a vortex. with power and motion and chaos amid the clean toilet bowl swirl. dose myself to implosion, save the space for someone that needs it. self-auscultation, self-replication. self-shattering tones, noise-segregation and collapse of all function into the particle-static and cold. falling fast, right out of space and into the void forever.

the controller is the controlled - j krishnamurti

most things haven't worked out

children

at the drive-in theatre

we saw bloodlust and sickness

unremitting horror backstabbings 

melodramatic revenge fantasies

utt/////errrr destruction of illusions

made Real

behind the house

coal cars and leathered lined faces

leered godlike on a trestle above town

carrying black lung gloom 

to illuminate their domesticated violence

for a pretty decent wage.

 

We wove silently around these perfectly flat, evenly covered fields of some indistinct crop still early goings and bright green low to the ground. at speed they blurred together and appeared smooth and i would pretend they were lakes and we were on another planet where water was emerald. I didn't realize it until i was older that i was probably using some meditative trick to….focus by not focusing…on the oddness of the color in comparison to "real" water on earth and using that to trick myself into thinking i was in like X-Ray Zone or on Venus or wherever i wanted to go at the time that had green water. 

dear old dad built bridges out of concrete because he

couldn't figure out how to create them out of words

nevermind love

denied emotion

but not math

he preferred correct answers 

to what was right

a destination

to a journey

everything was always fine

why can't you be?\/\/\/\//\/\/\/\///\/\//\\/\/\//\/\/\\///\\\//\/\////\///\/////\\\/\/

i watched the older kids jump off the bridge into the deep water the younger ones weren't allowed in while sitting on an algae-covered underwater rock hunting crayfish with a jar and a stick. my memories resemble 8mm film, scratchy…grainy. no sound. i remember the clouds crossing the sun/a knife-edged wind/whipped through the shallow valley the creek ran through/brought some vague contentment as it chilled my skin-unexplainable. only crossed the creek once:something about the other side seemed off. 

sinister somehow

    My mother groaned, my father wept,

 into the dangerous world I leapt.

no air conditioning, farmhouse. 

hot…box fans jammed in open windows. 

chased her through labyrinthine hallways

ending/puzzled/in empty rooms

the staircase shouldn't have been there

the door shouldn't have opened

the basement, long disused. dust covered and cluttered

piled high: a century of gathered uselessness

it was always bone cold in the basement. 

i heard her laugh above me: at the top of the stairs she smiled and turned to run

can never reach her, and the smell of her hair trails onward through another waking.

i think if i ever caught her i wouldn't know what to do. 

The LORD is near to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit. -Psalms 34:18

(((((tell me which way that river run)))))

a need for note-taking, pay no attention to the….

shattering further moldings, covering noise with mold, covering noise with moss. black and green, covering mold with moss. melancology raised to rupture, feedback loops of atavistic dreams fractally repetitive until the sound turns into noise, the noise turns into squall, the squall explodes into directed (anti-tribal-anti-eco-anti-human-anti-folk-)anti-shamanism



All true language
is incomprehensible,
Like the chatter
of a beggar’s teeth.
AA

repetition
repetition
but no repeating
just repetition
walls of sound and fury signifying nothing
inverse Om, the sound decaying
the sound of decay
the sound of a tank rolling over flesh
the sound of a scream choked out by blood filling the mouth
the sound of a migraine
of depression being stifled and swallowed.
of anxiety built to bursting
the sound of all the fake smiles
frowning simultaneously
the sound of animal fury caged under experimental pretense and the sound of resigned (redesigned) sigh, finally (fully) acknowledging the -true and total- loss of idyllic myth, the pastoral primitivity longed for in steven shakespeare's "the dark that soils itself"

"To us, the driving impulse of BM is more about deep ecology than anything else and can best be understood through the application of eco-psychology. Why are we sad and miserable? Because our modern culture has failed—we are all failures. The world around us has failed to sustain our humanity, our spirituality. The deep woe inside black metal is about fear—that we can never return to the mythic, pastoral world that we crave on a deep subconscious level. Black Metal is also about self loathing, for modernity has transformed us, our minds, bodies and spirit, into an alien life form; one not suited to life on earth without the mediating forces of technology, culture and organized religion. We are weak and pitiful in our strength over the earth—in conquering, we have destroyed ourselves. Black Metal expresses disgust with humanity and revels in the misery that one finds when the falseness of our lives is revealed."

but how deep is ecology that we have left behind? what happens when we feel trapped within the noise, when the noise grows louder everywhere?

folk metal
no folk
inverse folk
anti folk
city folk aint folk?
gods of pollution and authoritarian violence
folklore of police brutality and the numbing isolation of social media
the drag of the rat race
the daily grindcore
worship money
swim in industrial sewage
bank headquarters towering over urban sprawl
schools rot in disrepair
alienation
green replaced by silver black and grey
no homeland
streets are home and homeless
deviance
no gods no masters just
clean atheism
Skeptics, one and all
rising above squalor
being a martyr to the machine…or for the machine….the lines in the road get fuzzy after a few drinks.

/With society and its public, there is no longer any other language than that of bombs, barricades, and all that follows/
AA

even desolate streets make a noise. a hum and rumble punctuated by outburst and paroxysm.

/You are outside life, you are above life, you have miseries which the ordinary man does not know, you exceed the normal level, and it is for this that men refuse to forgive you, you poison their peace of mind, you undermine their stability. You have irrepressible pains whose essence is to be inadaptable to any known state, indescribable in words. You have repeated and shifting pains, incurable pains, pains beyond imagining, pains which are neither of the body nor of the soul, but which partake of both. And I share your suffering, and I ask you: who dares to ration our relief?... We are not going to kill ourselves just yet. In the meantime, leave us the hell alone/
AA