Lie to Me

I always had a problem with the subconscious – not my own so much (at least not for the purposes of this discussion); rather the notion: the notion that there lies within our minds a hidden – an entirely autonomous – subterranean mantel from which raw material erupts when it reaches a critical mass. I think my problem lies with the idea that the “subconscious” often forms an uneasy synonymity with the “unconscious” – uneasy for there is a certain asymmetry between the respective concepts: the “subconscious” functionally coexists alongside consciousness, while the “unconscious” suggest the higher functioning of consciousness has somehow slipped off-line. The oddity about both is that there is the residual suspicion that there is something – some thread – that connects both the “subconscious” and “unconscious” and with consciousness. When we say someone is “unconscious”, we don't necessary mean they are no longer sentient in the manner of, say, a rock, rather, that is kind of suspended availability; a lack off formal access; not necessarily that they are comatose, but they are not picking up on something; they are unaware. Similarly with “subconscious”, there is also the suggestion of a certain type of restricted access or, at least, an access that is triggered by more unconventional means. In other words, on closer inspection, the prefixes “sub” and “un” do not denote a total absence of consciousness, rather different states of its being. Take the notion of “self-deception” - there's an implication in some people's mind that there is a fully analogous process at work with when we deceive ourselves as with other people. When we deceive other people, we are hiding something from them, be that by means of slight-of-hand-distraction – hiding and / or lying – employing the various arts of deception. The problem with self-deception or, more precisely, comparing self-deception to the deception of a third party (or parties), is that, in that case of the self, one can at best avoid a truth one intends to deceive oneself about, for the hand of concealment isn't hidden from you – it is yours: the left hand cannot be separated from the doings of the right hand and vice versa, as every good politician knows; however, they also know that the truth can be hidden behind the ideologies of left and right.

As Above, So Below

The etymological derivation of the word “understand”, if memory holds true, derives – quite simply – from, “to stand under”; therefore, it would appear to be merely a contraction of sorts; however, the further question posed – or at least implied – by such an exposition, distils to the obvious: “under what?” Let me rewind for a moment and furnish the circumstance from which inspiration forged the grounds by which I now expound forth upon. Whilst I live close to the centre of a largish city, the street lighting is intermittent and stretches of unlit open spaces – mostly by virtue of historical inheritance in the form of Victorian planned parks or the abandoned topological relics of demolished once cathedral-like expanses of industrial premises – permit the observation of the circling celestial bodies wedged in the gravitational firmament of the void, especially during the winter months, when a crystal night bestows: the heavens, theologically speaking: the very same silent light show viewed across the civilised stage of space and time. To stand, one presumes, is to do so upon grounds of sufficient surety such that one may, at least momentarily, rest assured, but what inverse logic of perversity would have us root – again, at least metaphorically – our epistemic knowledge – the confidence to be found therein – in what lies in the distant stellar atrium above us and from which we ought draw down upon? Space in the abstract has or up nor down.

The Entropy Garden

What time I had entered the Garden I could not say. Time would come later, in a manner of speaking, but so would the allied matter of from whence-forth, since, an entrance usually implies an exit, as well as a timing. Such things, as I have already suggested, were not an early concern and I had not - until my partner had persuaded me also to listen to the sibilant wisdom of the sickle-eyed serpent and only then, as the event horizon of experience expanded and swallowed me whole - noticed, that for every tiny ordering I introduced into the chaos, I had somehow added to the overall increase in disorder. The Garden was, is and will be time. What let it be, let it go and remains without the hand of measure and, upon that, the snake was silent.

SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUSH!

Framing the last

I could do with that long sleep right about now. Is it worth holding on to find out it's not worth holding on, for the sake of vindicating a long-held suspicion to spite the scepticism of my scepticism? Forced to visualise that hula-hoop of pain circulating around my torso threatening evacuation – soul ejaculation – from the body. Internal organs were punctured and flesh seared in the space of jumbled reason that pitched the physics of the muzzle flash, seemingly registering after the knock-down force of impact, as an after-image. Reminder. The importance of ordering events now? When I was in training they said: take pain as the body's run-it-up the flag-pole signal it was healing itself, a cauterising purge if you like; of course, that was just a self-propagandising prop – the self-administered sugared placebo – to avoid confronting the thought that pain is also a sign of serious, sometimes mortal, injury, but only the true believer sees it as the Elastoplast between the unknowable hope and actual medical attention. I had a neat little speech planned out, well semi – the key points; I like to leave room for improvisation – about how this was all a reversal of fortune; far from being the failure it appeared, his hand had been forced and framed with attempted murder or, failing that, actual murder; the success of my little enterprise wasn't dependent on that differentiation, etc. Hopefully, subsequent actions and reactions would speak louder than the words of explanation I was failing to ...

The Chains of Being

I pondered the daisy chain of cause and effect in the rain. Not exactly a downpour, but enough to soak the pores, by osmosis. Everything in theory can be traced back to the first spark, the prime mover, that is both cause and effect … gave me pause to reflect … on how what never ends, couldn't be … gin and tonic for me. A bitter segment of the time lime. On the rocks. Stirred and, almost, shaken. Wet and drunk and sunk.

Black liquid duvet foaming yellow fire and turning back upon. Criss-crossing. Lapping. Self-folding. Then slivered cluster sparkle rain from moon on unbroken surface undulating. Washing not waving. Watching black bubbles. Purple blue. Black, orange, yellow gradation shore. Approaching gentle crashing. And now leaving landing. Watching, not waving.

At the interrogation clinic

When did your heart stop Professor?

Professor is merely a courtesy title.

You have not answered question.

Is it really a question, or an accusation by implication?

How so?

If my heart had stopped, I would be unable to satisfy it. Take that literally and metaphorically.

Both?

One only answers a question, by definition, with a certain care, no matter how feeble.

You have curious notion of satisfy. So you are one of those cognitive therapy types, rearrange thoughts to what is acceptable to fashion?

Oh, no. No. But such an attempt to realign a person's reasoning can be instructive, though sometimes that revelatory process could tell more against the attempt at realigning.

So there can be no definite answer.

No more than to speculate as to how far the - a - light can reveal the depth of darkness independent of who's holding it.

I decided to like you Professor.

But, of course, you knew that was my intention almost immediately. And it's just a courtesy title, as I mentioned.

And I suspect you are willing to extend me same courtesy.

Indeed, I am.

So who is prisoner?

Or who is freer?

Perhaps now I take to dislike.

Perhaps, but I don't suppose you have just yet, though I grant you are perfectly capable.

You are ungenerous in magnanimity. It does not suit you.

Yes, I deserved that.

Nor does false modesty.

It is not a look that takes well with you either. Let us now get down to business.

Business?

The oldest profession.

Client and prostitute not always easy to distinguish Professor.

You are right, they are not.