Dream Swarm

Dream Swarm

L. Edgar Otto 22 March, 2012

Some are focused inward, and some are focused outward;
a few have secrets to protect or they exude secretes. We relate to our intuitions see sawing and sliding down the tightrope of time and thought. Not that I can see into your hearts but that question as to how well we see and understand ourselves.

Your thoughts may be alive but beneath them you are the walking dead, or disembodied without a ghost your thoughts live deep in your core but to the world they are but pointless unformed clay of dust- this among the secrets some hide, this for those who think or are aware the souls de trope in the world removed in our sibling rivalry of life and culling the branches, erasing the slate, claiming the bailement with our general myths to heed in dependency as if our efforts are required of our saving of sunlight and truth to give pot luck to all or that isolated from the world we can keep for long our thoughts as having, as property, that from a distance the collateral damage to the whole is justified and the anger at invasive species in the great juggling act of environmental management looks to cure the poisoned waters within as well take up arms against the locusts carnivorous swarms from outside out bounds, our hearts, our own pretense of dreams that is an act of war as we live, in our state of being.

The mediators in the quasifinite fields of the Phoenix physics where if there is significant movement, change and the storing up of learning despite standing naked in the eyes of others or in our own eyes are like unto a swarm of stinging bees that may decide to take off together, hornets in sacrifice. Or they may be as much a swarm of dreams- a real event or place that can change the whole for a moment and can store to the past and so retrieve the patterns that which can go beyond the rigid placing of ourselves and things in the universe into pointless hierarchies of empty hearts and vanished dust.

In the real and virtual world there is but one medium of exchange and it is not words nor coin, it our our conflicts and alliances of our intuitions where our gods communicate in a sort of sub-space as our engine wears out and our filaments giving more heat than light, some imagined light bulb made of thin glass hovering like a halo or glory just over our heads who knows and sees us but at a distance, not the eye to bring to us the voices of our own imaginary characters by noticing us that we cringe and cover ourselves in the myth that our world was and can be a perfect garden, that we can be so created without navels if the world somewhere begins.

Know you not when the weather changes and the icy wind can cut and kill with a discus of hail from the tornadic sky, the rain of comets and meteors and cosmic rays gaining mass as much as shifting within themselves their own souls, that all of this can be a violent mixing without limits as all varieties of mediators are interchanged and yet none of it explains more than our embarrassment as ignorance if of that we are so aware?

* * * * * This sounds vaguely like Pitkanen's post today, the realization that in the generalization of Feymann like ideas we can find what seems like a constant mess- and Hilbert cannot save the theory, nor rigid thoughts and paths of energy by some description, Hamiltonian, Only Pitkanen can save his theory. In retrospect from our swarm of dreaming thins seem so simple- but sometimes we have to trade some things concrete- otherwise there is only more chaos as we search the landscape for flowers, all you Leonardo's and Galileo's born too soon with spring enamored of the challenge and change of it, of the shared memory of violets and buttercups recalled from life's first glimpsing itself and desire to be what you are already as enquirer or that I send through some potentially lying medium such a message- and so to those synchronous messages by other means outside the idea that such space and force shows some sort of link to heat or time. We for all our vertigo are creatures that revert to old habits in the old places and with the seasons- but numbers in the end are so much more than this. Beyond a certain point in the symmetry of a conscious soul there are no intuitions to heed or ignore regardless of our peril of disconnects from ourselves and our fellow man.

I am wondering if the measure of a crackpot theory is how other try to claim it for themselves as the unique discoverer- just as the value or measure by the judgment of history may be how many times a scientist is cited, what Nobel laureates he inspired.
But how do we know in the depths of this swarm of dreams if those theories are not a false front, a swarm of honeybee colored moths only? The measure of things in thought and dust is much deeper than even we are too embarrassed to dream about.

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