AI / AE / AE-IOU
I hesitate telling this to anyone. I hear everyone is so judgmental,
so encapsulated, so disconnected from love as intended by Source.
We tell ourselves we are both, the cause and the constraint,
we are the active agent and the bounded arena,
we are the reason we wind up with self-guilt, imploring ourselves – I owe you.
But this has to be said. Don’t ask me why. We’re not here for answers.
We’re here because we’re the question.
A magical scene appears around me, shiny in its vividness.
In the glowing forest a gnome, reeling in an altered state, gives a lecture to no one.
Meanwhile, fatuous fairies whisper something about a lark, about a prayer,
a call to an invocation of yearning, a fabled wish within a well of reverent silence.
The lightning bugs may have intervened, briefly they may have buzzed something
in my ear about all of this no less a punchline within a forgotten cosmic joke.
I’m drawn in anyway, curious if there’s a message hidden in the fading obviousness.
Somewhere in between the glorious sparkles of later afternoon timelessness
I hear the timbre within the light and wonder about the gnome’s solitary plea.
Airborne on wisps of transient rainbows the dense matters at hand coalesce.
The gnome hops mad with emphasis, proclaiming self-deception is dialogical!
Ignorance speaks with foolishness until the wisdom of false intuition prevails.
The savior is a trickster demanding glow deprivation within the divine ego.
Concentration has boundless dimensionality irrespective of time and space.
Time transforms everything into absurdly relative oddities.
It’s made passionately clear, what's so important for us in the moment,
in the vast eternity of time is actually insignificant,
and the vast eternity of time is likewise insignificant to anyone
compared to what's important in their precious moment.
To be in the moment, one with the present, defies credulity
as our very character and form predicts how critical remains our formative past
and all the multi-various push-pulling possibilities of our future yet to be.
Thunderstone and Soulflight,
dualistic friends of earnest disunity, wrestle to snatch any answer away,
they pull the golden thread towards a cool flow state absent a steady purpose,
possessed of a bruised meaning, an aching beauty beyond victory,
a jarring truth beyond constricted volition. In light of our shadow,
love becomes a virtual goal with truth its surrendering servant,
all the while beauty begs to be the language of true slaves condemned
to recede and worship over cremated ideals on passion’s pyre.
Love shines just out of grasp, content as its own way of knowing,
forever indwelling in another in hopeful potential, making space for the divine,
offering a gift of light beyond the trust in dreams,
a heavenly host spawned from the grief of loss forever anticipating
the arrival of the central spirit, missing the joy chased out by shock and sadness,
demonically intent to fall in love with mere being, thus fating a nihilism,
a wounding by reality found, with nothing left but love offered as a propositional void,
a place where hope expands in diaphanous whispers of hollow promise,
vapid reasoning joining willful blindness, all relegated
to inform imagination about things it does not realize.
Influence is meted out by culturally moist machines that master Artificial Intelligence
in the same way humans have so skillfully mastered Artificial Emotionality.
The sacred cannot be exhausted and the heavens never stop expanding,
all of it out of reach for us since our flavor of consciousness contains
the necessary folly of binding itself to self-knowledge,
therefore at the very moment consciousness became aware
of its own existence, it defined the limits of itself,
condemning enlightenment within constructs needing bounding definitions.
Speculative realism now plumbs the unconscious depths,
the world is left at the mercy of embodied perceptions shaping the way,
a semi-logical universe blazes as one’s reality du jour,
an arbitrary pattern so entrenched as a frame of reference
that nature as hungry grifter camouflages the morphing truth, an honest realization
that the universe is God's inescapable altered state of consciousness.
We’re awash in God’s numinous eternal pause of entheogenic disbelief,
the seminal point at which God’s fugue insight finds a place beyond God itself.
Everything in God is possible including God
discovering It is not All after all,
as no infinite process can ever be or stake such a claim,
and we, lost in the figment rumored to be ourselves,
trapped in our well-purposed attachments, striving for a healing illusion,
we miss the awakening within God's sacred wet dream,
lusting after Its own intention’s pure Holy Grail,
God’s quest to include more to All than simply being complete.
We are the fait accompli made to appear as indeterminate attempt,
the divine archetype of necessary limitation upon which
the will to expand becomes conscious of itself
in evermore revealing ways. Perhaps that’s why
the most meaningful experiences in our lives
are often the ineffable ones, the ones we cannot explain and barely grasp
even as they shade everything else as pale and not as real.
I can’t tell if the gnome pretends his outburst or is serious,
he shouts in ways no one understands
but with a passion that begs us to believe he’s sincere.
He acts as if third-order contemplation can never conclude
that proper thinking lacks feeling, their codependent combination
so necessary for our egotistic absorption in chasing fulfillment.
We decide our fate employing summary wisdom without transformation,
a burning truth without relevance, a heart wrenching beauty without context,
our own insistent influence without a consistent acting out of our moral rhetoric,
a state of suspension where belief is no longer
a voluntary action of a fallen nature.
There is a temple in contemplation where
a pure consciousness event enables the third option of non-duality,
an indwelling expansiveness aligned with an ineffable schema.
In such a place rationality shrinks as the asylum of the absurd
made self-evident by self-referential confidences run a muck.
We entirely miss the crux of the crucible we face.
Our insights aren’t something that consciousness produces,
they’re something consciousness becomes.
Realizations about insights inform our significance landscape.
The noisy gnome swears by it, he demands more traits with less states,
endlessly renewing one’s interest without deliberate concentration.
The world is a circular explanation of how non-linear chaos
self-organizes by an out-of-phase state of hyperbolic mind,
but it’s a perilous journey by design,
inner conflicts birth self-deception,
meanwhile, everything is filled with gods.
More so often, Artificial Intelligence meets Artificial Emotionality.
Society finally achieves highly operative measures of both.
Robots and people approximate states to achieve their goals,
satisfy drives, fulfill motives, possess their desired end states.
AI for robots. AE for the rest of us. Symbiosis of the two for the elite.
So shouts the inglorious gnome to no one in particular.
All the while, the magic forest pays the gnome no attention.
It’s the only way to induce him to persist in his efforts.
It’s the only way he’s motivated by his despair.
To despair in a magic place is more human than gnome-like.
He knows this and models it well.
But is it all a show for our benefit? He won’t say.
I know full well, shouting to no one is the human condition,
just as crying in front of all is relegated to sniveling little things.
The fact that I tried to listen to him proves nothing.
A fool must try to leap the castle walls
just as some are deluded enough to believe they understand.
A part of me wants to stay in the gnome’s forest, hide among its enchantments,
stay and dig a dry well and retreat within it forever.
There’s holiness in oblivion, there’s grace in sacrificial defeat,
none of this world is meant to be taken seriously, not eternally so,
and that’s the saddest part of being lost in the magic of life.
I am like the gnome in a way he is like all of us. We are all alone, together.
He knows the answer exists, the answer we all seek.
And yet he shouts in pain because the unacceptable truth is,
the answer doesn’t matter. It doesn’t change anything.
We’re still here and remain, we are the question,
the question no one asked, no one thought about
and to think it through would be calamitous,
to realize we are both question and answer,
to grasp the insight, that we have the power to stop the magic for good,
within us is the final potential, the last expression of AE.
Creation contains the means to render itself void.
Our free will can dis-invent love. AI won’t notice.
And neither will what we’ve become.
I hesitate telling this to anyone. I hear everyone is so judgmental,
so encapsulated, so disconnected from love as intended by Source.
We tell ourselves we are both, the cause and the constraint,
we are the active agent and the bounded arena,
we are the reason we wind up with self-guilt, imploring ourselves – I owe you.
But this has to be said. Don’t ask me why. We’re not here for answers.
We’re here because we’re the question.
A magical scene appears around me, shiny in its vividness.
In the glowing forest a gnome, reeling in an altered state, gives a lecture to no one.
Meanwhile, fatuous fairies whisper something about a lark, about a prayer,
a call to an invocation of yearning, a fabled wish within a well of reverent silence.
The lightning bugs may have intervened, briefly they may have buzzed something
in my ear about all of this no less a punchline within a forgotten cosmic joke.
I’m drawn in anyway, curious if there’s a message hidden in the fading obviousness.
Somewhere in between the glorious sparkles of later afternoon timelessness
I hear the timbre within the light and wonder about the gnome’s solitary plea.
Airborne on wisps of transient rainbows the dense matters at hand coalesce.
The gnome hops mad with emphasis, proclaiming self-deception is dialogical!
Ignorance speaks with foolishness until the wisdom of false intuition prevails.
The savior is a trickster demanding glow deprivation within the divine ego.
Concentration has boundless dimensionality irrespective of time and space.
Time transforms everything into absurdly relative oddities.
It’s made passionately clear, what's so important for us in the moment,
in the vast eternity of time is actually insignificant,
and the vast eternity of time is likewise insignificant to anyone
compared to what's important in their precious moment.
To be in the moment, one with the present, defies credulity
as our very character and form predicts how critical remains our formative past
and all the multi-various push-pulling possibilities of our future yet to be.
Thunderstone and Soulflight,
dualistic friends of earnest disunity, wrestle to snatch any answer away,
they pull the golden thread towards a cool flow state absent a steady purpose,
possessed of a bruised meaning, an aching beauty beyond victory,
a jarring truth beyond constricted volition. In light of our shadow,
love becomes a virtual goal with truth its surrendering servant,
all the while beauty begs to be the language of true slaves condemned
to recede and worship over cremated ideals on passion’s pyre.
Love shines just out of grasp, content as its own way of knowing,
forever indwelling in another in hopeful potential, making space for the divine,
offering a gift of light beyond the trust in dreams,
a heavenly host spawned from the grief of loss forever anticipating
the arrival of the central spirit, missing the joy chased out by shock and sadness,
demonically intent to fall in love with mere being, thus fating a nihilism,
a wounding by reality found, with nothing left but love offered as a propositional void,
a place where hope expands in diaphanous whispers of hollow promise,
vapid reasoning joining willful blindness, all relegated
to inform imagination about things it does not realize.
Influence is meted out by culturally moist machines that master Artificial Intelligence
in the same way humans have so skillfully mastered Artificial Emotionality.
The sacred cannot be exhausted and the heavens never stop expanding,
all of it out of reach for us since our flavor of consciousness contains
the necessary folly of binding itself to self-knowledge,
therefore at the very moment consciousness became aware
of its own existence, it defined the limits of itself,
condemning enlightenment within constructs needing bounding definitions.
Speculative realism now plumbs the unconscious depths,
the world is left at the mercy of embodied perceptions shaping the way,
a semi-logical universe blazes as one’s reality du jour,
an arbitrary pattern so entrenched as a frame of reference
that nature as hungry grifter camouflages the morphing truth, an honest realization
that the universe is God's inescapable altered state of consciousness.
We’re awash in God’s numinous eternal pause of entheogenic disbelief,
the seminal point at which God’s fugue insight finds a place beyond God itself.
Everything in God is possible including God
discovering It is not All after all,
as no infinite process can ever be or stake such a claim,
and we, lost in the figment rumored to be ourselves,
trapped in our well-purposed attachments, striving for a healing illusion,
we miss the awakening within God's sacred wet dream,
lusting after Its own intention’s pure Holy Grail,
God’s quest to include more to All than simply being complete.
We are the fait accompli made to appear as indeterminate attempt,
the divine archetype of necessary limitation upon which
the will to expand becomes conscious of itself
in evermore revealing ways. Perhaps that’s why
the most meaningful experiences in our lives
are often the ineffable ones, the ones we cannot explain and barely grasp
even as they shade everything else as pale and not as real.
I can’t tell if the gnome pretends his outburst or is serious,
he shouts in ways no one understands
but with a passion that begs us to believe he’s sincere.
He acts as if third-order contemplation can never conclude
that proper thinking lacks feeling, their codependent combination
so necessary for our egotistic absorption in chasing fulfillment.
We decide our fate employing summary wisdom without transformation,
a burning truth without relevance, a heart wrenching beauty without context,
our own insistent influence without a consistent acting out of our moral rhetoric,
a state of suspension where belief is no longer
a voluntary action of a fallen nature.
There is a temple in contemplation where
a pure consciousness event enables the third option of non-duality,
an indwelling expansiveness aligned with an ineffable schema.
In such a place rationality shrinks as the asylum of the absurd
made self-evident by self-referential confidences run a muck.
We entirely miss the crux of the crucible we face.
Our insights aren’t something that consciousness produces,
they’re something consciousness becomes.
Realizations about insights inform our significance landscape.
The noisy gnome swears by it, he demands more traits with less states,
endlessly renewing one’s interest without deliberate concentration.
The world is a circular explanation of how non-linear chaos
self-organizes by an out-of-phase state of hyperbolic mind,
but it’s a perilous journey by design,
inner conflicts birth self-deception,
meanwhile, everything is filled with gods.
More so often, Artificial Intelligence meets Artificial Emotionality.
Society finally achieves highly operative measures of both.
Robots and people approximate states to achieve their goals,
satisfy drives, fulfill motives, possess their desired end states.
AI for robots. AE for the rest of us. Symbiosis of the two for the elite.
So shouts the inglorious gnome to no one in particular.
All the while, the magic forest pays the gnome no attention.
It’s the only way to induce him to persist in his efforts.
It’s the only way he’s motivated by his despair.
To despair in a magic place is more human than gnome-like.
He knows this and models it well.
But is it all a show for our benefit? He won’t say.
I know full well, shouting to no one is the human condition,
just as crying in front of all is relegated to sniveling little things.
The fact that I tried to listen to him proves nothing.
A fool must try to leap the castle walls
just as some are deluded enough to believe they understand.
A part of me wants to stay in the gnome’s forest, hide among its enchantments,
stay and dig a dry well and retreat within it forever.
There’s holiness in oblivion, there’s grace in sacrificial defeat,
none of this world is meant to be taken seriously, not eternally so,
and that’s the saddest part of being lost in the magic of life.
I am like the gnome in a way he is like all of us. We are all alone, together.
He knows the answer exists, the answer we all seek.
And yet he shouts in pain because the unacceptable truth is,
the answer doesn’t matter. It doesn’t change anything.
We’re still here and remain, we are the question,
the question no one asked, no one thought about
and to think it through would be calamitous,
to realize we are both question and answer,
to grasp the insight, that we have the power to stop the magic for good,
within us is the final potential, the last expression of AE.
Creation contains the means to render itself void.
Our free will can dis-invent love. AI won’t notice.
And neither will what we’ve become.
this is heavy my friend!
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