I spent most of today asleep. I accidentally miss another day’s dose, and my psyche is like origami folded into the tiniest structure. You then spend the next 8 to 10 hours supplanted onto one of its sides, traversing your way across seascapes, canyons and canopies, through the weirdest repetitions and anecdotal assemblies, as it slowly unfolds. You can literally feel your mind cramping and relaxing, undulating via raging migraine headaches that last for hours in the morning.
The universe is pretty clever in having created individuals for the purpose of curtailing and tying up all of this shit into neat little walking cages of information. Everything that happens that we are aware of, needs to be processed. Information should be recorded and filed away, not for safe-keeping (which implies a certain sentimentality) but just for the sake of documentation — that this event happened. That Annie or Anthony happened. Information is sustained and made real through its presence and persistence in objects, in individuals, and in dreams. That this emotion occurred. That the universe was capable of this experience, in this person, at this point in time. File it away in your mind file. We are living proof of complexity, although who needs this proof still remains to be seen.
When people die, their psyches must be unfolded into the cosmos. People who have had near death experiences often talk of a shining, bright light. But it isn’t a voyage or passage through any tunnel. It’s an unfolding of crevice upon crevice after crevice inside crevice. Every abstraction in every byzantine corner of the mind that has been processed and reprocessed, folded and refolded through the years is finally laid flat. Death is exposure. Lifetimes worth of emotion and observation held captive in the mind are set free, spewed forth into the ultimate open-source environment — the universe. I don’t yet know my thoughts on whether or not there is a higher power, but I do believe in a more homogenous, less fragmented consciousness from which all human beings are extruded. The greater universe begets the minor universe, of which we are all co-owners and co-creators. It is the only way that empathy is possible.
Some hold the belief that we all know everything that has been known by anyone at any given point in time ever. All of the information that has been experienced and processed by other human beings is available to all of us. We are made of it, but only through civilization are we groomed to make sense of it in any meaningful way. Dreaming is this process at its most transparent. Dreaming is what’s left when the opacity of waking reality is scaled back to zero. We are allowed to peak beneath the hood of our own incredible machines every night, and get brief glimpses of the type of exposure that could only await us at death. Everything is crystalline accessible, yet completely arcane at once. Death may be years off, but we are visited by visions of our own mortality at night. In dreams, give us a puzzle whose pieces we have all created, and each of us one by one will solve it in our own context. How clever to let us all work on the project together through eons of cycles of wakefulness and sleep. I vividly do my part each night.
I am also amazed by the number of dream characters who have asked me over the past few weeks, whether or not I have seen The Muppets movie.
The answer is always yes. You know this. You were there when I saw it. Please stop asking me about it.