The Great Enfoldment (Part 2)

That poor French chap who jumped off the roof of his Paris apartment block, Gilles Deleuze, he had it nailed, I realize that now more than ever.

This ‘thing’ called a self is a conglomeration of velocities, accelerations/decelerations, brief assemblages and dissolution's - a trillion conscious and unconscious momentary desiring machines that glitter and spit like photons off these green waves on a summers day.

Society and culture has a necessary and very specific gravity that coheres and fixes certain assemblages for longer durations. Indeed, some of these socio/economic desiring machines whilst having a functional and organizational use, tend to drown out the possibility of other assemblages by their incessant imperialistic white noise.

The mythologies and linear narratives of our human cultures act as brakes to decelerate and solidify the fecund wave potentialities of our being into ‘particular’ characters that have discreet boundaries. We read our lines and play our parts, forgetting that we are implicitly connected to everything, we are everything, there is no transcendental Platonic essence, no final signified’s shimmering just out of reach.

Everything that has ever existed, exists now, simultaneously.

It is the perceptual apparatus of our physical embodiment that engineers and edits time, space and causality - the great decelerator or personal sequencer. Another machine, alas, but a most necessary one, for now at least.

The patterns sculpted by wave and sand on my little beach have always fascinated me. Like a beautiful golden fabric, perfectly pleated and folded, like an exquisite blanket for a sea god to recline upon after his daily swim.

This natural enfolded pattern always brings to mind Aldous Huxley’s musings in the ‘Doors of perception’ about the Renaissance artist’s obsession with luxurious fabric enfoldments.

I feel that if these fabrics were unfolded, flattened and smoothed by a great hand – maybe the sea god? – Reality or the noumenal would resolve into our perception like a vast and intricate medieval map, and we would roar with laughter at our previous inability to see the myriad roads, rivers and pathways that connect all with all.
Enough, this old fart has rambled too much already.

I feel a bowel movement brewing up. Alas, the passage of a stool is one of the few physical pleasures still permitted by that cruel puppeteer father time.