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When I was twenty I dreamt that underneath a nearby McDonalds, underground, was a school where the employees read books full of mathematics diagrams, finite state machines, mobius strips and such.

While I still can be a competent tutor mathematics has lost its fascination for me I am afraid. And yet now and again I yearn for crisp and formal answers, content is not necessary, just as long as there is that objectivity, like a language in a higher kind of dream, that completely makes sense and answers our question until we are awake again, and begin forgetting.

I lack and long for this objectivity in a very general sense actually. I find myself at times as a vertex with no edges on the great social network graph of existence, then branching out connections, then cutting them again, endlessly.

Galileo, your book is lost to me!

waking up

I am on another errant pathway leading to the center-- what is solid and what is floating evanescently in this maze of streets, in the criscrossing of steps of all the people seeking the Destination? This is a city like any other, except silently sleeping, at times people rise from their beds and walk, still dreaming, finding each other in collective dreams, or segments of dreams, then walking back into their bedrooms, their sleep chambers, only to repeat the same thing the next day, a day which is actually night. Is it getting brighter or dimmer, is it dawn or dusk? It is difficult to know, the Absolute dream keeps fragmenting into separate dreams, manifestations of self, wish-fulfillments. Will the center, the whole dream, or even just the alcove leading into the maze of dreams, ever reveal itself?

At the windhorse race, the minds of all the spectators floating and hovering up like kites in the summer air, more and more people were in attendance as it seemed finally the dream was making sense, consolidating itself into the one collective dream. Was it real?

A man in the back reading Kafka's Amerika seemed like he had been there forever waiting for the race to unfold. It was rumored that the dream was his alone, that the whole race depended on his attendance for its reality and solidity.

getting Hegel out of my system

Where are the pathways, where the walls? I struggle to determine what direction to go in next, knowing that freedom is boundless but that at the same time my own mind contains signposts of self doubt, a dead stop here and there and there again, projected onto the world all around me. Tentatively, slowly, I gain an inkling of a game that is limitless, I can no longer shirk the responsibility of being right there, present. And how many others are playing at "I am", conspiring to raise their minds to the level of the real?

There is so much to say, so much to do, in this local phenomenology, at the periphery of the empire perhaps, a place where the messages from the true Emperor of conscious awareness only arrive every so often, wherever he may be, and yet, the amusement park of higher mind is turning, perpetually, even here, where and when do we get on and off the rides? The local is merging into the global, at greater and greater speed, for the local awareness is almost nothing, and yet, a quaint branch office at the periphery of the reign of the Absolute is right there, it is everything, but how often have I walked past it not even seeing it? Routing information, written on every humble prayer, even from here, do these prayers ever make their way through the bureaucracy of being-here-now phenomenology, the parts of Oversoul, or call it what you will, to the A=A, the Absolute, to GOD?

Does any knowledge leak at this level, throughout the cracks of Mind, is not the faultline of awareness the gate, or the gateless gate, itself? The part is the whole, the humble forest path is the entrance into the gardens and labyrinths of the Church that stands at the center of the Empire, "get lost" and getting directions are one and the same thing.

Um, take the highway across the River...