Sunday, 28 March 2010

Mother suites

Mother suites


As the chemical bonds of her body succumbed to the inevitable force of heat, so did the chemically induced identification with her vehicle start to break down. Just like a dissolving chemical sequence, her self awareness rapidly broke down to simpler, smaller parts - each bit occupying less and less physical space and lasting increasingly minute amounts of time. As each level of her consciousness shut down one by one, she took one more step down that ever winding staircase, forever nearing zero and the impending singular instant in time before that. There was no moment of clarity or enlightenment, the irreversible sequence unfolded so quickly that she had lost herself before she even tried to catch up with herself. Like a trapdoor the outer layer of her subconscious opened up, and she was sucked into the insides of its darkness, cut mid way through the formulation of what would have been her very last chemically engineered thought.

She was now nothing more than a fleeting impression stuck in a tenuous present; a short-lived post-cognitive afterimage of her fading subconscious. She had become a ghost: a congregation of the residual neural processes within her brain, mindlessly perpetuating any persisting imprints within the last remaining functional nerves. The electrical signals having no feedback to reflect on and no synapses to terminate to, would release the last bits of information within their potentials and would whither and die. As the organic crust of proteins, fats and cellular structures was ripped apart, there was a measurable change in the order of fermions and bosons that permeated her scorching carcass; yet behind the velvet veil of ups and Downs, charms and strangeness it was as if nothing had happened. The same old message passed through them, the same continuous, steady tone, and within it the faint voice of what used to be Yolanda.

Carried by the sewers of unconscious, whose intricate tunnels reach the minds of the living, her individuality drowned within the thick flowing pus of the deceased. Her image was now part of the collective jumble of humanity's darkest side, a place of disorientated dreamers and lost souls. Her weak signal would now only be picked up by the mourners' probing tears, desperately trying to hold onto her image. They would receive a noisy transmission flickering in and out of her various versions, an amalgam of her past selves, uncertain of what form to take. She would bring unworldly messages to them, or so they thought, unaware they were in fact perpetuating her dissipating image by reigniting deeply buried memories of her.

She would linger on for as long as her black-clad following needed to dutifully reconstruct a new version of reality to accommodate her absence. Piece by piece they would take her apart, using the multitude of her phases as beams, her ever-changing faces as doorways, their unchanneled love as the roof, her tomb as the foundation. She would be stripped clean of all images stored of her within the river of unconscious, except one – the image of her death. For as much as they tried, the mourners could not conceive and deconstruct it, bringing their iconoclastic ventures to a halt. The photograph of her fiery death would pass unnoticed through the filtering systems of the vast waste disposal network, to finally be excreted into the ocean of the imperceptible.


Within the impenetrable pulp of discarded images she was stuck like a fly caught in a spill of tar. Her image begun to fossilise, unable to evolve beyond its distraught constitution. She just sunk in the depths of the abyss, slowly drawn like quicksand, painfully scraping against the eroding bony limbs of images past. Yet, somewhere in the motionless silence of this cemetery of forsaken memories, there was a sign of a faint movement, a direction towards a force unknown. As Yolanda passively drew close to the source, she left behind her a trail of displaced scorching images ignited by her dim yet present fire. It was ironic, yet perhaps quite fitting, that in her quest for redemption she would become the catalyst for the absolution of images that had long given up on hope. Like a digestive enzyme she burnt right through them, releasing them from their century-old bonds that had condemned them in the depths of a motionless existence. As the catabolic reactions progressed, the dissolving images provided fuel and she gained momentum as she moved through the digestive tract she had created towards the humming source.

In the center of the abyss, a dimensionless vortex breathed in its guts the forgotten images, and breathed out blank templates that bubbled through the mucky ocean and up into an unformed atmosphere, the realm of clean slates. Sucked in one of these cosmic bubbles, she floated above the ocean and beyond the stratosphere of human perception. She travelled past the ever winding planets and exoplanets, the swirling nebulae and colliding galaxies, into the fuzzy blackness of space.

Trapped at the moment of her death with eyelids, arms and legs wide apart, she stared back at her burning self surrounded by the curved mirroring surface of the bubble. She was in a solitary prison, her only companion the imperceptible image of her flaming eyes. That is how I found her, wings on my back, during my desperate search at the boundaries of spacetime and of my own darkest thoughts. With my bare hands I tried to break through her cell and awake her from her relapsing nightmare, but the wall was impermeable. I was neither an angel, nor a saviour, my supernatural powers limited to conjuring images but not interacting with them, (I was just a passive dreamer.) I reluctantly let go of that thought and she slipped away from my fingers shrinking into the unreachable distance.


Cross legged she sits in the midst of pure white mist. Pale pearl skinned snakes hiss beside her, intertwining in sex they surround her.

She cannot see me, for her eyes are blindfolded with a cloth soaked in the river Lethe. She cannot hear me, for her ears have been closed with wax to block the mourners' call.

She doesn't move, yet her skin stirs, iridescent and transient like a chameleon, continuously shifting like the scales of a python. It simultaneously reflects and absorbs the surrounding dense white light, uncertain of what form to take plight.

The overly Sexed snakes tie her down like ropes, and in their incestuous passion they penetrate
Her. They break through every part of her crust-covered hollow body, crawling into every crevice they can find. Bursting with semen they reproduce within Her, giving birth to the embryonic parts of her newly constructed insides.

Pregnant now with a brand new self consciousness, she is released from her sensory constraints. She looks at me and smiles without recognition, she is indeed a new pure being. Unaware that dripping from her nipples is sweet honeydew remembrance, she offers me a handful. With a warm, innocent embrace she invites me on her lap, and with a tear I suck on a memory I have never forgotten.


She awoke in white linen embraced by the light. She looked around her to see familiar people surround her, she looked inside her to find the people she contained. Somewhere in there she found Yolanda, an embryo peacefully floating inside her amniotic sac. She picked up the sac and examined this fragment of herself closely. The embryo's consciousness was bubbling inside, bursting to come out; the message it carried all this time was finally ripe. She took a bite from this majestic fruit, its juices flowing into her throat, and molecule by molecule she read the code written onto its sugars.

As it unraveled like a scroll, the once dormant code of what used to be Yolanda was activated bit by bit within the infinite chain of messages that had accumulated over eons of timelessness. Her message was loud and clear, permeating the nucleus she was a part of, causing the cell it occupied to release the corresponding transmitters, finally creating a momentary thought in the mind of the super being that contained her.

The echo of her outcry finally reached me one lucid night. She was beaming as she communicated her truth to me, the revelation she was trying to share with me all along. The people around her were in celebration, a banquet being held for her incredible contribution. I tried to listen carefully but the party was too loud and her honey-covered sweet lips were too mesmerising. The message did not register and I would find myself writing a poem about a letter never received.

a book about a play

This is a book about a play. I play the writer who writes this book. He is writing a book about the play as it plays out. The characters in this play are unaware that a book is being written about them acting in a play. Indeed, only the writer is aware that he is a character within this play because he is his own creation. A character in a play within a play, writing a play about himself in a play within play. This is the kind of play this book is about. The character is as trapped as the writer writes him to be, the writer himself being the character finding oneself as the writer of his own destiny. Driven by the need to fulfill his destiny, the writer writes the story of the character that is writing about the play he finds himself in. The great complexity of this predicament means that this book is written in the varying perspectives just being described.

The main character of the play is Yolanda. In this interplay of plays, the writer tells Yolanda she is the star of the play he is writing. She subsequently lives out this play as it is being written. Her character was created to fulfill this very book. A book called 'Yolanda'. She also happens to be the only one who manages to escape the vicious circle of intertwining plays and prose. After her escape she leaves behind a vacant character whose destiny has been unwritten, remaining fossilised in time and space. After her purposeful deletion from the play, the writer has no option but to write about the destiny of a character frozen within the writer's mind.

The neurogenetic connection

The nervous system is the only interface we have as living humans to interact with the world. Everything is mediated and processed by the nervous system. In the simplest terms a nervous system is a process that involves the 3 steps of sensing-processing-acting or receiving-integrating-transmitting. In carbon-based organisms, a proto nervous system can be found within a singular cell. The primary sensing organ in this case is the cell membrane, while the sense data is compound chemicals (eg. neurotransmitters, hormones, enzymes). In order for a signal to be transmitted from the membrane to the nucleus and back, a highly complex network of chemical interactions is involved within the cell. Using the metaphor of the body, the chemical chains that occur during a routine signaling process within the cell can be likened to the autonomic nervous system. The chains finally end up in the nucleus/brain where they target specific parts of the DNA, the cns of the cell. You get the picture.

My first experience with conscious neurogenetic meditation:

I relaxed my body, and silenced my breath and mind. I energized the somatic, autonomic and central pathways as usual until I felt the swelling electrical sensation across my body. Then I lightly focused on the concept of one centralised place or cell where I could direct my neural impulses that would order it to release the chemicals necessary to signal to the DNA to produce the appropriate proteins. I was intuitively guided to my pituitary and pineal glands which are important secretory centers. At the moment I did not make this realisation as I was in a state of near no-thought unable to make any rationalizations. At this point my initial intent started to unfold as images of transcribing molecules and protein building machines came to mind. Finally I sensed a substance being released in my brain and I felt extremely peaceful like I had taken ketamine but without the hallucinations and the dizziness. I slept in extreme serenity all night and woke up in bliss.

This experience physiologically was no different than a good meditation session. The only difference was the conscious awareness of inner secretions and mechanisms that no doubt take place during a normal meditation session. This is what the neurogenetic connection is all about, becoming aware of the otherwise subconscious processes, eventually gaining control of the unconscious.

a year later...

a year later...

... and it's all the same. There's not a morning I wake up without her on my mind. I never go to sleep without thinking about her. When I'm alone I'm loudly calling out her name or crying over her pictures. When people are laughing I just think about her. When people are small talking I just think about her. I still find myself unable to believe she is gone, unable to compute her absence. In the busy streets, I see her in women that bear any small similarity to her. When I watch TV there will always be something to remind me of her. When I look around in my house there is always something that reminds me of her. When I look in the mirror I see her. When I dream I see her. When I'm working I think of her. When people talk about their mums I feel sick. When I talk to my family I feel her absence even more. When it's holidays or birthdays I want her to be there. To tell her how much I love her. How much I miss to see her. People come and go. Sometimes they just go. Should tell people that you love them whenever the opportunity arises for it might literally be the last one. I miss my soul mate. The need to repeat these things over and over again. Searching and searching.


... I can now sometimes have sex without thinking about her. I am rediscovering my libido. I am optimistic about the future. I have moments of happiness. I am fully inspired. I have started taking care of my body. I am becoming driven again, confident in myself, and interested in people. I feel once more empowered by the fact that I have survived and integrated such pain in my life. I know there's still a lot of pain to process ahead of me.

Reflecting nodes

The visual, auditory, linguistic, somatosensory and motor cortices have nodes spread throughout the brain which enable internal visions, sensations etc. For example an internal state of excitement is connected to a somatosensory node, creating a sensation in the abdominal area. Similarly, an internal process can be translated by a visual node creating an internal image that can more easily be interpreted by post-cognitive processes. The conscious mental world is a product of the continuous reflection between these meta sensory nodes. A perpetual qualia experience. It is therefore impossible to have an objective perceptual experience as all perceptions both internal and external are interpretations of the raw data that are subject to a myriad of interexternal conditions. Take the memory of an event, first of all the external sensory data that define it are read by the various sensory organs and translated into nervous impulses, then there is the internal data at the time such as feelings, energy levels, mental states etc, that combine with the sensory data to store this memory. How it is stored is not certain yet but it most likely involves the construction of proteins or another kind of codable molecule such as RNA. Now for this memory to be read again consciously by the beholder, it has to be reread bit by bit by a post-sensory node and this interpretation is not only subject to the various internal states at the time but also to a degree of data loss as the coded memory is not read in its entirety. The quality of storage also depends on the intensity of the event, the presence of the needed molecules and of course depending how old it is there might be degradation of the code or parts of it might be compressed for optimization purposes. This continuous process of interpretation and reinterpretation of extra-sensory, intra-sensory and post-sensory data occurs throughout the brain creating a loop between the three. This looping principle is the main mechanism of the brain and also its greatest limitation. Limited within a world of perpetuating qualia and mental simulacra, it can only evolve through continuous access to extra/intra-sensory data, post-cognitive data, and subconscious access to genetic data.