Quantum Dreaming Among the Forgotten Triads
Last night I walked through the Mind of Goethe. We were studying plants, reflected from a screen. Herr Goethe, tall and invisible, stood on my right side, and gently scolded me for missing something important. An image-schemata shimmers upon the screen.
I gesture to a plant object. My gesture to the 2 D figure, triggers a 5D response, like a shiver when we feel good music and , suddenly , the 2D image opens, and floats in 3D, resonant in a shared mental space, happening between myself and Herr G, unfolding like a red, red rose. It sounds like Haydn or early Mozart chamber music, something with a flute, a violin, a viola. I am not sure which instrument I have become nor does it matter. What does matter is that we are in a triad contained by a tetrad. We retrieve and enhance.
The plant becomes my instrument. I finger the petals, stroke the stalk, the open palm of my hand vibrates with the furious green ideas of the plant and its sensitive nature, aware of our mutual nature, as we co-refer through touch synasthesias, sprouting life, like full ripened grain. We are beyond binaried propositions. I touch therefore I know. We are beyond subject and object, for we are observing systems, mutually assured works of art, signed, sealed and delivered to one another, for one another. I am You. You smell like a tart apple with an accent of a soft brown, cinnamon.
" By mythic," I say, " I mean a story. This leaf has a dramatic structure." I proceed to lecture Goethe on the dramatic stucture of the plant world. The great dramatist is amused by my speech, and listens without provocation. We hold the tension of our differences with subtle pleasure, for we know that we are rehearsing a deeper performance, a more intimate encounter, for an audience that has yet to be born.
I turn our attention away from the plant and to a dotted line, around a circle, from which a text appears, that emanates from the screen, the screen at the border of our minds. The text, a boundary object, like a star, hovering in the night sky, feels like a lost message recieved from a stoned, high priestess of the Delphic Oracle, and it reads in a handwritten script, in pencil, on the margin of a torn piece of newspaper , To write and sing like a bird will take five years
I remember the drowsy numbness, after sipping hemlock, in that ancient culture war. As I sipped the hemlock, three beautiful women, sang to me. I wrote a letter to the world who never wrote to me. The Earth is where these broken relational circuits are repaired. The Earth leads with her right brain. Can I remember all of this? Do I have five more years to get it right? And do I have a write to know which side is left? Somewhere, in the back of my skull, there is a text, composed for the living dead. Herr Goethe is holding my skull, as he once held the skull, of his dead friend, Schiller, a fellow of infinite jest…
And what is a symbol? And what is a bird? And what is a plant? And what, pray tell, is a sentence? And what difference do any of these patterns make? Silently, Goethe and I, have a lack of concern for the personal pronoun 'I" as we share a post-materialist, inter-subjective, flow state. We are confident for we were born before personal computers and have never been Modern.