waiting for impossible unity

ben goertzel





Incandescent fragments of being, undulating lustily through my 
brain like melting plastic.  

Obscene?   I don't understand where they come from  thoughts, 
turns of being, feelings, invisible thrusts and thrusts.  Pieces of 
others' minds, minds of others' pieces, words heard on the train or 
at work or in childhood, not understood, filed away for future 
madness.   Everything you've ever said written or thought is here 
somewhere in my brain, in the cosmic contradictionary, in the 
cosmic cuntradictionary, tucked away, fucked away, sucked away, 
understood away and stood under with umbrellas as it rains its 
vacuous meaning thus watering the glorious lawns of the mansion of 
my ever-raving soul.

You don't understand  people don't understand  no one ever 
understands.  Understanding is impossible.  Mutual communication's 
a farce.  Our minds each have their own special languages.  
Translation into spoken and written phrases is a form of ritual 
murder.  Although perhaps a sensible antidote, et cetera et cetera.   
Humor value may be significant, but semantics is  mangled, pulled 
through the asshole of sacrifical goats, lost like a single drop of holy 
water fallen into a toilet or onto the body of lovers cloaked in pain 
and sweat.  

You stare at these words not knowing, trying to pull the strands of 
meaning out of the hideous mess.  What the fuck was this goertzel 
guy thinking?  Why the fuck was he typing these words?  How did 
this twisted attempt at great literature find its way into my realm of 
mind, with its known limitations, its perfections and courage and 
fears?  He himself, as you know, struggles endlessly with meaning.  
With meaning and meaning and time.  With women, and their 
meaning.  With his own lusts, delusions.  Like any other being, but 
with excessive introspection.  Perhaps he has overly frequent sex, 
and this addles his neurons.  Perhaps he would be better off 
restricting himself to technical work and not attempting to create 
literature.   But is he really creating literature, or just 

balancing the equations of his mind? Forever seeking balance,
it can't be found, or found. The limitations of ordinary forms of
discourse, written and spoken, frustrate him, make him crazy sane.
He wants to cup her cheeks in his hands and transmit directly mind
to mind. To shout his weird thoughts to the universe through universal psychic
satellites. But what would the value be? Has he really solved various puzzles, of value to the common man? Perhaps a few pieces of the human enigma have been assembled in his notably productive and creative yet disturbingly eccentric brain. Perhaps if we all could broadcast our thoughts, through the fabled psychic satellite, of which he wrote much in 1986 (qua qua qua), each of us would share (la ti da) the sections of the puzzle we've put together, and we could collectively formulate an attempt at piecing together the whole damn whole. So mushy, lovey, dovey, love. The whole enchilada burp of being. The solution to which is, inevitably, a big white Not. But no, instead we shit our thoughts out through the toilet of language. But if it's all so ridiculous, so stupid and pointless, why contribute
to the mess with more text? Another inner compulsion, obviously, ridiculously. The compulsion to obsess on women, the compulsion to obsess on words. The compulsion to spend hours yanking ideas from the collective chamber at the back of mind, pulling them into the forms of conscious understanding, making them real and dead and perfect, sharing them with others, forcing them through the teeny tiny doors of other peoples' minds. Can we in fact rebuild the universe into its virgin state, by typing out words on paper? It's highly unlikely. But it's a piece of the puzzle. And every piece is
the puzzle. Inside the puzzle is a strange and beauty peace. And then and then and then and then -- Here I sit, alone in the garden of my nonsense, waiting for impossible unity, waiting for you to step into my cosmos and extend to me a welcoming flower. And then and then and then --