Saturday, September 8, 2012

on the crest of the meta-wave

I think I'm going to try and think about something. Okay. I sort of did. Now I'm going to try and put some words to it.

This is going to be rather daffy. It's going to be me trying to get philosophical.

I will try try to put words to something that jumped in my head when I wasn't looking and that is really too indefinite for language.

I'm going to go ahead anyway and make up some words. I will try my best not to sound pretentious and be so boring that you will laugh and wince.

Here goes.

First up, Chomsky and the organic, innate structure of language. Nope. I think it just bloomed spontaneously outside of our heads. It glided in on the crest of the meta-wave. The rock wanted to be called "rock," so that's what happened.

Next, consciousness itself. Just so. There is it – pow! Inexplicable, except to say that it glided in on the crest of the meta-wave. 'Nuff said.

Human relations. You don't have to get all Levinas and “otherly” about it. It's a form of meta-magic that happens when two people are near in space and time. Convergence can create a mutuality that glides in on the crest of the meta-wave. Conversation even seems to operate according to this law of the spontaneous. So far beyond determinism and free will, it's almost spooky.

Time and space, while we're at it. De facto. They also just appeared because they appeared. They are also conditioned by and ride upon the meta-wave, which must be partly composed of themselves. A kind of liquid schizo mirror effect.

A painting, a musical composition, a poem. Quality is what comes as if a riddle surfing and dancing spritely on the crest of the meta-wave. Quality wants real bad to be, so it does sometimes. The meta-wave is surely a qualitative wave. It can splash you on rare occasions.

Death. But first, life. The surface between phenomenon and meta-wave is too abstract to even be called abstract. It's really odd, man! It spreads out, paradoxically, as an atmosphere of high pressure. Until the uncanny just happens -- being. And then being, like a crazy berserk giraffe, just turns into life. Life is living because it's always just ahead of itself, pulling its physical and weird metaphysical self forward. It's too absurd for words. You can't get a bead on it with a microscope or a telescope. Or any form of critical rationality. Okay. Death sends us tiny hints (depth-chimes), alerting us to the suspicion that something gets evaporated back through the paradox. And then on to merge with the meta-wave, where it (us, cats, love) will form whirlpools and eddies of even stranger being.

What is the meta-wave? Who knows? I don't. But it might, I think, have something to do with what happens when the "Über-Law of the Über-Spontaneous" washes over and across normality, creating new shapes in the tidal fabric.

Hmm...that won't quite do. I guess it's just not possible to describe this thing that jumped into my head. Whatever it is, it must float above and beyond concept. I'll just call it an intuition about happenings in excess of given ingredients. It's like a magic wave, or something.