When we pay attention to something, we give it enough importance to get real. Take Facebook, for example. Once upon a time it was only an idea but now it's fundamental to many daily behaviours. Or, one single item of behaviour, like an assassination, becomes a world, even an historic moment. An epic story is contextualised around that one finger pulling the trigger that sends the bullet to the target.
When attention is paid, a story is created. The more attention paid, the greater the chance of credibility. And therein lies the rub. Stories and the sense of reality impinge upon each other. The trouble with this adjunction is that people commit themselves to both the story and the sense of reality it brings without realizing, as a hypnotist would know for sure, that whatever story you tell, there's another that is just as true.
The sense of truth itself, is merely that: a sense of truth, and the truth of that is that it can always be improved upon.
Before anyone shoots me (I'm not in the league of those worth assassinating) here are the points I want to make:
stories reflect self-conscious management, usually poorly executed
the stories that arrive in book form cheat time, the subjective-objective split and run the risk of being regarded as discrete enities, like numbers
stories that arrive as movies do the same, but popcorn dampens the overall effect
stories that have not been released by the human organism into communal domain are privately motivated, the power of which is gravely underestimated
stories that are released into communal domain, no matter how selective or all-embracing such domain may be, are mostly granted the status of being real, largely because of obeying linguistic rules
stories that are told in a serious tone tend to be taken seriously
stories that are told humourously tend to be taken humourously
stories that are told authoratatively command esteem more easily than others.
Tone, an important element of which is volume, sets much.
The universe began with a big, loud bang.
Oh, it did, did it? I've read about the evidence for that story, and then found another story, for which, apparently, there is also evidence. This one says that the universe is breathing in and out.
The truth, which is a collapsible word, is that no-one knows for sure. Are we entirely thwarted in the mission for a grand grasp of our existence? The cosmologists are not going to agree, for the time being. Then there are those who go another way, and suggest, demand, require, kill us if we don't agree with an already recipe-d story, which is the way of general religion, expecially the crazy, fervent ones, the emotional glue of which is alarmingly sticky in current times. We may be living in what is a definitely post-reasoning world if we can't find a way to de-enthuse fervency and expose it for what it is: synaptic overkill, physiologically and literally.
For too long a time I believed what people had told me about the Bible,and I tried to work my way into all the stories set out there, until I made the effort to sort out something understandable for myself. The fear of hell which was drummed into me before I could think for myself was quite a tough one to chuck, but in the end this simplicity held:
Be more than your instincts because you are more.
The "more", I discovered is entirely negotiable. It's a story you get to author yourself. The odd thing is that once you start authoring for real, sync happens.
If you describe your beginnings, you'll go back to mom and dad, early memories, what was going on around you, a bit of objective history, in retrospect, that really truthful stuff collated, corroborated and communciated which makes it all for real. You got into an organic but badly-languaged world, and listened to the words, and got hypnotized by the tones. The thing about thrillers is that they keep the same tone, but take off every now and then to go a little bit deep, strike an instinct and come back.
So I was born, and my story began. Let's try again. I began before I let myself get pulled in once again. This truly pitiful level of consciousness called human is a wail in the cosmic night. Who can resist? It's supposed to work right, and fit in with the beautiful world to which it belongs, but it's a total fuck up. The Bible uses the word "sin". It means that the arrow didn't hit the target. The assassin missed, but that's my version. Don't mess with the truth.
Bottom line: truth is created, never owned, and humans have the opportunity to create. Because they aren't so clever, they quickly drop to instinct.
Now for the big one: love. Is it bigger than instinct or just an empty word?
Well, check the wind for movement. The eternal waft, and certainly it's there, you might try to fool your own mind, but your mind isn't there to fool anyone, least of all you.
Last time you checked for truth, how was it?
Note to self. becoming non-self: you're gonna die.Perhaps comfortably, holding hands with family, perhaps really sore, hurting, anguished, tortured. Screaming.
You then lose you. All your organic stuff starts to work. What your body is, is something else, but going another way.
So let's tell another story. Let's say that there's more going on than we can say, but we'll try to say it.
God save human consciousness. But who is God? And how does God work?
Who do we choose to listen to?
Science will try a certain kind of story, religion another. A third option:
just tell the story, and let it tell itself through you, no control of how it goes, it will link up the way it does, the way worlds and wills match is so different to what we think:
Humans are cruel, abominably cruel, that's how it is. It's in their corpuscles, cells, and neuroreceptors. They fail to kill that old enemy, the false self, as soon as it stands. They haven't the heart to assassinate their weakness. They believe in their own strength, forgetting to honour their source.
It all comes from a random mind that could be focused, but the motivation to focus waits, wanting something that reduces the access to something less:
there are worlds and universes waiting to land on our human platform, humble though it should be.
We have grown blunt, we need to re-recognize the drama in which we participate. As many as possible will create a new season. The issue is to recognize it.