SP 12: Erich's Response - The Phillips' Phenoma-Knot

 I'll confess I've never been able to understand phenomenology (yet); in fact it took me three tries just to spell it for this response. My natural instinct as a autodidact, then, is then to dismiss it-- distract the imaginary thesis dissertation professor with a card trick. And another is to urge the realization that once we drift too far into the realm of big words and fixed ideas, we can get lost. Show me the lotus! That's why I always use metaphors to visualize this stuff.

When Rick writes, for example:

`Your' space - is `counted' and counted once - as having a location and placement compared to other spaces. `Every' space you have - HAS EXACTLY `THAT' AS IT'S MAIN ATTRIBUTE. It's unique `moment' of space - as it were. THAT moment, with all its relationship to other spaces - in any form - is a moment of balance that reflects a NOT ABLE TO BE (ness). Now, here's the BUT. BUT, there are `different' types of `spaces' -- some of which -- seem `timelike'. And, some of which, perhaps all of which, have a direct connection to the phenomenology of `our space' that is NOT ABLE TO BE.

I visualize this as a two dimensional chessboard, and "I" am the king, able to move in any direction, one square at a time. However, there may be spirits or enemy pieces in squares very close to mine who can't touch me due to only being able to move diagonally, and so forth. And of course, there's the off board vastness, where the murdered pieces go.

I worry this might not be the correct analogy. That's the rub with phenomenology - it seems too tied in abstract signifiers that themselves seem open to dozens of possible meanings and interpretations depending on their context.

However, all that said, I found Phillips' phenomenology graspable, as it reminds me a little of Seth speaks and a lot of other channeled info I've read over the years (Rick, you're a channel!) The spirits who've channeled through me, I should point out, have tended to be rogues and charlatans, angels and devils disguised as each other... they do this so well I have to take what the angels say with skepticism and appreciate the tough love behind the tortures of Hell. In the end, they're all you, and me, togetherrr-- Sarah. So the question is, do you trust yourself? Can you tell when you're lying to yourself? If you answered yes, then right there, the answer is no.

"Finally, the man who wrote The End Of Time - Julian Barbour - suggests something along these lines as far as how reality gets from one 'moment of space' to the next `moment of space' -- and that being that reality 'follows a path of least resistance' that involves `picking the next moment' based on the criteria of the `best matching space with the least intrinsic difference'."


I haven't read Barbour, but I think I understand the concept of reality 'picking the next moment' -but I also know how little effort is actually involved in making the 'next' picked 'moment' completely separated from the normal path, it's all done with the ease of flipping a cable channel... if you know how (and our social order makes it as hard as possible to know how, and with good reason).

All it involves is a slight shift in brain chemistry, the equivalent of letting go of the structural life raft and trusting to breathe in the salty water... the doors of perception kick open and what was once merely, say, a candle in front of you in the darkness, becomes an axis in time/space, hell, Jesus on the cross, God, Moses' burning bush blazing five miles in the distance as you travel through the desert night, and the eye of a dragon as it slithers on scales of air and smoke through your boudoir, all at once, and you now understand why what to you is merely the picking up of a book off a coffee table is life and death to distant civilizations, cities you can reach only through sleeping, shrinking to sub-atomic level, or traveling to the opposite end of the galaxy, the realization that your entire life and set of memories is all encompassed in every drop of water you sweat out in the jungle heat... it stains the surrounding vines and suddenly the whole jungle knows your story. 

In the end, it's one of those things you need to experience for yourself, the miraculous way all the possibilities and probable realities you see flash in the infinity of transcended space-time gradually shift back to exactly where you were before, with maybe only ten minutes or so elapsed on the clock after what feels like a voyage of hours if not weeks. But outside of these trip tales, what is there left to relate? Direct experience is the only way to 'know' these things are real and true, that ayuhuasca visions are so much more concrete than this reality and that aliens can re-write our history behind us, change the hair of our mothers -- who knows if we're the same person when we wake up from a weird dream? Alien abductions prove, among other things, that time and space can be played with, they are elastic. 

I would agree that time is illusory, and/or relative, but so is space, once you escape our three dimensional consensual reality --even one's own personal non-able to be-ness can be dissolved, re-manifested, obliterated and returned to like a book some elder god reads before bed time. And on that level, so is life, and certainly language. When you transcend time, space is not far behind, and language has to be let go long before that... if you can--through whatever neurochemical or spiritual means at your disposal--get a grasp of this fathomless eternal moment, you won't be able to bring your notebook or microphone. If you do, few of your ramblings will make sense. I remember once for weeks all my inner thoughts assumed a circular rounding word combination form that always ended in 'herculoguard' my unconscious was sending me a message in a code that was one long meaningless word meant to break the imprisoning chain of language:

"Marion Crane" Acrylic on Canvas - 2008 - c. Erich Kuersten

'Melncholilongualnationalismaticallizationonauticalequalitoherculoguard' - for example. It was a tool my unconscious seemed to be using to split open language, like freeze framing a speeding train movie and slowly burning the celluloid.

People who experience smoking DMT or doing ayuhuasca or iboga in shamanistic studies, will tell you--their eyes wide with respect and trepidation--that the world is much wilder and stranger than we can imagine, and it's all right here around us, all the time-- our reality is like Hot 97 on the FM dial, but all you need to do is turn the knob a bit to the left or right and our reality dissolves into static and some mighty strange stations start up, and when you're completely outside it, you realize the whole range of stations is played at once--and has always been playing, just waiting for some radio to tune it in-- the pure possibility and intent. Painters use paint and a brush to create worlds, our pure DNA life intelligence uses space like paint and condensed energy like a brush. Stepping outside reality is like jumping off the canvas, like those old Max Fleischer cartoons, where characters escape the drawing board to observe the ink, the paint, the palette, the brushes, and the absurdly limiting three-dimensionality of their old canvas/reality:



Lon's discussion of remote viewing is applicable to that experience, as while in the 'zone' you can wind up in some weird third-eye spaces, like the time I wound up in what I think was a Chinese bakery... I was in my room, smoky with sage, but all I could smell was baking and hear the clatter of customers and voices coming from what sounded like my own lips in Chinese (I could only see darkness at that time, though, like I was rolling out dough while resting my eyes - was that baker, maybe working down in Chinatown at the moment, taking a closed-eye break and smelling sage?).

When you visualize the space between the channels on that FM dial as the 'not able to be' static, you realize you're held to your current frequency only by the current wiring of your brain, the 10% of its full potential. We're radios that were built to go from 0 to infinity FM, but the aliens set us to Hot 97, for all eternity. Step outside of that station and you find yourself sharing a lot of common space with humanity, nature, past lives, pre-recorded into your DNA messages from ancient space ancestors, and even the pure electric light of the One. It's so bizarre to me that people can't believe in life after death but have no problem accepting the way our voices are bounced all over outer space and across the world, billions at a time, via cell phones, or wi fi, or radio. 

Children at play in the backyard are--in good homes--kept from the fear and anxiety of their parents over, say, taxes or making the monthly mortgage payment. The child is sheltered for a reason - allowed to grow, unhindered by the soul-crushing heaviness of the world. Is this not also why the countless alternate dimensions and possibilities are kept from us? One could argue the grays deliberately re-wired our hard drives so we can't 'escape' this zoo/prison, the way parents might lock out the adult cable channels on their TV or child-proof the internet - but you can also admit to yourself that without that adult channel wiring, 'you' wouldn't even exist. 'You' is the one thing that stays behind when you venture up into the rarefied realms of being. The idea of a 'you' separate from the rest of our common DNA whirligig is just the frosting on a many, many, many-layered cake, a cake we are terrified to cut open, preferring to deny the existence of anything below our creamy vanilla frosting surface.

But in the end, language and writing can only get us so far (the theorizing as to what may lie below frosting level)... direct experience involves not just letting go of the illusion of permanence, but of the need to categorize, delimit, and communicate your experience to others, i.e. the true traveler takes no pictures, leaves no footprints, brings no baggage and was already there to begin with. His is the eye in the pyramid, and when it blinks, he was never there at all. Especially for us writers and thinkers, in the end, that's the hardest thing to let go of, our pen and paper. We get two feet into the void and think 'wow, I can't wait to write this down' Let that go, and there's nothing left but...