A letter arrived last week, no return address, unknown author. Tortured and barely intelligible, clearly, a trembling appendage created this. It spoke of the one and the many…the error of creation…One. Lucid, screaming from behind a curtain of layered intentionality. To witness, or to succumb, the glorious gift of beings…all. Membrane formation, sensory development... finally clothed in muscle, tissue, and bone…a strategy for transcending time, seeking itself in differing forms…a reverse teleological afterimage. Convergences…systems entwined, birthing a cosmic atom. A singularity.
I had seen talk of this before in certain works, pregnant with possibility, but relegated to dusty library stacks and other buried places nobody with a real life took the time to explore. But I had spent hours in those dimly lit corridors, piecing together scattered ideas and meta-theories, which were claiming not to be. Same search for the Logos, same lunge for the wordless…the unspeakable. That which can be told is not?

At some point in what we call “pre-history”, an understanding of this whole complex exploded onto the walls of caves…scraped, painted, intentionality. Art emerged. The social resonated with the natural, the social resonated with the social. Feedback into new emergence. The noosphere blinked into existence, encircled the planet…and drove towards higher dimensionality. Planting and herding shot the roots of a new psychism deep beneath the telluric surface… branching out, dividing abstract productions of planetary space. Particular continental axes aligned, directed flows of being, energy, quality, food production, animal domestication, societal advantage. New convergences, concresences…membranes, cultures, spheres.