Confessions of a Self-conscious Intelligence

It is inescapable to visit again the crime scene and if you are an entity which is aware of its own being there, there is an intrinsic force that will push this intelligence in spilling out its own experience.

A frog, a lion, a chimpanzee or a baby have very different level of awareness, but they do share the same basic principle of cognition, which is distinguishing them from, say atoms, planet and tornadoes. What they fundamentally lack is self-consciousness, which is having awareness of your own being there in front of yourself.

The confessional mood is the universal state of self-conscious intelligence: if you are an alien, a computational machine or a god, you are in the game of revelations. Necessarily.

For aliens, robots and humans, it is kind of easy to show this common ground. If you are an entity of that sort, you started to be there at a certain point in time and space. Awareness of being there is primarily a temporal process and to recognize the permanence of the same identity in the train of changing instants, you need to deploy that awareness along the temporal flowing. Self-observation of the deployment is critical to match presence with the actual protagonist of that being there.

No matter the speed of the recognition, the content of the acknowledgement must be successive and more informative than the initial awareness. In other words, an intelligence must ping the acknowledgement of its presence to itself. Or tell the story of its temporal deployment in front of itself. When an intelligence recognizes its own presence as temporal deployment, that self-presentation contains the story of the recognition, which equates to a confession. This deposition occurs in time and self-awareness of being there requires a testimony in front of itself. Any self conscious intelligence must undergo the temporal deployment of its own recognition, in order to achieve self-presence in front of itself. Self-consciousness is the emergence of a jury that can assess the testimony. Precisely when the inquisitor realizes of standing in front as the subject of the inquiry, then you have a self-conscious acknowledgement We always forget that the actual sentence is irrelevant: does it make any sense to state that we are guilty or innocent of being self-conscious? 

It is more intricate the case of a god. The class of demi-gods, impermanent divinities and all the pantheon of mortal gods fall under the classification of aliens or machines: they started to be there and they will present some sort of confession. Different the situation with an absolute god (or for what matter, a transcendent intelligence, like a Cartesian cogito, a Catholic soul or a United Nation Consultant.

Since a divine intelligence can be out of time, it can be instantaneously present to itself. It doesn’t need any temporal deployment to be in front of itself. God’s conscience is fully articulated before time and if it is not affected by the changing of moments, its historical identity can be equal to itself when time will cease to exist. God can be self-conscious eternally. That’s it.

We just add a marginal note. For an observer like us, which is fully immersed in the historical process of change, the dialogue with an immutable, eternal intelligence results invisible. An absolute, perfect God will contain all the possible conversations before the history of their deployment will actually begin. There is no good cop – bad cop technique, no prisoner dilemma: our confession, our astute attempts to escape the interrogation, our wholeheartedly intention to disclose our secrets, everything has been heard already. Our confession is always late for an absolute self-conscious auditor.
I suspect that an absolute intelligence can entertain its own self-awareness outside of time, when the initial status is the same as the final, crossing the temporality of our universe unchanged. In this case that consciousness must be empty.


When a self-conscious intelligence enters temporality, its primary mode of revelation is the chronicle of manifesting the self in front of itself. The epiphany of an impermanent self-conscious intelligence cannot hide behind its coming to be. The entrance in the circle of existence is the revelation of consciousness, which can only happen in time. By confessing our being there, we execute our self-consciousness, but not matter how foretold, predictable or trivial our manifestation, our confession is stated only when we affirm it with our presence. This is the revelation of being: that a consciousness does say it.

A fictional proof of the existence of God:the rabbit in casserole

Back in the days Scholastic philosophy elaborated a bullet proof demonstration of the existence of God. We can think of God, which is the biggest, most sublime, Uber-paramount idea we could possibly entertain. Who put it there? Only God might have. Zac! 

You got it. If we can think of God then only God must concede himself to our mind. You are giggling? Not convinced? Maybe you find risible the Biggus Dickus argument that from our thinking we entail our own existence.

“I think, therefore I’m”.

Yet human minds always have found something magic in words. As if like the mere utterance of sounds CUM meaning, would produce an effect in reality. The more we worship the internal structure of language, the more we meditate in the empty hall of verbal building, the more names seem obviously to have powers of their own. The most intolerant Idealism is precisely the rise of words-thought to the throne of reality. I think, therefore I participate in the almighty divinity of consciousness, which is everywhere, which is everything. Therefore my thoughts are real, they are thing that constitute the nature of the universe.

But of course Idealism is actually a form of religion. And we know very well what happened to all religion in the West. They died. We know for a fact that the idea of God is a product of men’s thinking. We know for a fact that there are no spirits in the mathematical regularity of nature. In the universe there is only matter and all the riddles that torment human minds are created by misuse of language, thus, by an accurate police of our way of expression, we will get to the truth. IT COULD WORK.

If only we could make sense of impossible sentences like “The king of France is bold”: there is no such a thing of a king of France, yet our language can glide so smoothly on false surface??? And why “Transparent liquid on Earth is water” is true only if we point the chemical substance H2O? Why the correct usage of language has been anchored to reality only with the discovery of modern chemistry??? And what if we are in the matrix of vats for brains? What is fixing our expression to reality is we are not anchored to REAL thing, but only to a flux of information? Why??? Why if we randomly and assemble a sentence that by mere chance mirrors an actual true sentence of knowledge? Does our random sentence constitute an example of genuine knowledge? Why???

Well, the aseptic analytical philosophy of language, so impatient of finding mere deserts, actually found them: it is worshipping the divinity of language, like all the heat-stroked fanatics of God-desert, blinded by the undoubted dedication to the unique light in front of them. Guys, you are in the desert and that is a Kant-Mother-Fichte Star blasting all its nuclear fusion towards you. Turn!

We, nomads of those derelict, religious civilizations, we know that after the deposition of Gods, after the deposition of one, only God, the fanatic conviction in consciousness couldn’t stand still. We know that the mind itself, is a brain trick (thank you Patricia, and you Paul, you are awesome. Yeah, you married, tenured, published brains, you always are in my heart. Respect).

The mind is the hallucination of a community of brains to project virtual ecological niches where to play augmented cognitive performances. But the mind is empty. Nobody at home. Zero. It’s the hologram of a character played by a Homo Sapiens Sapiens body in social structures.

In the Demons of Dostoevsky, Stavrogin teases Satov the supposed believer about the existence of God. We can say a lot of nice and gracious words about faith and the projection of God. Basically the entire high hierarchy of the Catholic Church is convinced that God is actually a metaphor to help the sufferance of man. BUT to make the rabbit in casserole, all the sauce is not enough, not matter how logical, compassionate, goodhearted your deeds: you need the rabbit!

Well, we discovered that the casserole too is fictional, that the consciousness of men is fiction. That our experience of being self-conscious is fictional. Was it all a joke then??? What a cruel, infinite jest! The fake antagonist of Satov the believer is Kirillov, the humanist atheist. He discovered (and so did David Foster Wallace) the joke and the only way to solve the riddle, is to terminate the game by your own will. Shot the Brain-Sherif! Both Kirillov and Satov were puppets played by Stavrogin for his mere amusement, he knew that this is pure philosophy, just a game and it can be played only one way or the other. He killed himself as well.

So?

Well, there is no real rabbit and there is no real casserole, but we are still here, with our eyes wide open, and legs, and arms, and hearts, and sex, (thank you Nina), then something is there. Something is always there. I have a feeling that something is always near. You’ve sensed that something’s watching you. It’s a white rabbit and we follow him down the hole to see how deep it is. Always a mind happens when a cognition chases the trail left by another consciousness and when at dusk we finally reach the preceding mind, then it’s us leaving the footprints. Being the mind that our experience of self-consciousness is. Distant memories when we move the first steps, stumbling and then the first words, stammering, and all the game is just a loop. When you catch the character in the mirror, don’t be afraid to see a rabbit.   

     

           

Networks are my sunshine, tools are my guidance

Try to image a machine with a plan. Image an articulated series of clogs and circuit, Stretch your futuristic-fed imagination to your limits. 

Bring the fantasies of a Golem, with the technological visions of electrical augmented cognition. 

OK?

Good, now take a pair of scissors.

This is my object. Scissors carry the technology of a tool, intentionally projected to do its job.
I understand that the plot incorporated in paper cutters it is not exactly convoluted and Machiavellian enough for a TV series, yet there is something there.

There is intelligence to foresee a task, retrieve material in the surrounding to build and finally the executive portion of actual manufacturing. Not yet thrilled? OK, there is more. Scissors are also offering  guidance for the behavioural task of the agent. This is why there are right and left-handed scissors. If you wear the object, the tool will facilitate the execution. Tools guide your actions.

Now take your car and drive it. It’s handy, comfortable and enlarge your radius of action. And your waist, since the diminishing physical activity. Good. You can easily figure out how much intelligence in building a car and the rest. But this time try to drive your car from N’Djamena to Tripoli across the Sahara desert. What is the problem? Oh, you don’t find your sissy damper so comfortable on an African road? And wait a sec, but your tank looks so skinny and emaciated: only 800 kms. And where do you think you are going? Most of all: what do you think you are doing now? Petrol station? Oh, so sorry, the closest one is in Morocco. Bye Bye. 

What is the point? 

Well, paved roads and a network of petrol stations are extensions of a car. The car itself, alone, doesn’t work so well. Try to image what it means to have just one cellular phone: no antennas, no other devices. It is just a bunch of rare metals: no clock, no Candy Crush, no selfies. Oh, and no calls. Networks are the extension of a tool.

Now let's think to human brains. A bunch of organic matter, with some electricity, nutrients. To me it sounds like paper and flushing devices.

 

No surprise it is difficult to image consciousness in a “machine”. It is better when you place the brain in a body (or whatever will give responses like a body: say a vat and a supercomputer).

Now put that body in an ecological niche.
Much better, now we have some thoughts. And it was like that for a good 70-80k years. In fact anatomically modern human beings appeared on this planet around 150k. But only 60-70k years ago we started to discover behaviourally modern human beings.
What happened?
Tools and network. Cultural tools and cultural networks.  

We started to run procedures and practice that guided our actions. And also we infrastructured our brains in a network of referrals, extended cognitive workspace and projected meanings. THIS is the mind technology and it runs on narrative highways. In a nutshell your self-consciousness is the focus of a stream of cognitive holograms distributed narratively from all the accelerated brains that concurred to your platform of stories. 

   

Along the trails of ephemeral self-portraits

The vibes around you are buzzing. The people around you confirm that this is the place where you want to be. Right here, right now, you are the hero of the moment. It’s your moniker in this fragile fragment of the world and your arm extends, without thinking, like Zen-archery. You turn and brandish a smile towards an undetermined audience, to a virtual observer that is not here but is omnipresent and affirmative. And you click a selfie.

It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Sure, it was for teenage kicks, but now it’s the accepted behaviour of presidents. Are selfishness and attention-seeking increasing their influence on our construct of identity? Are we living in a virtual, continual streaming of entertainment, that is fast becoming real life? It’s nothing to worry about. We are merely exploring the possibilities of a new technological platform. But the truth is that human minds have always been fatally attracted to expressing themselves.

Anatomically modern humans were wandering on this planet for 150,000 years, but we only started to be self-conscious 77,000 years ago. Our cognition is designed to become aware of itself in front of itself, that is, to be self-conscious. It may be the complexity and capability of our cerebrum that is responsible for our humanistic imagination and rationalization, but those whirring cognitive cogs need a stage upon which perform.

The first touch screen was the wall of the Blombos Cave in South Africa. There they drew the projection of their imagination and inner thoughts, at long last extending their cognitive ability in front of themselves. On those rocks, you’ll find stories of hunting and worship, and above all handprints of lines and signatures of spots; the signs of the self-recognition of cognition and being aware, imprinted by the inventors of their own narratives.

They were modern men, interested in combing their hair and applying ochre to their skin. They were men who admired their own way of thinking whilst despising the ideologies of their adversaries. And from the organization of billions upon billions of synaptic connections, was born the epitome of representation, self-consciousness, to be human. It was then that the Ur-selfie was born. And it is since then that our accelerated brain has exploited every possible platform to mark its presence in front itself, not matter how ephemeral or temporary this manifestation could be.

Being became aware of its own presence, or so Heidegger would say. But the manifestation of self-consciousness is also the ultimate platform. From the cave’s wall, those first touch screens of representations bounced back thoughts and imagination in the form of words. This was the beginning of augmented reality, because words started to superimpose layer upon layer of complex information on the surroundings.

Our world is made up of the stories of the hundreds of generations and the millions of individuals who’ve left behind the narrative trail of their consciousness. Brains don’t love or hate, neither do they dress up or dine out. Do you really think that it is your brain going to work and loving your partner, or that it is your narrative, intermingled with those of all the people in your life, including Mandela and Miley Cirrus, that is giving you the augmented platform for your projections?

The selfie-technology of consciousness transforms every situation with opportunity to stage self-expressions. Some platforms grow, ripen and then die out. Some stories are convincing today, but tomorrow they’ll fade away. In the 1950s, owning a lawnmower epitomized the narrative projection of the desired lifestyle. Nowadays, even though you don’t need to change your iPhone more than your vacuum-cleaner, your consciousness craves to be better represented by the latest Smartphone than by a state-of-the-art Dyson.The revolution of information technology provided a new, powerful platform and when it became social, setting the stage for massive self-representation: your mark seen by a planetary audience. Selfies are so irresistible because our brain feels the same thrill it sensed all those millennia ago, the same euphoric ecstatic rebirth of self-consciousness, and all its storytelling experiences in this world.

With Google on the verge of introducing its G-Glasses, having the connectivity of a smart phone in front of your eyes will be a game changer of habits and thinking. Our own perception of the world, and consequently of ourselves, will be altered. Every time a brain approaches a stage, it has the chance to present itself in front of itself. Whether you’re a banker or a lawyer, every human brain, deep at its core, is an artist. Just as it was back in Blombos, it is now.

Poker of a Feast of HologramsIt’s just not you

“So I’m nothing!” I sighed with conviction and a tone of desperation in the backdrop. I attracted the attention of a totemic ancestor with the form of a chubby kangaroo. “Don’t worry, it’s just the alcohol. It happens when you are not used to drink a literary infinite amount of it. And she doesn’t deserve all of this. You’ll find a better one.” I thanked the wise words of the enlightened being, but politely I made the point that I was a bit more philosophical, that I was realizing the hologrammatic nature of consciousness and its consequent ephemerality. The big kangaroo frowned its forehead, expressing clear concern and worry and clutch his gigantic glass even tighter. “Oh, so THAT is it”. Ordering another pitcher of Ardbeg, the comforting marsupial drew a scheme.

The scream of consciousness  is the realization of being a being. It is the real birth of mindfulness but it costs the pain of ephemerality and mortality. The enlightened kangaroo continued. We have the outrageous luck of feeling the awareness of being a being. It is the bliss of a second. In that instant when we grasp the illusion of totality, when we pretend of being the sweetheart of the universe. Well THAT’s it. It is really everything. It’s just not “you”. But you attend the cosmic show of consciousness of someone. When you dedicate all your mind and heart to a divinity, we are actually drinking all the most beautiful dedication and worshipping and even more. We breathe horizons of bliss destined to the infinite, supreme beings of the universe. We do when we simply are ourselves, when we spend one minute in thinking that we know we are alive. The trick is that, again, it’s not you. When you are able to clean the stage from the biographical pettiness of your actual worries and aspirations and start to

clean your mind to leave room for the infinite compassion of the Celtic Virgins, and the lady always ready to feel for YOUR pain, Mary and the Fairy with Turquoise hair, and the nurse that is changing your delirious sheets, when you make your awareness the temple to worship this compassion, when you leave the temple empty, that is when you get it.

 

Feel the extension without limits of the new gods, replacing infinite spaces of divinity from the old ones. Doesn't it sound cool, does it? Well, it’s always you. Not the biographical, passportish you, not the physical person that is associated with your national insurance. But at the same time it is the collection of your personal and private memory: you need to travel across your own experience, the small moments when you learn to walk, the large hug of mother when you fall down, the birthday party, school, writing nonsense that slightly does acquire sense, playing with the other kids, kicking the ball from noon to dusk.

The particulars are yours. It’s just not a matter of ownership. You don’t have it. You don’t have yourself. It’s only when you lose yourself, that you find yourself. Thank you giant kangaroo, nice that you like Depeche Mode too.

So bitter and so sweet. Probably it’s the second pitcher of whiskey. But there is some wisdom in this projections of identity. If my consciousness it’s not me, but the hologram of narratives surrounding me, it means that my own certainty of being here is no more real than the existence of Pinocchio.

Oh, Hi bro, here you were!    

The trinity in A feast of holograms:Same old story. The very same one

Dostoevsky gave me the string, but as a reader I pulse with the plot. The narrative beam of the fictional character hits me and my cognitive reaction bounces back a real person. From shadows cast on a mind, you encounter another consciousness in flesh and bone. From the narrative puppet, a guiding voice talks to you. Fictional characters populate your conscience not less than teachers of your childhood. When you do something shameful and despicable, your mum/master/ elder brother/ the monk Tichon resonate in your brain. Maybe JC. I think that you have enough information now about my mate Pinocchio to say something about him, to judge him. Unfairly. But still, you could make educated guesses about him. You could invite him for a party, but maybe to leave him your house during an absence. Does Pinocchio sound more real than my grandfather? And Stavrogin? And JC?

This is the ontological Doppler effect of consciousness. “Thickness” of reality is proportional to the proximity of the subject. Real persons are always closer to subject. Fictional characters are credible in proportion of their distance to a real consciousness. 

Pinocchio sounds less credible than Stavrogin. My grandfather sounds thicker than a totemic ancestor. 

“I” is more real than “you”. 

Yet the self is a projection no more and no less than the narrative unfolding of Stavrogin and Pinocchio.

Stavrogin is really a string of deeds and lines. 

So it is Napoleon and Julius Cesar. So are JC and the totemic ancestors. Hang on a minute! I can hear the boiling impatience of the skeptic, of the mundane pragmatic. Napoleon and Julius Cesar manipulated portion of real matter, they left traces of their deed that can be actually discovered. There is a proper causal chain. Buddhas and totemic ancestors are less real. 

Oh, so the manipulation of reality made by all those fellows under their influence don’t count? People are guided by deed and lines that they value and hold important. Your ideals, your creed, your beliefs support your consciousness with a scaffolding of meanings and articulations.  But there is more. Our cognitive highways, the series of thoughts supported by synaptic interactions, are string of deeds and lines.

Brains are controller of primate behaviours and habits. When they are accelerated in the cultural environment that support their cognitive augmentation, they make experience of their own complexity. Kaboom! A brain travels along the cultural structuration of its society and it is trained to make experience of other brains, already accelerated. A child’s brain is forced by other consciousness to step on the stage of human deeds, she’s dragged to play roles, to follow stories and to start to tell some. One representation after the other she acquires the technology of trailing narrative footprint and to leave traces of her own. One day, the day when Logos has always been, it appears consciousness, raining like an event in the brain of the child, but opening for the first time the space of self-consciousness.

 

We are “just” a hologram of the narrative crossover of our ancestors, our mates, our fantasies and our aspirations. This tiny circle where our nervous system is concentrating its focus is what it is making you say: “me”. When the streams of narratives, from the overlapping of other holograms finally reach the acceleration point in your brain, the excruciating tenderness of awareness about being there screams its presence in front of itself. “I’m” she cried, the consciousness. This is it. This is everything. Pure totality. And sooner that it takes Pinocchio to down a shoot of tequila, it is gone. I remember granpa for his 80^th birthday. 80 years, they are a lot. And where they all gone? Passed so quickly. Not THAT quickly. Yet very fast. And sadly for Chomsky, but I guess these propositions have been uttered many times in many languages, down till the first ancestors, when they started to realize about their being a being.

The excruciating pleasure of being alive and of knowing it brings the shadow of its fate to disappear. Always. This totality, this universe, will disappear, like the shadow it is. This universe is just the hologram of many narratives and when the perfect alignment of matter and words that permitted its ephemeral existence, will break the harmony of the projection, the totality will cease to exist. And that’s all right. Or so told me the dear fellows at the ENBELAUSOCLU. 

A feast of holograms Part2:Guess the fictional one

Desponded but with a pitcher of Ardbeg in my hand, I was mumbling on Granpa’s revelations. Now, image I’m sitting with you where you are. What’s wrong in my train of thought? We have Pinocchio, my grandfather and some very good, inspiring beings, including a guy who pretends to be: the son of god, your brother and god. Either we are experiencing some logical holiday, or it is a poetic expression to say that we are all brother and all divine, or the Catholic theology is right and THIS bread IS really MEAT.

Well, divinities can be substantial entity, they can weight and talk and sweat ( and swear).

Or they are projections. Ah, projections. In Sri Lanka I was reflecting about offers on a temple's altar: they give "real" rice to their projected divinities. And who’s benefiting from this superstition? Ants, banqueting on the combined offers for Hindu gods and Buddhist deities. Oh yeah, just projections. And your offer has been physically devoured. You bring an offer in the form of a meal and that lunch is eaten.
Job done.  

OK, so projections are misallocated attributions?

I wish I could slap you so hard…Focus!

We have: Pinocchio, Jesus and my Granpa. Who is fictional? I swear I know my grandfather was a real person. I really met him, many times. I ate his chocolate, listened patiently to his rants against the government. I said farewell to him when it was time and I wasn’t there when he died. But he was a real person.

Now for Pinocchio. Pinocchio is real as Nikolay Stavrogin is. I’m very fond of the writings of Dostoevsky. I know his characters, their psychology. What I mean it’s not just that I have knowledge of their lines in the books, their role in the plot, their fictional function. I know them as persons. “Impossible”. Slap.

I immersed myself in the Dostoevsky world. He was a genius in giving impressions and feeling. He made more than an effort to be comprehensible. Actually he dug very deep in human nature, in YOUR human nature, so that your deep, petty feelings, your ridiculous ambitions, but also your great heart or your unconditioned love, could be in tune with the story. He was trailing YOUR thought so you could pulse with his story. 

That is why his characters are not living on the moon: they are figures of real persons. Do I know everything of what Stavrogin did when it is not told in the book? No. But the same stands for my friends, my relatives, my love. After vodka, myself. I know enough Stavrogin to know him personally, to know the depth of his psychology as I would for a person I meet in the real world. But Stavrogin is a fictional character, is “bi-dimensional”! He is just a string of deeds and lines. Double slap.

No.

(to be continued...) 

A feast of Holograms: “I am” she criedUnexpected trail of ancestors

Last evening I was having a spliff with my friend Pinocchio. I’m not comfortable with this, since smoking for a wooden puppet is not always safe and wise, but what can you do? We were seated just outside our local, the only pub open on the dark side of the moon. You know, it’s a quite deep provincial place: nothing happens and you resort to hallucinate yourself to feel of being alive. A bit like everybody in every other shit hole everywhere else…

So finally we decided to do something and with a bit of arrogance, lack of alternatives and high dosage of psychotropic substance in our blood, we made a move to the swankiest club on the moon: the ENBELAUSOCLU or the Enlightened Being Labour Union Social Club. They meet only after work, but since they are enlightened beings, well, it runs non-stop. And with that I mean, eternally.

So Pinocchio and I stepped in and…well with our great surprise at the moment, but not very much with hindsight if you consider the exact character of the patrons, they welcomed us wholeheartedly, genuinely and without a hitch whatsoever. Immediately we have been introduced to all the guys and would you image what is the most common greeting among enlightened beings? Exactly! “Hi bro”. 

But again, you should expect they are pretty cool. Pinocchio and I,feeling more and more confident, decided to hit the bar, almost unconsciously. And guess what? There was one! And a magnificent type I must say. A bit like the Graal in Indiana Jones, it is not a posh, Dubaiesque, super-fashion kind of parlour, but a frank, efficient saloon. Why so good? It has everything! Seriously: Ardberg, Beluga, Morellino but also Arnais, Lison, Exmoor Beast, or even Priorat. 

Why magnificent? 

Open bar. 

Yes my friend, I had almost to console Pinocchio: he was in tears, sobbing like a child, which is funny because all its joints were clinking like maracas. 

Anyway, we were sipping a Chianti in our pint glasses, when we finally started to look at the amazing frequenters of the place.

There was literally everybody: at least a couple of dozen of Buddhas, Bayazid in great shape, JC, a couple of very pale Celtic virgins, a handful of shamans, several totemic ancestors, two VERY old guys, Wittgenstein (probably the most unease one in the place: not a smile), Madiba, Quetzalcoatl. I was staring at all these wonderful souls in a state of admiration and confusion, when suddenly I spotted Granpa. MY Granpa, walking arm in arm with the Fairy with the Turquoise hair. Don’t take me wrong, my grandfather was a nice man, a generous, solid elementary teacher. But his biggest accomplishment towards universal harmony was to have deserted the army during the war. Twice, the same war.

I shouted with a piercing voice “Granny, wa'dayuidduing here?”. I fainted, probably because of the strong emotion and also for the firm slap from one of the druids (with a fish). 

Bad vibes are fairly matched in the ENBELAUSOCLU. 

Patronizing with ancestors, fault.

When finally I could start a conversation, Guanyin was sweaping my forehead with a wet towel, and obviously my first uttered expression was: “Thank you”. 

If only I could remember to start that way always! 

Damn! 

But not always the Goddess of Mercy is refreshing your deranged head. Fair point. Anyway: back to the story.

First: start with “turning off the light” with my ear. Basically twisting my auricular devices till crying. Then he commenced to share wisdom with amiability. Remembering that enlightenment is mainly a low profile: if you are too focused in stating that you are enlightened, good chances you are not. No reason why your old ones shouldn't be enlisted. 

Second: enlightenment is not about super powers, your neighbor with lawnmower could be one. Just not likely. 

Third: have you smoked again with Pinocchio? I told you it’s not good, especially for him, since it’s a wooden puppet. 

Fourth: we are all living beings and enlightenment is first and foremost being aware of being a being. We started many years ago (many) with some protein chains. 

They weren't aware. 

Long story short: some “things” of matter started to be aware of their own presence. AKA: first mindfulnessed ancestors (thank you totemic uncles). Enlightenment is a cherry on consciousness. So all your lineage till the first ancestors, are actually telling you something about the light of being. Don’t be surprised then to see relatives in this cognitive heaven.

At this point me and Granpa went on different paths. Literally. I wasn't convinced and he took the Fairy with Turquoise hair somewhere. 

I had to talk to Pinocchio quickly. But where was he gone? 

Desperation, abandon, loneliness. 

Many questions, few twists and irremediably here’s the bar.