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.   

     

           

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.