Could the regularity of this dense fabric called reality be directly related to the variation of its temperature? Well, if the goal were to identify with certainty, the basic nature of existence, then what follows may not be a “Waldo” amidst the distracting crowds of look-a-likes, impostors, and phoneys (plus the hundreds of dispersed regulars for a good measure of confusion) but i reassure you that this will be easily nominated for the “Oh, Please be Reality” award at next years Ig-Nobel Prize ceremonies.
Temperature, time and spice – three major factors in cooking a good dish of perspective. They’re also integral to the developmental geology of an individuals’ sense of meaning and purpose in life; for some like the hot climates; some relish the recreational short stroke; others, get giddy with pleasurable anticipation for the zing of a good ginger-coconut curry soup. Life would be a bore to abhor the array of delights at our disposal, and on a structural level, admonishable if further devaluing our lucid experiences as regular or lacking complexity. How easy it is to loose that everyday sublimity in life, as Manly P. Hall would have agreed, in a compromise for whatever comes with the desired stability of convenience, other than a cheap, soggy, hamburger and four green lights in a row. So invite the monkey into your home, show it all the wonderful things you adore and how much they define you, shaping your notions of normality, then give the monkey a wrench and allow it to freely make any number of thoroughly unscientific adjustments to the black and white static of regularity which grease the gears in this comically monochromed’ world.
Indeed, there are easier ways of making this point (stand on your head at sunset and see new color bands that were overlooked before; allow a child to lead you through the front yard as you attentively follow with avid sincerity, soon realizing the primal joy of catching crickets and chasing of chickens; substitute talking to someone with staring at them, and they at you, for many long moments in an agreed silence. . . eventually their face will change shapes in subtle ways which fades those familiar features into something delightfully delirious) – yet this is no time for making easy points. No – points are without intrigue and simply connect lines from dot to dot in expectable ways such that enough lines make a plane, and its plain to see our waking existence occurs beyond the flat world of one-dimension and two-dimensions. This world, as well, leaves much to be desired, and at the moment is relatively fit and psychologically sound enough to receive a dose of heavy criticism without fracturing into an wildly unstable Twilight Zone episode; so, let us observe that even the commonly agreed upon consensus-trance of the obtusely angular three-dimensional earth is questionable as to its intrinsic completeness. Carl Sagan delivered the conundrum best when his paper cut-out-character looked up into the sky, saw a sphere, then flipped out, tripped out, and lost its stomach which spewed out the spitting image of a rainbow. Or at least, Mr. Sagan demonstrated some of that. Nevertheless, upchucking 3-D chunks of a 2-D breakfast in full colour will assuredly shake the foundations of one’s perspective. So how can we know there’s not a 4-D world waiting to be glimpsed, or felt, or heard, or sneezed – however it may be experienced through some semblance of meta-recognition.
I posit that other realms exist beyond this Waldo world of mundanity, and they are directly regulated by temperature. As Tesla said, if you want to understand the universe, think in vibrations and think about wavelengths. This is the corollary pathway we now walk, from the structural vibration of a thing to its differences in measurable temperature. Because matter tends to be more molecularly steady when cold and more enlivened when activated by heat, cannot this fabric of time and space have fluctuations as well? It’s much akin to water’s three different states of being. Furthermore, if Bruce Lee outlived his fate of Kowloon Tong’s “mis-adventure,” he’d be a incredibly wise seventy-five year old guru today, who scrambles basic physics for breakfast, chows down on uniformity for lunch, and before grilling modern philosophy for dinner with a dash of theologic-pimiento, he would Jeet Kune Do any remaining sub-structures he hadn’t made into a 1-inch knuckle sandwich for his afternoon tea break.
Segueing with the fun coincidence that the name Bruce Lee rhymes with entropy, why not just accept what’s coming: “[reality is] formless. . . shapeless. . . it can flow or it can crash. . . making its way through cracks. . . be water my friend,” and with that said, the TV host, Jimmy, politely nods a dull gesture of feigned understanding, then shifts the topic to Bruce’s intimate love affairs and the ratings soar into outer space! Yet, to make this make sense in a direct macrocosmic way, consider temperature affecting our reality in the sense of a newly invented deity known as the Cosmic Kitten –
Holt it . . . . that is shifting too quickly in an unreasonable manner; apologies. Backing up….
The world as we know it, is an ice-cube: solid, 3-dimensional, and very watery. If we want to structurally decipher the building blocks of this world then we melt the ice cube. In melting, the molecules de-solidify as the water’s temperature increases, leading to one’s understanding of how the 2-D puddle of existence beneath us is structurally different but made of exactly the same material, H2O. Allowing the temperature to further equalize to the surrounding (a cozy eighty-eight degrees ferinheight as is common here in Northern California during such confused Indian Summers) the ambient heat emits more caloric joules of energy which make the flat puddle slowly re-shape itself into an airy existence of vapour. Now reality exists in a higher vibration; in a very opposite way from the clinging puddle, or the stoic block of ice. It floats ghostly here and there, mixing with oxygen, carbon-dioxide, and those playful SCOBY gangs of yeasty bacterias that are king-cruisers of the air ways. It was as if Merlin swirled his magical molecular wand breaking free the original cube of solididity, shifting it down to the 2-D plane, where it presently vanished into a sort of 1-D collection of net-data points that bobble in the sea of space, like a murmuration of starlings at the whims of atmosphere’s moods drifting through the mountain’s diverse range of misty gradients.
(No, the wind is not a woman, but it is, however, very influential and exciting; read: love is like flying a kite.)
But here’s the catch of the day: with reality back in its steady ice-cube state, let’s forget the higher-vibrations of existence, causing New Agers’ doubtful anxiety, and drop the temperature to the hellish depths of sub-zero, to discover how this diatomic end of the spectrum, a new water-based existence is hidden. By radically temp-fluxing the form right out of the 3-D world and popping it into a 4th dimensional crystal undertone, we enter a new phase of reality, the holographic “Hyper-Cube!” Out there, in the brisk quanta of it all, grand overlappings’ of strings of gluons become unglued, tachyons loose all material tackiness, and quarks are no longer dorks in disguise, now, they are full fledged John Travoltas of this strange neo-science, opening all dynamic disco-doorways to allow glimpses into the hip jousting holographic hyper-cube reality.
And how else would this hypercube exist, other than the obvious: floating in the fourth-phase plasma of a cosmic cocktail (that occult mixture of mediums and miss-mashed matter) held in the mittens of a colossally large kitten, as it lounges in a yet to be illuminated meta-verse. While its tricky being astray in the dark alleys of an unfamiliar reality, its easy to be the cool cat sipping on its drink – chilled by the hyper-cube – who may not know it all, but certainly acts like it; a lazy, well groomed, confident reposer whose furry presence reclines across the divan of many universes. For us however, the realm of the hyper-cube is obscured by what is not known of it, that being most everything, since time in untamed here; space has lost face; and rules are irregular as well, leaving basic 4th dimensional structure plenty room to play. And play it does, with the heart-drums and soul-strings of less refined dimension-hoppers, freshly arrived from the Waldo world. They’re picked up and plucked to the far-out melodies of fringe fabulation. Some travellers are quickly whisker’d away into tangential adventures unrelated to any research or documentation for future generations sake; wandering like a pigeon in a park through gloriously unimaginable wu-wu scenarios, such as encounters with nebulous sentient blobs, who speak with a soft alien demeanour regarding their 12th Day Inventist doctrine’s “free neural material from the holo-libraries” as divined from their ancient ancestor Llyod McFly; and internal party-worlds, existing amongst the diversity of the cosmic cat’s intestinal tracts, where the designer-drug T. Gondii is a real mind-trip! And not only is this hyper-dimension completely enticing, but it may be cognitively invisible to most standard eye-holes as we humans have. If a biped traversing such fantastically iridescent shores, lined with thermally inflated gyro-umbrellas, pan-dimensional Gargle-Blasters, and lapis-morphic-waves massaging any remaining subjectivity to the point of a truly joyous embrace with wavering insanity. . . could he cognitively process any of it’s uncanny sensory stimulations?
Assuming the experiencer did gain even a small insight into any of the these marvels – it would be apparent that all prior forms of watery existence are simply runoffs of the superiorly symmetric and stunningly stylish hyper-cube, and all such efforts to explore the higher realms of existence beyond the ice-cube are not only noble, but risky, in large part from the varying variables of fluctuating time-waves, inter-dimensional interference from yotta-flop broadcasting stations, and the extreme unpredictability of how 4-D inhabitants would react to us buffooning Waldo-ers’ marooning ourselves into this new dimension like impromptu party crashers, transverse’ing up the wrong end of the jello-booby-ladder (which most 4-D-ers’ know, is strictly meant for punishing silly children who’ve misbehaved and require the penitence of climbing atop the ladder only to be greeted by a bird’s nest full of fresh scat, where one must sit in reflection for a few dozen hyper-cube years).
“Wait!” exclaims Common Sense, “all this is happening in the ice-cube of a big cat’s beach drink?” And a compassionate caregiver named Random Reason retorts, “of course! all this and more, mi’ amore.”
Non of this is necessarily disconcerting, but the perspective would be a large burden to bear – knowing that we exist in a world that’s just a chip off the greater cube of existence, and from this blocky business of everyday life, further facades unravel as life slips into a stream of even simpler stagnation, the liquid-puddle-state, from which a communist existence of Dottist’ lifeforms arise en-mass, individually drifting through the collective ether to the promised land.
By chance, that gaseous world of their heavenly afterlife happens to be what makes up the behemoth kitten’s atmosphere in hyper-space, thus completing the cycle quite neatly, but giving the cat fits of coughing-up stubborn hairballs of undesired H2O coagulations which, hoping for a dip into the waves of formless freedom, slipped by the inter-dimensional bouncer – sadly, the pseudopodium of ganglia grifters get a grip and the molecules are regulated back outside to the waiting line wrapped around the cold, cubic, street corner of normal reality. Ironically, in the end, it was the rules and regulations of the fourth dimensional feline’s oesophagus that ultimately imposed on the visitors. A people whom are all too familiar with the litigious nature of an over-orderly world.
Nevertheless, with all caution taken and advisories respectfully heeded, if the opportunity presented itself to be a Johnny Mnemonic–and no offence to the rest of reality–the raves, waves, and babes would be old news as a this future horoscope dawns and sinks it’s surreal teeth in, like a cerebral port, jacked-in to this hyper-verse; pulsing with apex-resolutions of 4-D ultra-graphics in a realm laden with liquid-fiber fantasies, yet causing none of the post-rush jitters from street-grade pharmaceuticals. Yes – we know it takes snow to surf the slopes, or ice to skate the arena, but to truly thrash the crypto-waves of the intangi-verse, all you need is a chilly mindset to shatter all the pre-conceived norms of a square-world (or ecliptic for that matter) because the cool calm of warped is sneakily waiting, here and there, in immaterial corners. So, let the mind lead, the imagination set sail, and chill out!
May the tao be with you.