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—–The world does not unfold in time, but a complete world descends upon us every moment, with just one moment added. We are receptive, made to see a past that is always there in our thoughts. We just get the impression we are linked to something, but in fact we are being driven deeper into complete mystery. One big clue that this is the case is that it is impossible to mentally construct an indifferent, disconnected past, like for study; or indulge the slightest memory, without doing so in thought. Everything is loaded. I mean we meet up with our past like some injured friend. “Where have you been?” he says. Oh, I was out galavanting in the present day! Life is always after the fact, and this is entirely consistent with the obvious impossibility . . . of experiencing the world as a series of consecutively meaningful events. We can only look back, are only equipped to look back. The setting itself is a swarming in the eyes! But compelling, and meaningful–connections are explicit, obvious; meaning is everywhere! In fact, it is embarrassing, this surplus of meaning. Shall I go on? One recognizes oneself, and they are blushing. I guess we figure the world can be established, any old time, hitched onto the present scene. And ready for recall.
—–I say! The heart of memory, close to you, is the memory itself, of course. Do not ask whether it is accurate! It is the repeated moment that is the moment. But this could not be unless the consistency was established wholesale, in every blink of an eye. I said the world does not unfold in time, but a complete world descends, like rain; we walk out of the rain, into a sun-splashed arena. Now it is the slightly more established, brand new version of the world, the apparently slightly older world, that we have here; it has descended upon us like a ready made carousel. We are on a carousel. The world is obviously a public spectacle, available to all, and shared by all. Some people are completely acclimated to this quiet explosive scene, as they stroll about and talk, of sports and weather, politics, without asking where it came from–this world. I am not one of them; I think I have to account for it, or I will disappear.
—–The carousel was made today out of the air, and look–it looks just like it lasted more than a century, it is so old-fashioned. We can project it in our reveries, as if it did contain all its predecessors, in every year in a serial back to when it was, in some fabulous former time, brand new. There was no former time, though, that was like this, brand new. This past is a grand illusion, and an ordinary miracle. Thus are even important events we strive to connect, as they seem in our reasoning to contain sufficient cause . . . But no, it is only the world, the seeming past of the world, which is secured by this process, as if it were a sturdy ramp to walk out on. Not the future. Nothing is created that can produce a future, out of the matrix of what exists. The field is inert, but always a new moment must replace it totally. This is the absolute power, a whirlwind constantly on the spot, at the vortex and at the outer edge.
—–There is no direct correlation between the body and this spectacle, but the body is deposited, flexed anew every day by some internal power, and empowered to walk into what appears to be a visible, already made, historical world. But no world can produce its immediate successor, which is so much like it that, indeed, it appears they are linked–no, forward motion does not exist, that is why you stand, under an umbrella, safe, wild in your thoughts, on a carousel, time and the mystery whirling. All causation is discovered as a theory. It must be the way I am describing it, because the way I am describing it accounts for memory also, memory the impossible phenomenon!

—–Memory is always traceable to some present association; in fact no one can just close their eyes and remember anything. Try it! What you get is a void. In order to remember you have to experience something that calls the memory to mind. This is why I say that memories are not a lingering of the past; instead, the past is always there in the brand new world that is fixed up every moment. Because the creator is aware of the coherence, and we are not. And that coherence is not what we make of it, short-term even, and certainly ultimately. It is a mystery. Getting deeper. Mystery is my focus and occupation. Now I have come to realize how silly, how reprobate it ever was, to assume that mystery was just an element in the picture, a little technical problem with life, or that any semblance of life could happen or persist without mystery at its core. And how therefore if mystery was not secondary, or pitched into irrelevance, it must be instead extremely relevant. That blankness, that gap, that question, that consciousness, must be the theme, and focus of all inquiry. It couldn’t be a former part of the world, or a processing factor in experience; it must be the whole point of life, to face and blast right through the mystery.

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