Your Consciousness Isn’t Full Of “You”–“You” Are Made Piecemeal
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Notes by TK
Consciousness is a kind of low-intensity illusion. The cerebral cortex is a thin screen upon which all the words and images of consciousness appear. Consciousness is like the ‘flash heater’ for hot water in a bathroom vs. a 50 gal. water heater. It heats water only as you use it—there is no reservoir of hot water backing the hot water tap.
Likewise there is no history substrate of a ‘you’ filling consciousness; there is only the instant production of sense-of-self cum memory cache raised in reflex reaction to some foregoing triggering thought. It is a momentary affair but repeated constantly, giving the sense of continuity and integrity of selfhood—’I-ness’.
Another metaphor: the interior of a computer is circuit boards and data storage devices. You don’t see words and pictures therein. That is seen only on the monitor screen when a key is touched and that is its depth. The guts of the computer are not the depth and reality of what appears on the screen. The cache of memories acts like a database accessed by a central processing unit (CPU) which is then flashed upon the monitor, that flash being the sensation of ‘I’ along with the feeling of substance and complexity piggybacking on the physical presence of the body.
The CPU uses its many names for itself (e.g., ‘my mind’, ‘my memories’, ‘my soul’, etc.) to inflate its reality rather than say that it (a process and register) is what is actually doing the thinking/talking. Seeing this changes everything: suffering drops away. (37:36) #3158
Jan’s Daily Fresh Real News (to accompany this talk)
BEING IMPRISONED TWICE
DOESN’T EQUAL FREEDOM
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The One Eyed’s Inequitable Escape Route
JUNE 9, 2004 © 2004: JAN COX
Looking up from the books spread on the table before him a man mused:
“The many tales of mystical adventures and spiritual quests are not only fascinating,
but enlightening — when you finally understand the origins of them all,”
and the librarian said: “Shhh — don’t think so loud.”
Who else is as fortunate as the real-deal man:
everything he wants to know and everywhere he wants to go is in him.
(And while we’re on such subjects: a special private notice to
nervous system explorers: The Road To Ruin is closed.
Also, as long as we’re here, this medical update pertinent to those
who have moved into rebel territory:
Men who constantly speak of their health are sick —
and with a malady that can and must be cured [the method being too obvious to note.])
The leader of one expeditionary band had tattooed on his upper arm the words:
“An Ordinarily Serious Man Is A Damned Pathetic Man,”
(and next to it he had surgically implanted a small mirror………….facing his way).
People are satisfied to live in prison for the same reason they live in
each other’s thoughts:
the ostensible solemnity of the herd helps stabilize the lives of individuals,
as publicly shared ideas do their consciousness.
The Somatic Goes Incorporeal.
Just like gonads: neurons are born followers.
In himself, one day a man posed:
“Isn’t all the mystical-tradition stuff little more than taking everyday existence,
(which is already unnecessarily too complicated) and just making it more so?!”
Fact For The Real-Deal Knight.
Consciousness active in a certain unconventional manner can raise questions
which on their literal surface could seem dismissive (even scornful),
but which in the man trying to get to the bottom of things,
can point him to singular and astounding realizations.
“Pa pa: is this why in private: nothing is off limits in the nervous system rebel’s
“Another Sherlock Holmes run for you, me lad.”
Magazines have Letters To The Editor sections for the same reason that
people begin sentences with: “You know” —
reporters report on the activity of reporting because of the monotony of the news;
men believe that collectively: “They know The Truth”
so they won’t have to face up to them not, individually (and lastly):
due to all of the above: real-deal knights insist on being knights
regardless of what ever comes of it.
In an effort to encourage his own march onward:
one man decided to feel sorry for himself only every other Thursday.
From one view the whole notion of there being a mystical-tradition
could be pictured as coming from would-be knights of the past
who feared there might not actually be such a tradition.
The chariots of Caterpillonious (the god of transportation) must continually
lay down a highway in front of themselves on which to proceed.
“Pa pa: is this why any place the mind imagines it wants to go
turns out to always be there?”
“How can the Hatter’s mad tea party not go exactly as he wishes.”
“Is this why man’s consciousness can clearly operate in a particular manner,
yet not realize it?”
“How can you phone yourself and ever get the wrong number.”
Whilst strolling amidst prison’s many and endlessly busy activities a man mused: “Once you recognize the glue that holds all of this together —
you understand that there is no such glue.”
(More precisely put for the true explorer):
In the man’s picture of things, the: “glue,” and: “all-of-this” are the same thing.
There was once a Prince who aspired to a special science
for which he developed a secret mechanism for studying the skies:
his day of his ultimate success came unexpectedly —
when he finally realized that the mechanism was producing the picture of the sky.
In a certain rebel camp this is known as:
The Certain Corner A Real-Deal-Man Must Finally Turn —
after which his consciousness can never permanently return to its previous size.
The active investigator does not have particular days to celebrate
(in that all of his days are celebratory) — but this is one — in fact: the supreme one.
From a quite valid perspective: the great mystical undertaking could be pictured as
a struggle between the necessary, stabilizing force of the collective,
and an uncommon individual’s desire to be internally a true individual.
The one essential for the real-deal-knight is
a castle that is impenetrable from the outside — entirely open within.
Also: The outlier investigator derives no morals from what he discovers.
“Is that why it is so quiet in rebel territory?”