When I was an undergraduate studying Humanities (literature/philosophy/art), I came across a story about the poet T.S. Eliot’s late-in-life conversion to Anglicanism. (Or something vaguely Christian like that.)

As a barely recovering X-tian myself at the time, I was damn disappointed in the man.

Forty years later, I am doing the same thing.

Sort Of.

***

In spite of Faggin and Kastrup’s relatively rigorous appeal to Physics, there is not yet any kind of hard-headed left-brain proof that we Absolutely Are conscious shards of a greater Consciousness; ripples on the great lake or momentary whirlpools in the great ocean.

In the absence (yet) of such incontrovertible evidence, I am choosing to place my heathen faith in the theory anyway.

And out beyond that, in the theory that Civilization was and is, on balance, a bad idea.

In so doing, I am not taking the rite as a clerical Analytical Idealist, or being baptized in the pagan truth of Anarcho-Primitivism.

But I am staring metaphorically at the cave art of Lascaux and Altimira and and using that perception within “my””self” to cræft a simulacrum of religious ecstasy.

I am opening my eyes to the flashing colors of the Transcendental at the end of 2001 according to Stanley, and Meditating upon them.

I have brooding intentions in the direction of de-domesticating myself.

I am forming sentences, right now and every day, about those intentions.

And I am abiding in the heavenly glow of knowing when to stop making sentences and get on with this conscious play I call my life.