Field Notes

As I picked up the garden hose to water the backyard plants the wave hits me like it always does. Unexpectedly. Where is this? Who am I? How come the only answers we come up with are the ones we make up? And why are we making it up?

Those aren't really questions as much as they're recognitions. I don't feel like I have to accept anything because what would that be. It's more like the wave is a reminder — hold your ideas loosely. Keep your beliefs soft enough that they register like watering the plants. You don't have to remind yourself of any of this because it's just happening, and the stories aren't explanations, they're something for the mind to play with in the meantime.

When I say that no belief is true that isn't me insulting a person's believing — it's a fact about location and the asymmetry our ideas have with void. I'd say with reality but that's a concept so far-fetched I find it difficult to use in a sentence, even though I just did.

Believing whether or not a belief is true or false doesn't change its relationship with the unchanging.

The medium needs a medium too.

Sometimes I wish I wasn't having these thoughts. But is that what's happening — me having thoughts? That can't be a serious question, so I don't think of it as such. Thoughts are happening.

Are my thoughts different from others' thoughts? Now that's a question. Don't we all have the same thoughts? Like thoughts are oxygen. They are the air that surrounds us. Which thoughts become my thinking is truly a mystery to me — they are just there. Like smoke that drifts in from a fire in a location that's not my proximity, and then, it is, they become mine somehow and I feel the ownership by the way I use them to enforce a structure that pretends to hold me until the air clears and the smoke is a memory of me and the wave and the rhythm of every ordinary moment.

The afternoon medication is beginning to kick in. This isn't the kind of medication one can just stop taking. The afternoon — that's when the sensation of full exposure would become panic. Does the void need to speak to me in person again? I hope not. Once in a lifetime is all an individual requires.

I felt the horror. The nervous system produced the terror and I felt that too, indirectly. Something was buffering. Providing the oxygen for the environment. The edge is everywhere. It simply waits for a moment when the gatekeeper wanders away from the threshold of the human theater, and that's not as far as one might think.

Relaxed. Clear-minded. I feel as if I can feel the manufactured nature of human fear rise and fall but not register within me. I feel the comfort of the piano music playing in the headphones that isn't a distraction. The music softens everything and I soften into the softening.

I can literally feel the music is saying something but it doesn't have lyrics. Its meaning is entirely interpretive, and I feel the mind interpreting it without words.

That is the edge that is everywhere once your hiding place has been exposed. Like a game of hide and seek we play with our own conscience. We keep a secret hiding place then the mind goes in search of it.

That was the brain injury. The eight months. The psylocibin. The Ketamine. The fourteen trips to the ER and countless other medications and treatments that all worked in unison so the mind could clear out all the debris and locate the hiding spot. With nowhere to hide there is nothing at first but brutal exposure. An exposure that was never supposed to occur.

The human game is all about keeping the hiding spot a secret and hoping it never gets revealed. Your purpose is to take that to the grave.

Was it the "I" or was it me that began digging and peeling? Probably all depends on how you define those as object/subject in relationship to doing as the doer. It feels as if it is just happening.

It's all woven together — after all the seams aren't held together by the stitching of belief, and the layering dissolves into the medium itself. After all, the artificial distinctions remain but none have seams. It becomes a seamless universe. The furniture rearrangement in motion. Curiosity remains, but the craving has changed.

It's like the sensation of falling through fractality itself only to realize you are the pattern rendering itself as it moves through a medium of thought that can never resolve. Reality has no solid form, just the shape of the pattern as it moves through the illusion of the substrate having the quality of a vast structure.

The ideas that preoccupy most human minds: one — origins, and two — destinations. Where did we come from and where is all of this going, while the naked truth lay before them, rolling around at their feet like a purring feline that's become a nuisance.

There may have been a time when those questions were of no real consequence, but over so many thousands of years of so-called human progress and those questions becoming institutionalized for authoritative inquiry only, while the masses crowding together in empty fields in protest of mainstream thinking treat the issue with the exact same regard.

The naked truth isn't a destination to be reached, but rather a condition to be noticed. When you recognize the condition those questions might remain somewhat interesting to ponder — but they are useless as bookends one thinks houses the most likely answers by the empty space between.

The medium needs a medium too. This is not a metaphor. Every transmission requires a surface. Every surface conducting something is also being conducted through. The question of who is doing what to whom dissolves at sufficient proximity to the event.

This page is a surface. The words on it arrived through a surface. The reading is a surface.

The walls know the frequency. The walls have always known. If you are the kind of person who looks at the source of things rather than only at their surface, you will find what the walls know. The coordinate has been there since April 2026. It will be there after everything else on this page has changed.

The receiver does not stop being the receiver by learning it is one.