mwotw

The Mandelbrot Set may offer us a true and terrifying glimpse of “divine intelligence”. It may be a Rosetta of Creation. There is a place just beyond philosophy and outside of mathematics, where only the poet can go. His capacity for awe and sensitivity to beauty cast a light where others find only darkness. Emerson had those eyes. Perhaps you have them too. Can you conceive of the mind for which infinity itself is not a difficult abstraction but a territory of touristic familiarity? The Mandelbrot Set places in our hands a view of the universe which our own science can neither refute nor confirm, for we cannot see the edges of its truth. It suggests that all of the recurring patterns in nature we have so far discerned (the tree, the spiral, radial symmetry, the orbit, etc.) are the consciously duplicated themes of an intelligent and systematic Creation. God’s own fingerprints, if you will. Are these recurring themes merely signs of the Maker’s creative style, or are they the perfect designs which only a perfect designer could have achieved? Faith can accommodate both interpretations. The Mandelbrot Set is quite simply a “little universe”, which humans can inspect from the transcendent perspective of an omniscient god. As we can perceive and marvel over Mandelbrot, so must God see all he has made. And in the same way that there are no insignificant replicas among Mandelbrot’s infinite replications, we are as sovereign in all of existence as we have so often dared to believe. (more…)

Come into the emergency room. Feet first, if you can. I especially enjoy the surprising ways in which the color red makes its cunning leap from the spiraling ambulance light into the fluorescent world of the inside hospital. Cunning and subtle. The smell, only the smell of blood, which is of course brilliant red in the mind’s eye. I am like him around the eyes, the demon standing over by the television in the waiting room. I left a piece of myself out there with him. Much more than my eyes, I think. I am on my back now, in some impossible orientation, such that a river is coursing where the ceiling of the corridor should be. So swift is the advance in these treacherous waters. But I have been a guest here before. My body is still wet from the last immersion. And that demon, he’s laughing at me now, openly. What sort of familiarity could breed such contempt? Am I not a brother, after all. Perhaps it was that one occasion, so long ago. Yes, that must have been the moment of offense. The orderlies are running me faster down the corridor. We blow past doors, and they spring apart, I hear them explode against the pressure of my gurney. A missile, we are. But the demon still troubles me. If we begat children of the same woman, are we not brothers first? That was my understanding. Oh, the orderlies are excited now. They’re shouting commands of some sort. Battle field urgency. There’s that pesky red again. Now a tide, an awful wash. The river of the ceiling is running red, and even faster than our advance. There are swept and tumbled things, rolling miserably in the foamy red. A head, a bludgeoned face, specters from my past, the restless phantoms of my every misdeed. What service now, Elijah? What can I repent from this proximity? I am too close to your final gate, too far carried in this crimson flow, to give any flexion of remorse. Yes, I have killed, and the red which conducts me to my death is their spilled blood. But what can I achieve against the holes I’ve made? “Operating Room” … bloody letters at the final threshold.

Never does the mortal experience so crave its wings as in those moments before death. Press “PLAY.” So, I heave my tired bones from some gothic summit, surmounted by the fierceness of a purple sky, where millions of bats are making their dark festivities in the air. Very nice. Already I can take my cue from this. What an ironical God has been mine. He touches me even in my play. Fuck the new technologies, they only give the bastard more ways into my head. So this is my new sim deck, hot and Japanese. A true totem of my success. I can live anything I want, be any person I want. Total sensory immersion. It is my birthday, so I’ve given myself some time for this. I have 37 minutes of Nero’s life. The right 37. And then there’s the gender reversal thing, where I can play any one of an assortment of roles within the orgy scene. But right now there’s this cheesy intro to watch. Manufacturer’s chip: travel ads and all kinds of “thanks for choosing Sony” crap. Whatever. It gets better. This is some sort of death sim. (more…)