lost friend

One time, a friend asked me for a ride to “some hipster church” in Providence that she had just started attending.  She brought her own incense, intending to give it to the Christians to burn during the service.  At the time I thought her unsolicited offering was naive and maybe a bit too forward.  I figured that these people, being religious, would have a certain fixed way of doing things, not open to improvisation by newcomers.

Now, thinking back on episode, I am in deep awe of her gesture.  I wonder what would a society knit together by such loving improvisations would look like.

the electric company

I sit on grassy land alongside the new Interstate 195 between Wickenden Street and India Point Park in Providence.  The highway groans from its thousand metallic mouths.  To the west is the vaulting shell of the old Narragansett Electric power plant, about a seven minute walk away.  Though no longer humming with electric power, its presence is still imposing.  It is dark now, street lights casting a few weak rays through its soaring arched windows, serene darkness within.  The old plant’s facade suggests the containment of something tremendous.   Hollowed and dark, of cathedralesque proportions, it calls to mind the temple ruins of a Greco-Roman mystery cult.

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The still-active, much larger Narragansett Electric power generating station extends triune grayish stacks skyward, just to the left of the old one.  The new plant makes me think of a sphinx, or some other kind of oracular sentry, partly for the way that it defines the liminal zone between city and river.  At night, the stacks are black against the metropolitan halo, and there are red lights blinking at their crowns.  The blinks alternate, out of sync but subtly rhythmic, and my mind looks for patterns in the alternations as if reading a forgotten language.  I divine no meaning of course, but the patterns still linger on the imaginary threshold of legibility without ever crossing.

[image: the stacks as reflected in the river, a rotting dock to the left.  taken by Ani Od Chai, Flicker Commons: https://flic.kr/p/5u6Q5u]

there goes a shooting star or something!

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What is the term for that sensation of imagining that your cellphone has chirped or buzzed when it hasn’t?  When that happens, I sometimes wonder if someone almost called me with something to say that would have drastically altered the course of events in my life or theirs or both.

In other words, maybe that imagined chirp or buzz signals the passing of a momentous potential event–or even the generation of an alternate world from that momentous potential event which in the alternate world was actuated.

The idea makes begins to make some sense when you consider that a cell phone (like other communications technologies) is an instrument of sensory extension that brings remote phenomena into the field of one’s awareness despite distances of time and space.  A cell phone is not the only ‘extension of man’ to do so, of course, but being joined to its owner at the hip, it is the easiest of extensions to identify with one’s own being.  The mind seems to treat the phone as if it were a vital organ, and a sense of panic ensues when its powers are temporarily suspended by a dead battery or an unpaid bill.

So, if it is true that the mind is equipped to register extremely subtle phenomena, such as the ghostly transit of a momentous potential event, then perhaps that knowledge ripples into consciousness by way of those proxy sense organs that are closest to us, most of all that amazing product of ‘evolution by other means,’ the cellphone.

 

[image credit: “Woman on Phone,” Flickr Commons, World Bank Photo Collection,   https://flic.kr/p/d1w7Rd]

 

this week

(11/16-11/23)

A good-hearted friend gave me a sequined printed cloth bearing the image of Kali holding a foot over Shiva.

I have been re-reading Vivekanda’s ‘Raja Yoga’ one or two pages at a time, and taking notes.  Now deep into the second part, which presents the aphorisms of Patanjali with commentary by Vivekanada.

Started reading Techgnosis: Myth, Magic and Mysticism in the Age of Information”  by Erik Davis.

Have felt unforced gratitude for my every arrival home.