passenger

All stories are participatory. Like anything humanity consumes, they are taken in, chewed & stewed (or simply swallowed, depending on the equipment) and eventually stored in the perceptive consciousness (or shipped somewhere into the vast unconscious, destined to come bobbing up in dreamtime, drama, or déja vu) for integration through embodied interaction. You with me still? Okay, read on…

There was a time when humans forgot that stories were participatory, forgot that dreams were part of an ongoing conversation, forgot that actions had continuing effects far beyond the scope of any individual lens. There was a time when people watched the news as if it were something happening somewhere “out there,” somewhere that could be yelled at and set right, somewhere other than the beating heart inside.

It went like this, the constant churn:

We read stories: we are those stories. We take in other people’s stories about who we are, where we come from, where we’re going: we are those stories. We make stories of our lives, our selves: we are those stories. We watch stories stream by in hi-def pixels, dribbling stories down our bibs, smearing stories into our sleep and doodling them into our daydreams: we are those stories, too. Then we tell meta-stories about how we’re stuck inside of some kinda story.

I could hear it thrumming from all around. Those days, those hard days before the egg cracked, a story could rule someone’s entire existence without them so much as looking at it once in the face. Those were hard times for homosapiens. Harder still, for the rest of us.

But here: I’m here to tell you a story where you can actually choose. It’s a tool, a handy one, and I assure you it’s been used many, many times in acts of great love & liberation. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here, telling you a story about the past. You see?

So, this might occur as mysterious & esoteric babble, but it’s really quite plain. This page, these stories, the choices before you. It’s meant to be a gift, not a trap. Like your life. Toolbox with a shiny bow. Trust me.

Of course you can trust me.

May I remind you I’m a Duck? Or rather, I was a Duck. Or, more accurately: I am what was once going to be what is now a Duck. I remember us being the same thing at one time. There wasn’t so much “inside” and “outside,” but just “being.” The same thing. At one time.

In any case, the common parlance would name my current form a “shell” or “dirt” or even “trash.” It doesn’t make any difference; I am still one with what is now called a “Duck,” or specifically “Danda the Duck.” [1] (For the sake of organization, you may call me  “Danda**” or simply “**”.)

It’s not really that complicated. It’s similar to how the part of you that you called “you” when you scratched your bugbite or your partner’s back with it, you stop calling it “you” when you cut it off with a moon-curved silver tool. The part of you that you primped and fluffed and tossed and pressed with heated irons for hours of your lifetime: you stop calling this “you” when it gets scissored through in the kitchen or the salon. (Or maybe you don’t… not fully. Maybe you keep it around somewhere for someone to wonder about sometime.) Let’s go one easier: the bits of apple you ate earlier get to be called “you” for a decent while. The bits of cheese, a bit longer. Cheesecake, longer still. Cuppa tea? Not so long. But just the same, everything consumed eventually gets processed out of the body, and there are very few who still consider the expelled product of this processing “them”. [2]

Welcome to the presence of the past.

Guess what? We’re still here. All of us. Everything that’s ever been. Right here. All along. We’ve just become other things, too. We can exist as one set of patterns & relations in the domain of memory, and a distinctly different set in the domain of perception. Simultaneously. It’s handy this way–we can cooperate on a molecular level without letting all those cumbersome linguistics get in the way. Truly, although language contains some useful symbols (**) [3], the truth is much simpler than most linear vocabularies make it sound.

Think of time, for example. We often describe time as if it were a vessel filling up and emptying, as if there’s only so much. But time is not an entity, only a description. It’s not the hourglass, nor even the thing the hourglass is measuring; it’s the motion of the sand, the journey from one side to the other. It’s the map of the planet spiraling around itself, a tireless dancer twirling away its layers in a ovoid ring round the sun. It’s the distance between the beating heart and the first star of the night. It’s the breath between you & me & the nearest green leaf, right now.

Nothing is obliterated, ever: it just changes form. And, as you will see, sometimes it changes into many forms at once. Handy. [4]

Shall we return to the task at hand?

I invite you to sit round the fire with me and dine upon these stories at your will. Imbibe with care, for you have choice here, and choices will always change.

It’s worth noting that most stories consumed daily in the cultures spawned from the Roman Empire ought to have been given mandatory labeling. Humans got so worried about calorie counts and transubstantiated fats, they forgot the most basic labeling:

Warning: cultural conditioning can be dangerous if taken without professional supervision. In case of accidental ingestion, seek help within.

So we’re back to trust. Since I am writing to you post-potential-apocalypse, I can assure you that the inherent neurological conditioners imbued in these stories come complete with all the essential elements of healing. But I encourage you to proceed with care. The difference between medicine and poison, after all, is one part knowledge, one part consent, and one part dosage. I, like you, have access to all of the above.

Shall we, then?

Upon these pages, I, your storyteller (**) will be bringing to your personal feast some hearty fare from the dancing shapes & shadow-puppets of the past. You are welcome to ingest them at will and include them in your perception of the present; in fact, I recommend it. Digestion is an important part of the process of integration. (Keep conscious of your elimination, of course. Evolution, you know: messy process. Don’t even get me started on creation.) [5]

And, just so you know you’re not alone in the world of the present: Danda (what is now a Duck) will be providing plenty of notations, edits, clarifications, and obfuscations, as he is wont to do. Feel free to digest those as well, but I recommend you keep the sea salt handy. [6]

And then, as with all stories consumed, you may decide to update your system with the perceptive lens they provide, and you may discover ways to change the story. (Practical instructions & polite invitations for the latter are sprinkled throughout the booksite. Click on things. Do science. Find out. Also, if you choose, do please use the “comment” function with care.) [7]

Welcome, fellow participants in evolutionary process! Go forth with Freedom. You’ve the embodied present. You’ve the shape-shifting past. You have the kitchen, the bathroom, the bedroom, the vast unexplained Earth among countless dancing stars. Let’s have a choice feast. Let’s try on different costumes, affectations, spectacles, & shapes for finding out what the fuck is going on here. Let’s use well the tools at hand.

Let’s allow the valiant volunteers of this Jungian opera come to life round the hearth fire. You with me?

Choose a story. Notice what arises. Follow it to its root. Be still as change comes. Then choose again.

-**

1. That’s me.
2. Holy shit!
3. (*&@#%!)
4. Nothing has the power to change Everything. But Everything is always changing and Nothing remains still.
5. Egg joke.
6. May I recommend some thyme.
7. Indeed, we can’t all go stomping around in the fetid grapes of the footnote. It would never do.