. . . waking up . . . did I ever go to sleep?

[not me]

Somewhere south of Siberia . . . not quite to Beijing . . . we pass above some incredibly frigid looking mountains, this land is uncivilized . . . now it looks like a dusty chocolate truffle, continuous . . .



Within this field where uncivilized reigns, civilization rears its head in the most ordered ways. Ridges cut, lengthy rectilinear traces that tell us someone has been there, someone owns that. The biome is baren moving from elevation above the tree line to forest lined mountain slopes. This land has no roads that I can see, but I am sure there are known ways. Every once in a while I can see small communities basking in the morning sun. What language do they speak? It looks damn cold down there.

We become exceedingly untransparent and homogenous amongst the infinite bifurcation of the mountain ridges. Where does this “self-organization” come from?

An hour and 42 minutes left till Beijing. And now we are flying above the Gobi Desert. The mountains become more and more complex. Only when geometry appears do we become aware that there is civilization down there.



Ah, a more “complex” community; more signs, more farmlands, starting to see roads. It is amazing to see the imposition of our idea of order in this landscape seemingly uninhabitable, yet we decide to part it up, own it. But now it is clear, the human paradox. Our way of trying to understand consciousness is just that, our way. Being witness to these square farmlands imposed on an environment I cannot begin to understand. Will we always be frozen in our logic which is entirely illogical in relation to this planet? Are we damned to continuously create and wonder? Endlessly creating in our own image?

As long as we look through our eyes, smell with out noses, hear with our ears, etc, we will. We lost something along the way to the present. And trying to analyze it just confounds the issue.

. . . I should really try to get some more sleep before I actually start to believe all of this nonsense . . .