Chaos

F I VE .
CHAOS
A L L P O I N T S B U R N T H R O U G H T O T H E S U R FA C E
A LITTLE DEEPER, IF POSSIBLE
I N T O T H E U N D E R LY I N G S U B S TA N C E
T here are so many unique souls out here. All of them

seem to have a handle on it — even the children. Their
happiness is in human terms: fleeting, a moment only — the
crest of the wave. In the study of meditation, countless times
I’ve seen the adept grappling with this. Not wanting to break
from the depths, they try to remain seated after the chugpi is
struck. You can’t keep it, you couldn’t bear it — moments only.
Then the walk, single file, eyes down. The practice continues,
only from a more agitated position. We need the change, yes,
to move the blood through the legs, but also to break from the
intensity of the floor, to stimulate the senses. There’s no state
of mind that remains constant, yet we are never resolved to
this, no matter how far along. We refute it, because we know
in truth there is a constant. Our entire struggle is to reveal it,
once and for all.
In Chaos and Fractals — New Frontiers in Science authors
Peitgen, Jürgens, and Saupe show, through repeated feedback
evaluations using two different calculators, remarkably dif-
ferent results after only three iterations. The same is shown
on one calculator using two different implementations of
the same equation. The pattern that these anomalies reveal
is an endless spiral, into the depths. To paraphrase, chaos, the
breakdown of predictability, is the rule in nature, while order,
or predictability, is the exception — but chaos follows very sta-
ble patterns. The pattern revealed is startling, at once familiar
and unknown. In Chaos and Fractals there are many examples
of spiral patterns, naturally occurring fractals, in the veins of
a kidney, broccoli flowers, the branches of a river, mountain
ranges, coastlines, moon craters. The math is very complex —
I’m sure I’m glossing over details, but the seeming unpredict-
ability shown through complex math to draw the fractals we
know today would be unthinkable without the aid of comput-
ers — and I’m no match for that.
The underlying symmetry is a beautiful pattern, the har-
mony of substance. In a way you could say it’s the true form,
the face of it. Happiness, bliss, the rapture of existence, is the
same. It’s not found on the surface, it’s indiscernible — but
once you become aware of it, once your brain knows how to
decipher it… so, this is our work. If it were easy there would
be geniuses everywhere computing magnificent fractals be-
yond comprehension. It’s the path of the hero, the rockstar.
It’s amazing we’re beginning to understand these things at all,
with our limited facilities. It is there — the capability. It must
be nurtured, organically grown, but yes… if it’s important
to you, you can cultivate a mind that can perceive substance.
Funny that in the perception of it there’s a catalyst — the mind
heated, forged; the beating core, and peace everywhere. Since
we’re striving night and day to reach it, from every conceiv-
able angle, I’m sure we will. It’s not so far. It nearly requires
the psyche, the ego, to give way, to be abandoned. Its clumsy
mechanisms don’t work here — its faults too conspicuous, the
emotional toll too destructive, wasteful. Regardless, the tur-
moil and suffering of humanity, the cloud of ignorance, is the
cure.
“If a monastic still envies a lay person’s wealth and fame, or is
lonely and still feels sorrow, this is truly shameful.”
– Zen Master Man Gong (1872–1946)
The fog has rolled in this morning. The train beeps and
rattles its doors closed. To Watts! Several more trains wait in
the distance, the tracks between them rusted, but concrete and
steel is what they require. How much thought went into every
small detail? That I can pay my hard–won dollar and board
this, if slow and clunky, thrill ride to the heart of the city. Most,
if not all, faces are besmudged and gloomy. What would they
require? Magic? I suppose it’s not so much the vessel, but the
troubles they bring onboard: a caustic stew of disappoint-
ments, deaths, miscarriages, early and late arrivals, bad teeth,
and bad digestion. What a heavy load! I’m surprised the train
is not heavily fortified. The wheels squeal as all of our demons
weigh in, but before the thing careens into a pitch black tun-
nel of despair, a few teenagers bound to their seats and it’s all
sunshine and good vibes and the smell of candy.
Rosa Parks is the crossroads between the green and blue
lines, metaphor on top of metaphor. I love the strain of hu-
manity I encounter here. The place is alive with so many deep
and worn characters; if I were a painter I would surely be
dumbstruck. Maybe one day I’ll have the courage to photo-
graph them. The blue line races to the financial district and
ends there, under what I remember as a large, ugly building
— but I won’t see it today. The financial district, gateway to
Broadway — which in LA… they could call it Mexico and no
one would question it. Maybe they already have. The grand
old buildings there all seem left behind like there was a mass
exodus, one of the reasons I like the place. Surely there’s some
meaning. Why bother over old texts or count how many stones
in the grand gallery of the pyramids? There’s as much mean-
ing here, how we’ve joined these divergent elements: the lay
of the streets, the movement of the crowd, the winding flames
of my tattooed friend, who’s brought a pillow onboard and, to
my knowledge, remained slouched near the door. What’s the
rush?
We’re forced out at Washington. Some problem ahead.
All of us shuffle out and onto waiting buses. The packed con-
ditions have me repeating the great dharani, soaring. Gang-
sters, thugs, tiny children clinging to their mothers, we again
find our ease together. Hands are shaked, wapos congratulat-
ed — shrieks and moans, the indiscernible sounds of excited
humans. I’m fortunate enough to stand near a sleeping child
clinging now to her father. Watching her, it’s the same feel-
ing as the retreat cabin in the heart of the wilderness. It’s too
noisy for her to remain asleep, but she’s determined, and quite
relaxed.
The morning fog has become an urban haze — the best
weather for traveling across the grid. As I walk through the
nearly deserted streets I’m on the lookout for graffiti, aban-
doned corners of desolation — suitable places to add my stick-
ers. I’ve been doing it enough that it’s reflexive: finding the
right spot, scanning the street for trouble. Today I place sev-
eral right in front of the cops. The last one before I made my
stop an officer tracked me through the whole process. I didn’t
notice who she was until I was on the escalator down. She
watched me disappear into the waiting tunnel with a complete
lack of interest or concern, but I was so encouraged by the
placement of the sticker (I’d seen the red box a block away)
that I must’ve looked like I owned the thing.
The light in the subway flashes the same code of existence,
being, the substance revealed in the intricacies of the form. I
enjoy the hypnotic flickering. So much information is passed,
even here.

Chaos

Uploaded by

Document Information

Original Description:

Copyright

Available Formats

Share this document

Share or Embed Document

Sharing Options

Did you find this document useful?

Is this content inappropriate?

Copyright:

Available Formats

Chaos

Uploaded by

Copyright:

Available Formats

F I VE .

T here are so many unique souls out here. All of them

You might also like