*I was looking for an old essay of mine and stumbled across this: my Intro to Philosophy final, written in the Spring of 2006. Not really posting this for any particular reason; but it does talk about music, figured it was ok to post. Forewarning: My writing skills are 0 and the format from MS Word doesn\'t carry over to .info; good luck!
The Universal Mind
There is a universal consciousness between all beings.
Superconsciousness
A universal superconsciousness exists between all beings. Superconsciousness is similar to Jung’s collective unconscious (Wikipedia redirects “superconsciousness to “collective unconscious), but is unique in its own right, therefore deserving of an independent term. The God of many religions may be a perception of the superconsciousness. This special consciousness evolved contemporaneously with humans, perhaps earlier, if non-human organisms share this superconsciousness. Evidence for this shared knowledge can be found in philosophy, psychology, and religion. With the many types of energy undetectable to the unaided person, such as the vast spectrum of electromagnetic radiation and the existence of many other waves, such as gravitational waves, finding a human “knowledge” wave would not be much of a surprise. The superconsciousness is not readily visible to everyone; it must be actively sought out, whether consciously or unconsciously. Life crisis often can provide the motivation to achieve an abnormally high state of consciousness. This explains the hard lives of many great artists. Certain drugs allow some people to tap into this consciousness and draw incredible superhuman energy from it.
Take for example lysergic acid diethylamide. *** can create a time dilation when used to connect to the superconsciousness for musicians or listeners to the extent that playing can go beyond normal perception. That is, the musician may play so fast that a sober person can not comprehend the music, but if the music is slowed, or the person sped up, synchronization occurs. Musicians have claimed that with some psychedelics the properly trained person can let the music flow through themselves resulting in seemingly effortless playing. Instead of creating music with their minds, the music is transported from the superconsciousness, through the musician, to the listener. The musician becomes a device, like a compact disc player, to translate the pre-existing knowledge. The psychedelic (or other means) acts as a key, releasing the lock on the doors of musical perception. The commanding universal consciousness is allowed to flow through the person. Steve Jobs, the cofounder of Apple computers and owner of Pixar animations, said taking *** was one of the most important experiences of his life. He even asked interviewees how many times they had taken *** (Source: interview in the book What the Dormouse Said: How the 60s Counterculture Shaped the Personal Computer). This was so important because of the superconsciousness connection to the energies required for superb work. John Coltrane once said, “I perceived the interrelationship of all life forms,” (source?) after taking ***; the interrelationship was the superconsciousness. However, Coltrane was playing four-times-speed flurries of notes before taking ***, the traumatic three deaths experienced in his childhood may have shocked him into the superconscious realm.
Someone once said, it’s not the drugs that make the artist, it’s the life experiences. Drugs are simply a subset of life experience. Sure, a drug addicted artist may play like crap, step off the stage for a moment to get his or her fix, then return to play a great set, but the same artist sounds even better when clean. Coltrane’s music certainly didn’t decline in quality when he quit heroin, Miles Davis lost his musical success after years of heroin abuse, but regained status after cleaning up.
The superconsciousness can be accessed through other means in addition to various hallucinogens such as meditation, traumatic events, or near death experiences. On the opposite end of this circular spectrum of super-sub consciousness, exempla gratia, severe depression. The superconsciousness more than guides, it provides the path, we provide the vehicle. In “On the Road” by Jack Kerouac, Sal (the author) and Dean Mortimer (Neal Cassidy) go to see the jazz legend George Shearing. Dean refers to Shearing as god. This is the result of Shearing entering the superconscious realm in music.
…and Shearing began to rock; a smile broke over his ecstatic face; he began to rock in the piano seat, back and forth, slowly at first, then the beat went up, and he began rocking fast, his left foot jumped up with every beat, his neck began to rock crookedly, he brought his face down to the keys, he pushed his hair back, his combed hair dissolved, he began to sweat. The music picked up. The bass player hunched over and socked it in, faster and faster, it seemed faster and faster, that’s all. Shearing began to play his chords; they rolled out of the piano in great rich showers, you’d think the man wouldn’t have time to line them up. They rolled and rolled like the sea. Folks yelled for him to “Go!” Dean was sweating; the sweat poured down his collar. “There he is! That’s him! Old God! Old God Shearing! Yes! Yes! Yes!” And Shearing was conscious of the madman behind him, he could hear every one of Dean’s gasps and imprecations, he could sense it though he couldn’t see…When he was gone Dean pointed to the empty piano seat. “God’s empty chair,” he said.
The god that Dean Mortimer refers to in “On the Road” is really the superconsciousness. (Part II Ch. 4 p.223).
Contemporary bassist Les Claypool clearly exemplifies a strong connection to the musical superconsciousness. In his DVD collection of live performances, “5 Gallons of Diesel” are several performances where Claypool, obviously under the influence of a psychedelic, stops playing and begins to sweat profusely. The band recognizes that something “groovy” is about to happen and continues playing the rhythm. Claypool then explodes into an improvised jam, and the video seems to run in slow motion, with everything at a standstill except the bassist’s fingers.
Superconsciousness is also used as a medium for extrasensory communication. Evidence for such a phenomenon exists in medicine; many doctors and patients realize that the support of another person greatly improves chances of recovery from operations. For example, in 1998 Phil Lesh of the Grateful Dead was in end-stage liver disease, and wasn’t expected to live much longer. But “the Sunday before he went under, Deadheads across the globe joined in Five Minutes for Phil, a worldwide prayer circle he later credited as a major factor in his speedy recovery,” (
http://www.philzone.com/leshlinks/phil-lesh-bio.html).
“As word spread of Lesh\'s illness, the Deadhead community rallied via the Internet. ‘One Sunday just before we went out of town (to the Mayo Clinic in Jacksonville, Fla.), they all agreed to send me good vibes at the same time.’
‘We sat out here’ -- he waves a hand at the porch – ‘and you could feel it.’” (
http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?file=/chronicle/archive/1999/04/13/DD3153.DTL)
Some contemporary philosophers include elements of superconsciousness. In the book “You Are A Phoenix” the author speaks about finding the position in which to receive kairos and grace to generate grand motivation. This position or state of consciousness is above, or super, to common consciousness. In superconsciousness the motivation can be felt as if struck by a lightning bolt for an extended period of time. When Mortier speaks of “guilt [as] a result of wrong-minded logic-brain interference,” (p.58) he is perhaps speaking of allowing our logical conscious selves to prevent the transition into the intuitive superconsciousness.
Karma may be part of the superconsciousness, retaining an equilibrium of a special energy type or karmic force. This could be analogous in some ways to the theory of orgone energy by Wilhelm Reich. The T-bacill would represent negative karma and orgone energy would be orgone energy.
In conclusion, I am left with just as many questions as when I started my inquiry to the question: is there a universal consciousness shared by all humans? Yet the questions have changed, but at least I have a fun theory, and enjoyed pulling together various sources to support one hypothesis.
Note: At the Community College of Vermont, my philosophy teacher was the late Shamms Mortier, author of "You Are a Phoenix," referenced in this work. A great book and incredible teacher.
**thank you for trudging through the reading if you did so. comments, disagreements, heckling all welcome**
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This was supposed to be two posts for readability, but .info loves automerging doubleposts.
Here\'s the essay I was looking for, about my August 2005 arrest. It feels like I\'m reading both these essays for the first time; they were written ages ago. I\'m currently writing a research paper on drug prohibition, which is the "essay in itself" that I mention at the end of this one.
Prof. Coburn
3/3/06
Essay I Narration
Alice D. Millionaire
It was a warm, exceptionally sunny afternoon, one August 19th, 2005. I was downstairs, simmering and sterilizing bird seed in the backroom lab. The day had begun hectic, with the arrival of the Burlington Police Department at 5am; an awful foreshadowing of the major fiasco mere hours later.
The police left that morning without entering our house. A few hours later, after my racing heart had calmed, I returned to sleep.
I awoke around noon, and resumed work on my mycological masterpiece; a project that would ensure my early retirement, one way or the other.
All of a sudden, a thunderous noise arose from the front of my house. Someone was knocking on my well secured front door with enough force to demolish the building. My initial reaction was that of confusion, and the assumption that one of my friends was just joking around. One of my housemates walked to the front door, wondering as much as I, who could be at our front door.
When my housemate lifted the blinds on the front door, to see who was outside, he came face to barrel, with an AK-47 assault rifle, held by the task force leader, wearing a black bulletproof vest. A group of similar looking individuals were beside their leader, ready to break down the door with a battering ram. The other agents were crouched down in two rows behind the leader and battering ram, handguns and assault rifles out and ready, all suited up in bulletproof vests.
My housemate immediately threw his hands in the air and proclaimed, “We’ll go peacefully!”
The team of DEA and FBI agents, and police detectives charged through the door, their weapons out, shouting orders to each other as well as the occupants of the house.
The first agent down the stairs pointed his handgun directly at my head and screamed, “Put your fucking hands up!”
In a state of absolute shock, I dropped the large, stainless-steel spoon I was holding, and raised my hands toward the ceiling.
“Face the fucking wall!” the agent shouted, as more agents poured down the stairs. A few agents kept their assault rifles and handguns pointed at my head from point-blank range, while the first agent frisked me down. Meanwhile, a couple agents entered the backroom lab to investigate.
The primary concern of the agents became the screaming pressure cooker that, having been left unattended, was increasing in both pressure and noise. “What the fuck is that thing!?” another agent shouted. These people really love integrating expletives into every sentence, even when they aren’t excited, or perhaps the agents knew no better vocabulary; I felt it was a combination of both.
The first agent who had searched me fired a barrage of questions with the loudest voice he could muster about what the pressure cooker was, what was in it, and was it safe to turn it off. Knowing that anything I said would be used against me in court; I tried to keep my mouth shut. Yet I was torn between concern for the agents’ safety, after all, they are people too, and the protection of my own freedom. In a dazed state of shock, I managed to answer, “It’s safe to shut it off, just close the gas valve to the burner.” The agents continued to yell questions about the cooker’s contents, what I was using it for, et cetera. I continued to repeat my mantra-like phrases, “It’s safe to shut it off. I want to talk to my lawyer before answering any questions, sir.”
Finally, I offered to shut the pressure cooker off myself, to show the agents it really was ok to turn the unit off, and it posed no danger to them other than being quite hot.
One of the agents eventually shut off the gas to the cooker, and I was led upstairs in double locked handcuffs. I then spent about an hour reading a newspaper that happened to be on the floor in front of me, using my toes to turn the pages, while the task force of agents ripped through my house, leaving nothing unturned. After the search was well underway, and agents had begun boxing up evidence in my large Rubbermaid containers, I was led by an FBI agent into my housemate’s bedroom.
“So who does that setup downstairs belong to?” the agent asked.
“I’d like to speak to my lawyer before answering any questions, sir.” I replied.
“You know we broke open your safe and found some ***, did you know that, as a result of 1980’s drug laws, you can get 5 years federal for possessing 5 mics?”
I remained silent, staring at the floor.
“Listen, I need you to tell me if there is anything dangerous in this house, in case we need to evacuate these agents and your neighbors.”
“Sir,” I replied, “with all due respect, I would not jeopardize the safety of your men. There is nothing dangerous in this house, except for the pressure cooker being very hot.”
“Temperature-wise?”
“Yes, sir.”
I was then led back into the living room, where I waited while the other occupants of the house were interrogated. Then, an agent brought my housemate and me out to his unmarked car.
Up until this point, I had no certainty about who had informed on me, only that there was indeed an informant. My performance in this operation had been flawless; my housemate was the only one disobeying my few, but strict rules. First and foremost, no one was to know about what was happening behind closed doors. I knew he had opened his mouth to one too many people and this was the result of that mistake. But who could it be? My mind flashed through all the possibilities, still hazed from the earlier and continuing trauma and the bong session just before the incident. Yet it was not until I was seated in the unmarked car of the DEA agent and was allowed a few precious seconds while the agent walked around the car to the driver’s side door when my housemate spoke to me.
“I think it’s Falco,” he whispered.
Matt Falco had been acting suspiciously in retrospect. He was late to our arranged meeting and an unknown individual drove him there; the person was a NY Special Police agent. I was pulled over driving down the highway fifteen minutes later for a bogus reason; “a blue Volvo blew through the tollbooth back there.” That tollbooth was one that gave tickets, so if you didn’t take the ticket, you would just pay full price; besides that, I had my tollbooth ticket. The cop took my information and let me go, “Sorry, must have been another blue Volvo wagon with VT plates”?! But when I talked to my housemate later, he dismissed it as coincidence, I knew better, but didn’t act.
Falco has since admitted to cooperating with DEA to reduce or eliminate his charges. He has also brought about a felony charge of Obstruction of Justice – Threatening a Witness… to a friend who got into an argument where no threat or violence was made to Falco. Back to the story.
The DEA agent drove me and my housemate down to the station where I was placed in a holding cell by myself.
As I lay on the cold, metal bench of the holding cell, I knew for sure I wouldn’t see the light of day for quite some time. They busted me on a Friday afternoon, knowing that even if I could post bail, the courts weren’t open until Monday. I figured I’d be headed to county later that night, just a few blocks from my home.
“We know you are the brains behind this operation. We’ve already found more than enough evidence to put you away for the rest of your god damn life.” Five hours on a cold metal bench had more than prepared me for anything the pigs had up their sleeve.
The agent rambled on about how he had found ***, lab notes, incriminating computer files, and claimed he had caught me red handed manufacturing ********* and other hallucinogens.
“Now if you cooperate with us, I can tell the prosecutor that you were helpful to us and she could be a lot more lenient on you. Your chances to cooperate and usefulness are greatly diminished as time passes, and people learn that you’ve been arrested.”
I gave the agent a cold stare, “Sir, I do not know any of those people, I don’t deal with them, and furthermore, I wouldn’t even know where to find them.” The agent looked at me with obvious dissatisfaction, knowing that statement was a flat out lie.
“Alright, we’re getting nowhere with this one. Let’s book him.” I was processed; then, to my amazement, released on my own recognizance. I was given a charge of conspiracy, and an order to appear at my arraignment a few months later.
I was the last of the arrested to be released from the station; it was about 10pm by this time. I was baffled as to how I could be walking free a mere eight hours after this all started.
When I arrived home 45 minutes later, the grand finale to the night was awaiting me in my bedroom. As I walked downstairs, the scattered remnants of my well organized operation lay all over the house. But that’s pebbles in comparison to what was coming next. Now I’m usually a pretty messy person, but, as part of a greater effort to change direction in my life, I had put an abnormal effort into keeping my room in pristine condition, everything well organized, and aesthetically pleasing.
I opened the door to my bedroom, and my jaw bounced off the floor. A tornado, flood, earthquake, and volcanic eruption combined leave a prettier picture than that which I saw. Every container was emptied, neatly folded clothes ripped from the closet and strewn about, every desk drawer turned upside down, a box of various incense ground into the carpet, a pile of black plastic shavings, from the drilling of my safe. But worst of all, my three possessions of significant value, were gone; although, the agents did leave a wallet with my last four dollars sticking out of it.
My laptop, digital camera, and cell phone, all bought legitimately with hard earned money the prior spring, were not to be found. I kept the hope that my cell phone was somewhere to be found in the rubble, but after a few days of searching, I knew the phone was gone as well. I sat on my bedroom floor for a few hours, no expression of emotion, nor thoughts through my head, just the heavy feeling of the entire universe crashing down upon me. THE END?
Of me.
With a few months of time on my hands before the arraignment, I began researching various drug statutes, and the penalties for violating them. Since I was only charged with conspiracy at my arrest, I knew the detectives were examining the evidence and building a case, deciding what I would be charged with. A recollection of what was in the house before the raid, and an examination of drug laws left me with the realization that I could be facing a life sentence, if I was prosecuted to the full extent of the law. As it turned out, luck was on my side. Also, most things I had were new or unknown to the agents, so they didn’t care about them.
At my arraignment a few months later, I was charged with Conspiracy, Possession of a Hallucinogenic, Possession of ***, Possession of Ecstacy, Sale of a Hallucinogenic, Manufacture, and Cultivation; a tenth of what I was expecting to be charged. I was released on certain conditions, and a $25,000 bail. The *** charge is a felony because of the carrier weight, half a gram. The kicker is that all of the tabs were already used; for nostalgia, I saved the doses I ate and put most of them in a little baggie. To my most unfortunate surprise, the blotter still tested positive for ***. It also tested positive for iso-***, an inactive product of *** breakdown or oxidation.
Fighting the case is costing me thousands of borrowed dollars and has been continuing over two years with at least a month to go. I had no prior record, my best plea bargain was 6 months to 2.5 years in county jail, with years of probation afterwards. A lot better than the 12 year prison and $54,000 fine maximum I could face. I’m hoping for no jail time, I surely appreciate my freedom.
The lessons I’ve learned from this experience so far, is that while crime can pay, true justice does not. Explaining the prior statement would be an essay in its self, including my motives for expanding consciousness, as well as an in depth analysis of modern society. But perhaps the most valuable realization is that my family is the most important people in my life, for without their endless support throughout all that has happened I certainly would not be here today.
***Result: 2yrs of court appearances while free on $25k bond, then 200hrs community service, $150 donation to charity, complete "board of reparations" (whole \'nother fiasco), and 3 years of probation (almost done).***
****Shamms Mortier also wrote an excellent letter to the court, a major factor in my avoidance of jail time. The prosecutor [state\'s attorney] in my case was determined to send me up the river, regardless of all efforts on my part. However, she was pregnant, went into labor 2 days before my jury trial (the "end all" date) and she was replaced. The replacement prosecutor *incredibly* approved the plea bargin I had offered since day one of the trial (any amount of probay, fines, community service, etc.). Over five grand in legal expenses to defend myself for attempting something good (trying to be a one-man B.E.L.).****
"just the heavy feeling of the entire universe crashing down upon me." And now I feel just the opposite, as if gravity had reversed course; due in part to the happiness the breakfast & its fans create.
