So myself and a few friends are sitting in The Red Lion garden, ribbing each other in the way guys do over a few beers. One of us has just got back from France with his girlfriend so he pulls out his Mac iBook from his bag and plonks it on the table. In screensaver mode, photos from his holiday begin to fade from the near distance and onto the screen in a random size and position of the screen. As this neat piece of technology is quietly humming away he is pointing out who was who and where was where and we were gently taking the mick here and there and enjoying the sun and English ale.

This has been going on for twenty minutes, maybe half an hour. We’re quite animated by now, laughing and being boisterous when an unexpected picture of our friend’s girlfriend (in her tight little pink knickers) appears on the screen. This is funny. We have a laugh about it, he half-jokingly, half-bashfully covers the picture with his hands. The screensaver goes on. After another minute or so one of us points out how funny it is that none of the other pictures, fading in from the near distance as though being thrown onto a table, have covered the picture of our friend’s girlfriend’s pink butt. Again our friend tries to cover the picture with his hands. More photos arrive, but frame this one picture perfectly. More and more and more, completely randomly, fall onto the screen but leaving this one picture untouched.

We’re finding this amusing now.

“This,” I say, “is an example of the intelligence of randomness.”

“Something somewhere,” I say to my friend who owns the laptop, “is messing with you.”

We laugh at this.

Still the pictures refuse to cover the picture of his girlfriend’s arse. We’re laughing more now. Eventually he says “right, that’s enough of that,” and as he reaches for the laptop off button, another – larger – version of the butt picture appears. Then another. And as our friend is fumbling for the off switch, finally another of the same picture of his girlfriend’s arse (once again, larger than the last until it filled half or more of the screen) appeared, as though in a last ditch attempt to humiliate our friend as much as possible with the weapon at hand.

Until eventually, in a slight panic, the machine is offed.

We thought this was hilarious. At the same time, this is a typical example of a seeming connection between supposedly random events and consciousness. I’ve seen it many, many times. It was almost as though

a/ something, somewhere, knew how embarassing this was for our friend and was – in good humour – making the photos fall in this way and eventually choosing the same one three times in a row, each one larger than the next, before our friend could get the machine off.

b/ that somehow our collective conscious was affecting the ‘random’ selection and location of the photographs.

Of course, one would normally chalk it up as mere coincidence. An amusing set of coincidences. But what is anything, really, but a set of coincidences? Our brains are chemical storms little different to the skies that hang above our heads. A functioning household has seperate organs that work together, much in the same way that our bodies do. What is it that makes us, our supposed ‘consciousness’, so unique from any process – be it chemical, biological, physical (all of which are principally the same) – present, to our knowledge, in the universe? Where does ‘I’ begin and end? Where does ‘we’ peter out into the big ‘out there’?

As I’ve said, I’ve experienced these things before: I’ll document them, and any new ones as they occur, on this blog. Maybe you have, too? Are they just coincidences? And even if they are, what is the definition of a coincidence? What is the difference between any coincidence (or co-incidence) and another? Darwin would have us believe that evolution was a random process resulting in consciousness, didn’t he? And we humans are late comers to the show…

Is something try to make contact? Is this entity, whatever it is, if anything, in some way more deeply connected with our lives than we presently understand?

OK, so after the beers, the laughs, the club, the hot french girl whose number I got, the hot french girls number that my phone somehow lost, the anguished hour I spent trying to get to sleep (I stayed at a friends) disbelieving I had lost the number, as well as going over and over the add-contact procedure on my phone wondering where I could possibly have gone wrong; after all that, I took a bus home. I was feeling a little queasy, a little bored: so I decided to try a quick short right-brain exercise.

All I did for this was concentrate on the right hemisphere of my brain. Often I find it is stimulated directly by visualisation, but you can also stimulate it even more directly by visualising it itself, as it were. At least it seems to work for me.

The effect was immediate. I mean zero response time.

The first thing I noticed was that I felt calmer. I wonder if this has something to do with the overbearance of the left-brain requirement/stimulation in our society, generally, today. The right brain is perhaps more rested and the left hemisphere, relieved of stag duty, induces a mild eurphoria; a release of neuropathic stress.

This calm is not an emotional calm, however. It is not a physical or even a psychological unwinding. It really is, literally, and feels it, a neural calm that permeates ones perception and general being in a subtley different way one might experience from muscular relaxation, or the relieving of emotional disturbance.

It’s difficult to described. I can only suggest you try it.

The second thing I noticed – again immediately – were the yellow hand rails on the bus. They were everywhere: up down, around, in and out. They suddenly resembled some peculiar lifeform, a fungus or a vine. Bright yellow tubular alloy curvatured to assist ergonomics or injury prevention, they curved their way in and out of the buses chasis like the loops, as i said, of a vine or some obscure lifeform.

After that, a few things came into my mind at once. I was suddenly “aware” (though perhaps falsely, for I did not witness this with any recognised sense) that the girl sat opposite to me liked me. I couldn’t really be anymore specific than that: she might have liked my clothes, thought I was good looking, or she may have simply thought I seemed harmless or trustworthy in some way. Then bending lines of light, like the Cassini photos of the rings of Jupiter, became apparent all around me as light flexed on perspex and glass surfaces throughout the bus: their formation changing with the shudders and twists and lunges of the buses engine and torsioning frame and body work.

Suddenly I noticed that everyone on the bus, asides from myself and the young girl, were all old women with grey hair. They swayed in their seats with the ululations of the road like strange gophers: all facing forward, their sharp, clear eyes were like expensive glass ornaments – crystalline and thinly but definitely edged in detail and colour.

This is as much as I think it is worth salvaging, verbally/narratively, from the experience for now. As I said, it was a quick, light right-brain meditation: but nevertheless the results were quite striking and not dissimilar to having taken a mild dose of hallucinogen.

Perhaps if I had not felt quite so at unease, though my hangover was mild, I would have ventured further into the experience.

At some point I’ll discuss the waking meditation that appeared to result in an ‘alien abduction experience’ (whatever that might be in actuality, even if some physiologically induced nightmare, but I insist that keeping an open mind is crucial, generally). Sounds alarming, I know. It was really alarming. In fact, sadly, I have never been so scared. I’m not even certain why: I think it must have been some primeval emotional response.

Anyway, bed time.

There were two of us. We were both attempting the world’s first parachute jump from space. We leapt, in our pressurised space suits, from some unknown platform toward the earth: it looked like a giant glass marble in front and beneath us; the sun was shining over the top of it, to the right – the yellow white rays really stung my eyes.

The initial jump wasn’t really like jumping at all. My heart rate was reasonably normal. We fell slowly, presumably in a weak outer band of Earth’s gravity. Falling through the planetary atmosphere was strange, though. As I hit it, I keeled over to my left. My legs hadn’t fully penetrated it so I landed sideways on it, or in it, and sunk slowly through. It looked like colourful river scum: the kind you might find gathering at the mouth of a river gate. It was thickish, liquidy, and resembled the surface of Jupiter in colour and pattern: mostly beige, red, yellow, and white thin diamond patchwork. Sinking into it wasn’t entirely unpleasant, though, as it was airy: more like a foam than a liquid. I fell softly through it and held my breath as it reached the visor of my helmet, forgetting I had my own air supply. As I fell through the strange substance I remember feeling as though I was entering the stomach of some huge animal: there was something very organic, even biological about the atmosphere I was passing through. When I reached the end of it, I fell through. And I mean I fell through.

Now I was really falling. I could see the planet’s oceans, a coastline, and tiny clouds several miles beneath me. I began to get the rush of a sky dive. My heart sprinted and it seemed like my eyes would pop with the sheer size of the ocean beneath me. The constant falling sensation was making me delirious but at the same time was exhilarating. It was at this point I wondered, it seemed I hadn’t been told, whether I had to release my parachute myself or if it was automatic. I looked down at the front of my suit and saw an emergency release chord tucked into a canvas housing down my chest. Then, suddenly, the parachute was released. I looked outward across the sky and saw my dive buddy, his parachute also released, wheeling in an arc across the sky not too far from me. For a moment I thought we’d crash into each other but I swung by within forty of fifty feet then turned my back on him and began to concentrate on the landing. The fall was incredibly quick: I was expecting it to last minutes but it only seemed to last seconds. Almost immediately I was crashing into the ocean. It’s texture was like layer upon layer of thin glass as I sunk into it.

I looked around for my buddy. Inexplicably he had landed very close by. He disengaged his chute and swam over and we made a wild, slightly panicky scan for land. There was an island and we made our way toward it, eventually standing on it’s gravelly shore looking out across the giant planetary lake we had just made our entrance into.

And that was the end of the dream.

Oddly, an impression came with it. It occurred to me – just as I woke up – that movement, just like physical objects and the varying energy frequencies (such as microwave, radio, and light), is comprised only of energy. That physical movement, from A to B, as we understand it in a Newtonian universe, doesn’t actually occurr.

An example came to me. Imagine a multicoloured checkered landscape. Imagine a multi-faceted diamond (say with one hundred finely chiseled and flat reflective surfaces) floating in that landscape.

The way physical, non-Newtonian movement was represented to me was to imagine that the diamond remained still and fixedly located within the landscape. However, were it to turn on its axis in any given direction the multiple facets of it’s surface would reflect a different combination (and of varying size) of the coloured checkerboard landscape, thereby appearing to have located itself elsewhere along the landscape plane. The landscape will not have changed, though, and nor will the actuality of the diamond: nothing but the reflections given of the surrounding landscape in the multiple facets of the diamonds surface.

Could this apply to all objects in space? Are we, and all things, actually located at exactly the same location (we’ll get onto time ‘later’, I’m sure) always, only appearing to physically travel through the recalibration of our axis. Of course, to us, that recalibration results in the illusion of travel: it would have to represent itself to us somehow. In our limited perception of what is around us, there has to be some illusion of seperateness or our limited brain functions couldn’t cope.

Everything is energy, buzzing at different frequencies. What’s more is that our physical universe, at a quantum level, is perpetually unsure exactly where it is located: if anywhere at all. Bertrand Russell mused that the closer he inspected his writing desk, the less and less he knew about it, until the only conclusion he could positively draw from the examination was that it wasn’t actually there at all.

This pertains to my theory, for if there is no physical existance at a fundamental level, then there can be no distance. If there is no distance, our appearance of travel, velocity, the Newtonian sense of a moving body, can only be the recalibration of a single instance of observation (the diamond) to appropriate the energy around it in any given combination it sees fit, according to the agenda of its conscious effort.

So anyway, that happened. Now I’m off to have some birthday beers with some buddies. Have a nice day 🙂 And please feel free to comment (or not, as the case may be).

Post Scriptum: Of course, this would mean that the universe occupies zero space or has zero mass. If we were to imagine that there were no time, either (I’ll expand on this later), then this would presuppose zero space and zero time. The enormous intricacies of the apparent universe contained in a…. nothing.