Yes yes another drunk blog post, the fact is I should be wriiting about art, as if it courses through my veins 24/7 but right now the only thing coursing through them is a generous dose of French vino, it’s the weekend after all. You could say "I’m out of my gourd" which would be rather fitting seeing as that turn of phrase has been turning up every few hours this last week, don’t ask me why, I’m not an expert of the semantics of the universe, however much i might like to be, the truth is I’m drunk, and this is an experimental blog post in severely inebriated logic.

I was watching "Repo Man" for the enth time the other night and there’s a brief scene in this sci-fi gem that deals with much the same subject, the cleaner at the depot makes two interesting points, one about UFO’s being time machines which I’m rather too drunk to deal with now, but wholeheartedly agree, the only aliens out there are us, and we are messing with our own primitive consciousness for the sake of amusing our advanced progeny, but more importantly, the idea of coincidence. in brief, there’s no such thing, it’s a modern day myth, it never was and it never will be.

Coincidence is merely a description, an adage if you like, for controlling consciousness, I don’t have the machinations of an infinite conciousness at my fingertips, but if I did, it would be something akin to the transgression of logic over emotional semanticism. We hope to find meaning in our linear existence, we pray that "everything will come together in the end" but it doesn’t, for many it simply falls apart in our hands, trickles through our fingers, and lies dormant in the gutter of dashed hopes and broken dreams. Results be they positive or negative will inevitably be consigned to one of two convenient storage areas in the longest term memory, coincidence or fate, both of which provide a healthy buffer for the day-to-day consciousness, protecting it from the overwhelming odds of anything and everything happening to anyone at any time and anywhere.

Nothing in life makes sense, or rather nothing that signifies a constituent key to understanding everything can possibly hold its form in our mean and belittling shared existence, for what is proof is a lie. How can I say this, what right do I have to presuppose existence? Well none really, apart from the basic fundamentals of instinct I suppose it all comes down to past experience, painful as it may seem life is not full of surprises, if it was we’d all be in a constant state of shock, and thus we’d rather envelop ourselves as a race in a security blanket of misnomer and false confidence. We as individuals (a misnomer in itself) and en masse understand reality as a linear derivative, event after event, conclusion on conclusion; but without the hindsight of a field of experiential relativity our conclusions are nothing more than happenstance, indeed they are less, for they do nothing but reduce the the irreducible to a fine pulp of hearsay and common misconception.

As I write the TV is blaring in the background, it’s Bond, and perhaps the worst movie ever produced in this veritable populist cult franchise, and what do I see in the brief moment I bother to turn and focus my attention to the screen? The final moment of On Her Majesty’s Secret Service starring the highly forgettable George Lazenby, It’s the one where James Bond’s one and only wife is murdered, something that shouldn’t come as a surprise to those who know the film, after all Bond is single, a single white male with a string of lovers and little commitment bar his duty to the Queen. In essence this unsurprising plot twist is an affirmation of "normality", an enhancement of the day-to-day, a hyperrealist slant on what is for most the mundane, and that is "the expected", the usual flow of events that constitute our shared existence on this planet. Without it we would be left wondering what, why, where and when. If Bond is married how will he fight the Russians, if Bond is married what will his wife say about his string of lovers, if Bond settles down who will save Britain from a series of over-the-top evil doers bent on destroying the earth?

Reality:-  Big business plays a big part in the continuity of synchronistic existence, coincidence and happenstance being the aces in their deck of superfluencial cards. As the movie ends the adverts begin, first and foremostly insurance, "Bond’s wife died, when will you?" "Have you insurance coverage?". Their one-sided conversation promotes insurance as a miraculous cure-all, a method for waylaying death rather than merely compensating the funeral parlour and a few unfortunate relatives left with clearing up the mess, once you’ve vacated this mortal plane. Then it’s a string of phone sex adverts, it’s late, you think you are a top international spy, a bevy of voluptuous and exotic women await your attention. I change the channel and end up watching a few brief seconds of "Spy Hard", a spoof of Bond in a manner of thinking, at least a spoof of spy films in general.

TV executives, advertising agencies, corporations of every description, everyone is in on the game, and the game is synchronicity.

So how does one escape the conspiracy of all conspiracies? Apart from shedding one’s mortal coil there are two simple choices, neither is very satisfactory,

Firstly, ignore it. Look to the inner universe that is consciousness, deny the blatant, almost obscene perfunctory nature of life and it’s constituent parts and players, and hope that somehow individuality can be assessed in a new and more wondrous light, bathed in an amber of ambiguity formed by the gods themselves for the sake of sanity and forelorn desperation for some brief and elusive moment of realisation.

Secondly confront it. Seize the day, carpe deum, strangle reality, the scratched record that it is and jump the needle, grapple with the circle of life, bend it’s tenuous form into that of a spiral and fall down the Alicean vortex of awareness, armed with nothing more than one’s own wits. Though as sharp as they may be, one can do little more than slow the inevitable gravitational pull into a well of time honoured self-realisation that "this is it". This life, this loop, this indifference, our deeds and thoughts are but the slightest of marks upon the surface of infinity, this is what we have to work with.

Perhaps it’s true, a million minds are better than one, if individual conciousness can rise above mere argument we may have a hope of a chance in hell, if not I will see you tommorrow on another Groundhog Day.

This post is tagged coincidence, conspiracy, Reality, synchronicity, weird