soul_excursion

that's strange, but I totally missed that the book fight club and the album ænima were both released in 1996.

It must be that collective unconscious of the time, like you said. I believe in Plato's theory of the preexistence of ideas, that all ideas are in every living thing already. If you look at Einstein's theories that energy cannot be created or destroyed, combine that with Plato's theory and the fact that memories are electric impulses; could it not be conceivable then that ideas are merely memories we have not tapped into yet in the realm of the 10-12% of our 'active' mind?. There is also the learning curve to consider, the fact that every new idea, invention and discovery sparks hundreds or thousands of others. For example, Edison's invention of the light bulb made not only reading at night possible, but driving at night and baseball at night and the light insice the microwave oven, even though things like cars, baseball and microwave ovens did not exist yet in Edison's time. It may be safe to say then that the 46&2 theory of the next genetic mutation may take place as our minds are capable of holding more than the alotted 12%. I personally think that we will become so dependent on wireless technology and communications that if there ever is a technological disaster, say 300 years from now, some humans will be 'naturally selected' to genetically adapt and learn or relearn telepathy.

In reading your post I also cannot believe that I didn't notice until now, but the most poetic piece of both the movie and the album is WHISPERED:
In the world I see -- you're stalking elk through the damp canyon forests around the ruins of Rockefeller Center. You will wear leather clothes that last you the rest of your life. You will climb the wrist-thick kudzu vines that wrap the Sears Tower. You will see tiny figures pounding corn and laying-strips of venison on the empty car pool lane of the ruins of a superhighway.

Shroud-ing all the ground around me
Is this holy crow above me.
Black as holes within a memory
And blue as our new second sun.
I stick my hand into his shadow
To pull the pieces from the sand.
Which I attempt to reassemble
To see just who I might have been.
I do not recognize the vessel,
But the eyes seem so familiar.
Like phosphorescent desert buttons
Singing one familiar song...

btw... post your poem, I'd like to read it.

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