Miracles happen all the time

Miracles happen all the time. In fact, they never not happen. Which is the problem. To be even half awake is to know that what happens to you could not have happened if only the law of averages was operating, or if Chaos was purely chaotic. This world is ruled by Chaos and Eros, two entities that are not arbitrary. On the contrary, they are blindingly, powerfully sensical, symmetrical, magnetic, besotted with forms, rife with the improbable but inevitable, drenched in glorious necessity. It would be a mistake, however, to think that the operations of Chaos and Eros intend you personally. They could care less about you and even less about what you think. Coincidences, synchronicities and miracles happen to you because you are a particular object in the eddy that flows in and through you, creating paradoxical instants. If Chaos and Eros should have any other purpose than play and expansion, it is in a different universe. In this one, they thrive on incongruity, but also on repetition and exhibitionism.

         To be “drawn somewhere,” as most people explain being where they feel that they should be, or to experience the migraine of a quadruple deja-vu in one quarter of an hour, or to find out that friends, movies stars, and your pet, all of which are named “Carl” share the same birthday, is nothing more than the obvious. All those congruences people like to call “fate,” are what happens if you move through the world without an ideology or at least a system, borne aloft like a cork on the spumes of Chaos and Eros. The tensions you experience are not personal either, though they certainly feel that way; they are the interplay of the partly centrifugal Chaos meeting head-on the partly centripetal Eros. It’s something between them, you’re just an exchange switch inside the miracle-making machine.

         Now the fact that the rich get richer and the poor get poorer belongs to a human-made order inside the grandeur of the gaming universe, and it partakes only partially of the great forces. There is a sub-world in the flows of necessity, which is the statistical reality most people believe is the only one. This actuarial, measurable, fairly predictable reality tracks the flows of wealth, keeps locks at critical points of the libidinal reservoir, and is generally useful in keeping the tri-partite structure of Law, Church, and Business in rasonable working order. In the interstices between institutions, in the gray areas between different jurisdictions, the wavering borders of incompatible forms, the stuff of Chaos and Eros flows like everywhere else, only (seemingly) a bit slower.

         Man did not find herself at the center of the universe coincidentally. Certain men decided that it was impossible to live in a miraculous world, one in which words are deeds, sense is mocked, joy fuels cosmic collapses, and superstition grips everyone with a greedy hand. A world like that, even if inevitable, does nothing for hygene and the food supply. They decided, quite rightly, to make a series of livable islands right in midst of the raging torrents of the self-propelled universals, and to live on them as if things made sense. These were the 18th century Illuminists, the men we owe democracy and individual rights to. Those highly cherished but artificial concepts do not concern the gods. Their job is miracles, ours is to live decently. The human world is incompatible with the miracle-making universe, which is why we must ignore Chaos, Eros, coincidence, symmetry, beauty without end, and the fireworks of criminal genius, at all times, except between the hours of two and five a.m. in the bloom of our youth. The rest of the time, sadly, we must act as if we live in a cute box.