The theory is that metaphor evolves from math, or that technology produces images. But the theory actually originates in story; Darwin is a fastastic creature. We are conscious of fantasy before we are conscious of the technical world, and this fantasy consciousness does not disappear with an education in technique. The body does not cease to be magical and mythical just because the language of technique excludes magic and myth. A technical language is ignorant of the fantastic.

Technology attempts to replace the fantastic creature with "local universe technology." When the corporate body plugs into technical language, it becomes profoundly unconscious of fantasy. The wish is that technology confine fantasy within the unreal; if it isn't real, it doesn't matter. Wishes are fantastic.

Technology cannot save us from ourselves, it cannot actually eliminate the fantastic essence of human experience. The human body is fantastic; the organs are organs of fantasy; the mouth, the anus, the penis, the vagina are all fantastic. To understand (to stand under) the incorporated body of human fantasy seems to me, essential to my experience.

Earth, Air, Water, and Fire; these are the four essential symbolic elements of any story. Each is massively, but not infinitely over-determined. The essence of these symbolic elements is imagination; the division into elements is conceptuality. The four symbolic elements constitute a symbolic tetrahedron, that is, a story.

Technical language abstracts the elemental from the essential, representing the theater as a factory. My waking experience has all taken place in the theater. To understand my experience, I must not lose sight of the essential. So I guess I would call symbolism a science of story.

It is interesting to observe, that in a time when the public is saturated in fantasy, there is simultaneously a call for more scientists and engineers. I guess that is what the script demands; a story about a people who try to lose themselves in the abstract.

The morning sun has risen over the horizon, rising like some great balloon of fire, and it is reflected in the still water of Harris Creek. Enough of this, I must act; play my part as a gardener somewhere east of Eden.

Spring is approaching Harris Creek from the Southland. It is time to take action and leave behind the winter of our discontent; He is risen from his slumber. Every spring Mother Earth gives birth to him; birth is re-birth. He was not dead and gone, only sleeping. And this rising and falling goes on and on until the Day of Atonement, when the drama is re-gathered into "that ultimate pointlike unity, bindu: point, dot, zero, drop, germ, seed, semen. The primal oudad." Love's Body. 262. But equilibrium, or zero, is not a point.

Atonement is a fantasy, a wish, a possiblility that is never realized. Atonement is a pallic fantasy, the wish for one part to stand for the whole, like a pyramid rising from the desert floor, a permanent erection. But that is not how the play ends; no part is left standing. The play and all the players dissolve at once, at zero. At zero there is neither positive nor negative; no penis or vagina; no food or shit.

The path is not a Spiritual Path; there is no purification of the corporate body in Fire. This is a phallic wish; it gets me nowhere. Water, on the other hand, suggests certain possibilites.