It is almost sunrise on Harris Creek, a hint of orange rising from the ink. The parents are the development of the child, an unfolding of what lay hidden in childish experience, a realization of that experience. The alchemist develops into the chemist; reality is what becomes of magic. What develops is, in time, enveloped, refolded, unrealized. Is the child the father of the man?

With conception the clock starts ticking, the development begins. Originally the child and parent constitute a "genuine two-in-one", the parental body containing the body of the child. Implied in this situation is the separation of the body of the child from that of the parent. It is birth, or, the separation of the child and the parent that introduces the reality principle. Mom and Dad speak for the real world; they were really already out there in it before I was born into it.

What God has separated, let no man join except by means of a legal fiction. It is the separation that resolves the ambiguity of the hemaphroditic pre-natal body of experience. The child cannot return to the womb, the mother cannot gather the child back in, and so the "separation situation" is the situation until death do them ... ?

The body of educated discourse seems to be dominated by the cult of technology, the worship of technique, the worship of mechanics. Whatever can be located "outside" myembodiedself is subject to mechanical action, it is affected by what I do to it. The "outside" world is subject to mechanical control; mechanical man suffers fantasies of controlling him/herself. A purely mechanical person can put the reality principle to good use. A purely mechanical body is at home in a real world. But the fly in ointment, the ghost in the machine lies "inside" myembodiedself.

The unconscious is not subject to technology. The techniques applied to the world outside myembodiedself, extend only outward, they can realize the concept but not the fantasy. Mechanical man suffers no disease and fantasic man suffers no cure. Mechanical man, like montheistic man is an abstraction, an ideal; the human body is fantastic.

The fantasy which drives the scientific method is the fantasy of the human as technology, the body as machine. What is the source of these machinations of mad science? It is the source of all human plotting and planning: the unconscious body. The real body is implicit the unconscious body; it arises from it, like an island from the sea. The unconscious body is a sea of desire.

To be a real body it must have an "inside" and an "outside" and a "before" and an "after". The real body of experience is born from the unconscious body of experience. The order of my identity arises from the chaos of non-identity. "Chaos was first of all...." Theogony. The real body does not replace the unconscious body, nor does it succeed in separating itself from the flow of unconscious desire. The mad machinery is floating in a sea of desire. The unconscious sea of desire abides, while real bodies come and go.

It is interesting to observe that persons set out to de-personalize themselves, to experience themselves as machines. Science disenchants the world of human experience; science is anti-magic. The project is to surgically remove the fantasy from the body, to produce a human body free of fantasy. The project is utterly fantastic.

The scientist is not born, but built up brick by brick in the light of day. The creature that is born from the dark waters of the womb, out into the light of day is enchanted, soaked in fantasy; reality is born of fantasy. The creature remains fantastic, the project is never complete, the body is never healed of its disease. The fantasy behind the sceintific/technological method is the fantasy of cure.

Humans would fit in reality except for their fantasies; fantasy defies the reality principle. The structure of reality is confronted with the flow of the id. The ego/super-ego body is the battleground. Fantastic desires always exceed the bounndaries eternally set by reality. Buckminster Fuller says, "The eternal generalized principles alone are real." The remainder is fantastic. It is Sunday morning on Harris Creek and the authorities have thrown me an hour ahead of myself.