The Great American Un-Novel

The Great American Cli©he.

Planck’s Failing Scales

The little pink button that makes the biggest, most beautiful explosion the world has seen yet, will ever see, or wants to see again.

The greatest possible Trojan Horse to enter our collective unconscious since man first sat with a friend in a cave and ingested a mushroom.

A fantastic Ouroboros of a pipe dream.

Salinger’s undream.

Philip K. Dick’s private joke to those of us that know is that eventually there will be a massive unveiling. Only, the form that unveiling will take is the joke within the joke. Inception‘s Dream within a dream. There is no spoon. And there is no dream. Let alone a veil or an unveiling.

After reading Simon Critchley’s analysis of Dick as a philosopher in the OpEd of the NY Times (also on The Stone, a brilliant philosophical feed) and the philosophy within Philip’s Exegesis specifically, I wondered about what that meant to a writer, living and working in the age of Twitter. Let’s keep this to 72 characters or less please, including spaces. (

If the dream within the dream does not exist, if the dream itself does not exist, Kant’s noumenon seems more real than the phenomenon of the ding in sich. The thing in itself begins to manifest, that is to be observable.

Calculus’ imaginary numbers begin the formation of a reality in both form and the crystalline architecture of urbanity. Further, the sensory structure of identity begins to merge with environment so that man isn’t just using his senses to observe, but becomes them. McLuhan’s Extensions of Man have become probiscii that anyone can access at any time with sufficient electricity and a reasonable accumulation of language. The mathematics of time begins to fold into itself and we have a reality wormhole which forms a forever unreality. The painter painting an abstraction of himself. The abstraction revealing itself as a reality. In the modern fashion, these abstractions are more real.

The great unveiling that Dick’s American Gnostic viewpoint foretells is not one of loud trumpets and blaring, thundering chariots and thousands of rows of horses. It will be the whimper. The tactile trumpets played on the aural streets of Chicago by countless, weary sensory-deprived sidewalk prophets. It will be sad and terrible and beautiful and concrete. It will be the sound of thousands of centipedes’ legs in a stone jungle and it will go unnoticed by most. It will be constant and unavailing. A tsunami of constant language. Steven Hall’s ( inkblots made of Ludovicians that thought they once existed. Enter your password for Twitter. Tweet that. Tweet this. Share it. Like it.

It is simply a natural phenomenon. It will smell of sulfur and swamp and Haribo gummies. That’s it, they will ask? That’s the Great American Novel? Anomie?

The Graffiti of a fully formed thought.

The Great American Novel is being written now. It is here. We are living it. It is breathing because we will it so. So open all the doors and windows and go outside.


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