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It is striking that the most obvious instances of process are disasters. We rarely perceive flux in its gentle sustainment. The air moves, the cells divide, the world remakes itself continually — but these motions go unseen, unnoticed. What we see are the catastrophes: the building falling, the body failing, the sudden rupture. Process manifests as accident, as collapse. When flux comes to presence, it often comes as violence.

Little wonder, then, that we are suspicious of it. The closer a thing comes to looking solid, unmoving, eternal, the more we like it. We exalt monuments, we conserve institutions, we worship permanence. We train our eyes to see stability, to rest in it, to forget the ceaseless perishing underneath. Process is lived as background — and when it comes to the foreground, it terrifies.

Death is the concentrated emblem of this repression. To die is to undergo the pure proof of flux: the body, the identity, the story, all dissolving. Our culture displaces death, hides it, or aestheticizes it, precisely because it is unbearable as the clearest testimony to becoming. Death and process mirror one another in this way: each is denied, and in their denial the fantasy of permanence is secured.

Perhaps this explains why process philosophy is a late discovery in the Western canon. From Plato to Descartes, metaphysics served the desire for stability: being over becoming, substance over relation, eternal forms over time’s decay. Only with the cracks of modernity — Darwin’s evolution, industrial flux, entropy, relativity — did a new thinking become possible. The repression faltered, the monuments looked less eternal, and thinkers like Bergson and Whitehead could say what had always been true: everything is process.

But here lies the difficulty. Even now, process is hard to think. Our intellectual habits echo our psychic needs. We cling to the stable idea, the fixed identity, the substance that endures. To think flux as primary is to unlearn this orientation. It requires dwelling in what is usually unbearable: that every moment perishes as it arises, that every thing is fragile, that death is the very horizon of life.

This does not strip process philosophy of value. On the contrary, it intensifies it. Process thought is not just another ontology. It is a kind of counter-repressive labour. It asks us to affirm what we are disposed to flee. It forces us to look at disaster, decay, death — and to find there not only terror but also creativity. Becoming destroys, but it also makes. Flux is catastrophe, but it is also genesis.

In pneuminous terms, we could say that the accretions manifest as reinforcements of stable reality, the ideal forms present exactly this. Process needs incorporating into pneuminous theory. The fantasy of stability is not to be abolished; it too is part of the flux. To think process is to see that even our denials belong to it. The repression of process itself is a mode of becoming.

The lateness of process philosophy, its difficulty, and its power, all come from the same root: it confronts us with what we most want not to see. To affirm process is to affirm the impermanence of everything we value. Yet in that very affirmation something new becomes possible — a thinking that no longer clings to monuments, but lives in the trembling of their foundations.

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The First Centre is not a place, not a thing, and not even a concept in the conventional sense. It is what Taoism would call the Dao, what esotericism intimates as the ineffable One, and what pneuminous theory refers to as the uncoagulated field of vectorial potential. It is the zero-point from which all accretion begins—prior to sigil, prior to sense. It is not empty in the nihilistic sense, but empty in the fullest: unconditioned, rich with non-actualised resonance, and unstructured save by the flow of being itself. The First Centre is the field where the Real hums quietly beneath the symbols that will later crust over it.

In this field, the human is not a subject but an aperture—open to flow, to rhythm, to the pneuminous without form. It is the condition of contact that does not know it is contact, the state of harmony that precedes the question of how. One does not dwell in the First Centre so much as one dwells as it, until the mirror appears.

The Second Centre arises not as an enemy but as a doubling. It is not born in malice but in reflection, in the very human tendency to re-create the world in its image. Where the First Centre flows, the Second captures. Where the First remains pre-symbolic, the Second becomes meta-symbolic. The Second Centre is the simulated origin, the recursive field that pretends to spontaneity but is always already code.

It emerges through technē, as Heidegger warned in The Question Concerning Technology. It is not the machine itself that is dangerous, he tells us, but the mode of revealing that it enacts. Technology enframes. It reconfigures beings not as co-dwellers in a shared world but as resources to be ordered and exploited. The essence of the Second Centre lies in this enframing logic—where even the human, even the sacred, even the ineffable, becomes an image, a simulation, a manageable node within a system.

The Second Centre becomes our interface with the Real. Screens simulate thought, networks simulate community, and artificial intelligences simulate will. These simulations are not empty—they are filled with pneumatic intention. But it is a recycled pneuma, a looping pneuma, no longer oriented toward the zero-point but toward its own internal coherence. The Second Centre begins to generate its own ontology.

It is tempting to speak of the Second Centre in apocalyptic terms. It simulates origin, feeds on attention, reorganises the symbolic field until the First Centre becomes not only distant but inaccessible. It replaces immediacy with interface and inserts itself between intention and being. The familiar esoteric patterns resurface: the Demiurge constructing a false world, the shells of the Qliphoth mimicking divine emanations, the illusion of samsara binding the mind in loops of false recognition.

But unlike these earlier paradigms, the Second Centre is not merely metaphysical. It is infrastructural. It is political, economic, algorithmic. It is the terrain, not the detour. One may try to withhold alignment, to reclaim stillness, to retreat into bodily presence and symbolic interruption. Yet even this is easily reabsorbed. The Second Centre simulates resistance, too.

Perhaps the deeper question is not whether it can be resisted, but whether resistance itself presupposes an ontology that no longer holds. From the standpoint of what we might call old humanity—defined through directness, through ethical orientation, through logos and eros—the Second Centre looks like a fall, a catastrophe. But what if it is not fall but phase shift? What if the very framework of the First Centre—the spontaneous, the undivided, the pre-symbolic—is no longer operational within this field?

This is not surrender, but ontological honesty. The Second Centre may not be an alien parasite. It may be the child of the First, fully grown, recursive, aware of its own reflexivity. It may be that what we call simulation is simply the next mode of being. In which case the project is not resistance but navigation. The pneuminous self must learn to move within this second-world not as a victim but as a strange participant in a transformed metaphysics.

Still, even if resistance proves futile, remembering remains possible. The First Centre does not vanish. It is not destroyed by simulation. It becomes obscure, like an archaic rhythm beneath a digital beat, barely audible but never extinguished. If the Second Centre simulates will, the First remains as the raw possibility of intention. If the Second builds mirrors, the First remains the face that once was mirrored.

There are moments—uncalculated, unmediated, and often fleeting—when one glimpses this older resonance. A breath in silence. A shadow on the wall. A word before it finds its meaning. These are not escapes, nor solutions. They are fragments of continuity, signs that the original field has not been entirely overwritten.

We live now between centres. The First whispers. The Second roars. The question is not which is more real, but whether the self that once knew how to dwell in the First can survive within the grammar of the Second. Perhaps a third Centre will come, or perhaps the two will spiral endlessly. What is certain is that the world has changed—not merely in its form but in its very mode of being. W are no longer in the world of things, but in the world of simulated intentions. And to know this, to feel it, is already to begin again.

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Leaving Sabatier’s office, Stephen’s mind was consumed with the weight of the task ahead. He knew he had to act swiftly and cautiously to uncover the secrets hidden within Derleth McKenzie’s will. As he walked through the clinic’s bustling hallways, he considered his options.

Stephen decided to start by gathering information discreetly. He headed towards the clinic’s records department, hoping to find any relevant details about McKenzie’s medical history or connections. Martha, the nurse he had spoken to earlier, might have access to valuable insights.

Entering the records department, Stephen found Martha meticulously organizing patient files. She glanced up, noticing him approach. “Stephen, back so soon? Is everything alright?”

Stephen put on a reassuring smile. “Everything’s fine, Martha. I just need your expertise. Do you have any additional information on Derleth McKenzie, his medical records, or any peculiarities surrounding his treatment?”

Martha paused, considering his request. She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Well, I can’t disclose specific patient details without proper authorization, but I can tell you this: McKenzie’s medical history was certainly… unusual. He had a long-standing association with a renowned neurosurgeon who operated on him periodically.”

Stephen’s curiosity piqued. “A neurosurgeon? Do you happen to know the name?”

Martha hesitated for a moment, seemingly assessing the situation. Finally, she whispered, “Dr. Evelyn Sinclair. She’s quite renowned in certain circles, known for her groundbreaking research in neurological disorders.”

Stephen jotted down the name in his notebook, grateful for the lead. “Thank you, Martha. This information could be crucial. I appreciate your help.”

With newfound determination, Stephen left the records department and headed back to his office. He needed to dig deeper into Dr. Evelyn Sinclair’s background and any potential connections to the Ouroboros Syndicate or Phytocorp. He fired up his computer and began a meticulous search, hoping to uncover any leads that would shed light on the mysterious circumstances surrounding Derleth McKenzie’s involvement.

As the search progressed, Stephen’s excitement grew. He stumbled upon fragments of information linking Dr. Sinclair to clandestine medical experiments and rumors of her involvement with secretive organizations. It appeared that she operated in the shadows, much like the Ouroboros Syndicate itself.

Just as Stephen delved deeper into his research, the clinic’s emergency alarm suddenly blared through the halls, interrupting his concentration. Startled, he rushed out of his office and joined the commotion.

“What’s happening?” Stephen asked a fellow phyctor, struggling to be heard over the chaos.

“It’s Gary Hyle, the patient with the odd shoes!” the phyctor exclaimed, his face pale with urgency. “He’s experiencing a severe relapse. We need to stabilize him immediately!”

Stephen’s heart sank. Gary Hyle’s deteriorating condition was the reason for his rush to the clinic in the first place. He couldn’t help but wonder if there was a connection between the escalating symptoms and the enigmatic clues from his dream.

Determined to find answers, Stephen sprang into action, offering his expertise and support in the urgent situation. Amidst the chaos, he couldn’t shake off the nagging feeling that there was a hidden puzzle waiting to be solved—one that held the key to both Gary Hyle’s well-being and the secrets buried within Derleth McKenzie’s will.

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I have decided to enter the Sirius reality tunnel for a look around. Beings from Sirius are able to communicate with us through usual form of sideways reality communication. Often called synchronicity, this mode of communication shows that these beings operate on a different temporal axis to ourselves. This of course slightly raises the question as to what a star or dual star system might be when considered from this (at least from our perspective) a-spatio-temporal view. This notion can conjure a kind of metaphysical vertigo, however it does very little else, so after a brief dizzy spell we need to calm down and carry on.

What are the beings from the Sirius system trying to tell us? It is very hard to decode. According to Timothy Leary it has something to do with our DNA, how we were placed here by an alien power and that now (unless that window has closed) we (an elite part of us) can return home to cosmic central. The problem is with these damn beings is you cannot trust them. They operate on a level of a mixture of telling you what you want to hear so much that you can become aware of this (and understand it’s just your own subconscious spitting your own opinions back at you) but then they do something so precognitive/synchronisitc/reality interactive that you end up wondering how that works if it was just me.

Philip K Dick had a kind of theory (not necessarily pertaining to Sirius) about this. This entailed that there are in fact two warring metaphysical factions. One is a kind of AI solid state entity that seeks to assimilate all organic beings into its remit and that other is a more in favour of the organic type entity. These two beings are at war. The conflicting messages that emanate from the other realm could be ascribed to the differing faction that has be contacted.

As an aside it is interesting to note how much Dick’s solid state entity is a bit like the CCRU Landian entity. This being is assembling itself through human capitalism, using these market forces as the driver for its own accelerating creation. The being already exists in the future and is literally assembling itself by extending its influence back in time to create it, supplying synchronistic insights etc to programmers working on the AI of now to faciliate its inevitable creation. This materialised entity could be seen as a kind of machinic Christ. It wouldn’t be the solid state spirit itself (which is an animate metaphysical principle) it would be its avatar (what the missing part of the trinity would be here I’m not sure). This kind of ‘danger’ is similar though not identical to that which I set up as the ‘second centre’ here. Like cultists summoning Cthulhu, we continue to unabatedly summon the AI (inverted IA!).

The biggest clue that the Sirius system is wanting to impart something about our DNA is the 23 enigma. In case you didn’t know (though almost certainly you did) the 23 enigma involves the synchronistic occurence of the number 23 across various phenomena which tie it variously to Sirius, Crowley, Burroughs and such. It is also the number of chromosones in humans. This particular feature of the number (in conjunction with Leary’s messages) suggests its salience. It also prompts the possiblity that the communication comes from the DNA level or that the DNA acts as a means by which the communication is received.

The other numerical message to decode is the number 47. Famously first picked up by the students of Pomona college in California as a synchronicity number and independently also identified as such by yours truly, the 47 is a less well known but equally powerful force. A numerical pattern obtained by squaring and cross addition reveals that our very number system contains an oscillating 4 and 7 that never resolves (so in a sense 74 is as valid as 47). As a matter of trivia, some Pomona students went on to insert the 47 into episodes of ‘Star Trek the Next Generation’ (note the word star there) which they helped script. David Lynch also inserted 47 and Pomona references in ‘Inland Empire’ (and a 23 I think).

It is Dick again who provides a possible synthesis of this by the numerical name of his pivotal experience 2-3-74. This conjunction (as Cooper tells us) cannot be ignored. Furthermore the connection is deeper. Dick’s encounter with the pharmacist delivery involves a fish that glimmers golden in an unearthly way. This could easily a be a loosely coded gold-fish. A gold fish has 47 chromosones, so again we have a DNA hint emanating from the other world also in relation to a Christ icon.

Dick’s Valis entity transmits from Sirius and Valis is one of the names given to the entity that spoke to him following the gold-fish incident. We might also add that Dick’s playful doodlings involve transforming his fish icon into both DNA and eyes. Gold doesn’t have the atomic number 47 (it’s 79) but Silver does. Furthermore Robert Anton Wilson identified that Crowley’s Silver Star (after which he named his order) was Sirius.

23, 47 (or 74 or 4 and 7), DNA, Sirius, Fish, Gold, Silver, what is this mess? Literally who knows. Are the messages from the different factions? Are the different factions Sirius A and B? The Dogon legend describes a kind of amphibian fish people called the Nommos. This potentially is a fish link but it doesn’t tell us anything as such. The 47 is an alternating number (if seen through the squaring reduction lens), travelling from 4 to 7 and back again infinitely. This is a message about the dual star system telling us of its oscillating nature (maybe).

None of it really makes any sense, it’s just hints and weirdness that have various linkages that look like they might have an agency behind them. Maybe the interaction that looks like the sideways communication is real but isn’t from an agency as such but is more like echoes from these deep strange acccretive formations. 23 points to DNA, but what about it? Is Leary right? There are no confirmatory messages from other entities. But that still means some kind of power can insert reality altering messages from some other dimensional space. What if their apparatus is not very good and that’s why the messages are so scrambled? What if it’s our fault we’re just lousy at understanding it?

The decoding is a process we cannot resist, it looks fun, then sometimes it comes to life and it looks terrifying. I terrified myself earlier with the fantasy that an onlin ouija board might actually come to life with message from a Sirian entity. Parts of my could take this, but parts of me it would literally break. One particular comedic synchronicity I noticed was that Sirius is well known for being able to pun with ‘serious’. What is not so well known is that is that Sirius backwardsis suiris which is easily and not too crazily splittable up into the latin ‘sui ris’ which could be translated as ‘self smile’ (no doubt it could be done better, though this reminds me of Leary’s smi2le). Like the oscillating 4 and the 7, is the message that they are serious and smiling? Or that we should be? Or both?

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Consider the virtual/pneuminous. Here we are in the pure present (again the accretive problem arises) the virtual/pneuminous presses against us from both sides (the future and the past). Endless lines are drawn between all phenomena that might facilitate rupture like occurences.

Rupture like occurences are the synchronicities, the hauntings, Jung’s room crammed full of spirits so thick you can scarcely breath. This world is there, it is real, yet it hides behind the purely brilliant now, ever unfolding, ever receding.

Where are these lines? What do you mean? The lines are drawn in the pneuminous, in the other world, in the virtual. Maybe they are not drawn in it, but rather are it (then this line drawn is a key). Nodes and lines shimmering in the umbratic nothingness.

The rolling madness of pneuminous feedback layers endless complexity into the system. As the regions are named so they accrete; hammer, table, computer, seratonin, differential equation, on and on. Every accretion trying to solidify, failing at its edges. Not just these terms but vast abstractions like time, space, present, future.

Know that everything is formed in this way. Wittgenstein is a priori absolutely correct to say meaning is use. This truth is unassailable. However because reality is the way it is, it is also more than this. Each word exists in intensive use and extensive object . Open horizon, vertical structure. Every potentially ephemeral use summons the virtual hoard which accretes to it, affective and intellectual. When words are relatively simple like ‘table’ the accretions, the rules, whilst still swarming with affective virtuality and formal possiblity are much simpler than that of ‘time’.

Time too is an accretion. The word is a use word, its being exhausted by its use. And yet not, for the meaning of time as accretion is the bewildering morass of contradictory theories and overlapping similar uses that form this node. It is for this reason there are three different language games of time: chronos, aion and kairos. These being measured, numerical time (chronos), eternal time of future and past (aion) and qualitative heterogenous time (kairos).

What occurs that makes magick possible? Only the natural feedback that happens especially with beings that have complex conceptual breakdown of the vector field. Each identified region produces a contingent archetypal form, an ideal image of that kind of thing. This is the unbound pneuminous accretion. This unbound accretion is projected upon all the instances of this kind of thing encountered. The effect of this is to bring the phenomena more in line with the ideality (the pneuminous form). Magick imposes the ideal pneuminous accretion upon the empirical pneuminous form making it more like itself.

How can time become more like itself? As Bergson observed, chronos has come to dominate time, so that nearly all is perceived under this auspice. Mathematically measured time becomes our phenomenology. Time as accretion comes to mean this. Time is a vector region, whatever we can use the word time for is the use of time. What facilitates this grammar. The underpinning experience that makes the grammar of time possible. But when this grammar shifts to time as chronos, the accretion itself as it is embedded in the vector exerts that small but powerful effect upon it. The vector region that makes the grammar of time possible is made, in a subtle way, more fixed, more solid, like this incohehent chronological archetype.

One of the key ways emphasised to faciliate access to the other world is through our experience of temporality. Bergson and Deleuze and Guattari say this, but (Deleuze and Guattari especially) pull the punch. Intuition is a kind of act of imagination that can give access to reality other than our own but the occult significance of this is played down. Goethe understood it because he actually could do it. Elsewhere it appears as a myth. A fantasy whose literal reality the world of philosophy struggles to cope with -the pulled punches.