To not be a ghost.

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Most Western thought teaches us that we are spirits mired in base matter, ghosts in the machine, prisoners of Phillip K. Dick’s Black Iron Prison – or even worse still, that the creature we think ourselves to be is nothing but an ephemera; a trick of time and matter. Descartes with his brain in a jar, Plato in his cave, that old Gospel song of throwing off our old bodies to be robed anew…

This is not a polemic against religion. Or philosophy.

I would rather this was a praise-song for that crude materia; that dirt that we have so long despised.

Matter; clay; corpus; dirt; earth; crud; weight; unformed; lumpen; gravamen.

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