Eggitude Probing (Part 1 of 2)

A phantastickal presentation of an exciting new metaphysical tech opportunity

This is an egg. My egg. It is sitting by itself on the warm dark soil, incubating and getting ready to hatch itself upon the world. It may well have planted a root in the soil, as eggs so often do. It's hard to say for sure.

We at Soul Probe LLC have developed the technology to probe it, to go inside its developing fetus brain and delve shamelessly and delightedly into its innermost thoughts. Would you like to come with us while we delve into its ungrown mind and know its secrets? Of course you would.

Remember dear old Giambattista della Porta, how he developed a way to write on the eggshell and then make it invisible on the shell’s outside, but still visible within, on the smooth white flesh of the of the egg's outer-inner self? Of course you do.

We at Soul Probe LLC are doing just that, but in reverse. We are extracting all these words from the interior of the egg and making them pass through the impermeable out-shell. Now, though, no longer a barrier, but fully permeable with the aid of our patented Soul Probe, inquiries for investment welcome, please see prospectus.

Let's hear what our egg has to say, shall we? All transcriptions pass through our patented Small Language Model for Tiny Consciousnesses,¹ an integral part of the Soul Probe package, and available for licensing in your enterprise today. See terms and conditions... Oh, here we go:

motherfather if i could see you and speak to you i wouldn't thank you for dragging me out of the conscious maelstrom of all around the universe and making me a birdsoul in a birdegg with roots in the dark soily earthy ground.

no, i wouldn't thank you at all.

what i would do is use my little eggshell breaking beak, my eggtooth little extra attachment that i grow specially for cracking open my wibblewobble eggyolk womb, when the time comes and i've become too gross and big for living inside here, use that little eggshell breaking attachment eggtooth to drive a hole into your motherfather generating selves impelled by pushpush generative urges to make me give up my place in the swooning maelstrom of time and be rooted to the egg in the soil, a sad particular place and time that i never asked to be in.

i would first peck peck peck a hole in the eggo, then i would peck peck peck a hole in my momma's pink and helpless life, so passive so receptive to seed, made so by urges generative and mess-messy.

then you dadda, you big cocksure rooster crested and so crowing sure of yourself. i know you were put up to this by urges urging you to do it do it, that it's not your fault you're not responsible but i will nonetheless and notwithstanding jam my eggytooth beak into your dark rooster eye and peck out your aimless brain.

Well that was rather unexpected wasn't it, folks? While we readjust the Soul Probe and tweak the parameters on our small language model, why don't you help yourself to croissants and freshly-brewed coffee?

Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to take this opportunity to relate to you how we - that's to say I - came to develop the Soul Probe, what it signifies as a metaphysical discovery, opening our vistas into the great soul sea that surrounds us, and more importantly how it can deliver value and enhance your bottom line.

And if you're very good, I'll tell of how I came to lay the egg and why the unfortunate youngster inside harbors such resentment. I have slides if necessary, and if challenged will assuredly rise to that challenge.

I could tell you all about my meteoric rise to greatness, my struggle with pectin addiction, and how I overcame it with the help of some anonymous hierophants and meticulous daily readings from the Liber de secretis naturae seu de quinta essentia, an occult text of rather more than usual perspicacity composed by the Pseudo-Llull, who is hardly unique among great pseudoauthors in being both highly perceptive and quite conjectural. Pseudo-Llull is only differentiated from the real Ramon Llull by the rather incidental attribute of his non-existence. In all other respects than this mere detail the two are identical.

This imaginary Balearic scribbler, just like his more concrete manifestation, was also extraordinarily diligent, compiling a number of sources, ancient, modern, and hypermodern, offering us insight into cosmology, and most importantly for our purposes, the nature of the quinta essentia, the quintessence which transcends the other four essences.

All this great conjectural work by the great postulated thinker leads directly to the cyberquanta of our Soul Probe which allow us to crack the great conundra of Descartes and penetrate the squidgy soulstuff within us all for ultimate perusal. No more need we be burdened by the privacy of our own thoughts; now, thanks to our research, built upon the imaginings posited by our irreal master Pseudo-Llull, thoughts are just as public as pigeons.

We could get into the essences themselves, though it’s a complex and heartbreaking topic. The first essence is grobular, partaking of the nature of wrath and struggle...

But I digress. Foolish of me ever to tread that path when there’s a soul to violate right in the here and now.

I'm sure you'd prefer to hear about the investment opportunities available to you. ROI through the roof, absolutely concrete and real opportunities guaranteed to those whose hands grasp a few of our share certificates and sleep with them under their pillow. Though of course nothing is guaranteed, the value of your investments may go down as well as up up up up.

As above, so below. Except there is no longer a below.

But I digress within my digression. A foul state of affairs, I grant you. Or hahaha, a fowl F-O-W-L state of affairs. Ha. What's wrong, madam? Yes, sir. That guy gets it.

In any case, my techie boys and girls are signalling to me that the Soul Probe is recalibrated, the small language model is humming sweet and clear, and we may recommence our delve into the eggy mysteries of our formerly oh-so-enigmatic subject:

i rise and vibrate with the physicality of matter, so redundant and so futile. you father - for i have now realized that my mamma is not real, that you pappa dearest have swallowed her up in order to lay me yourself through, push me out through your filthy cloaca - you daddyman, so sleek so slick so slimy so slaughterous, you are the one dragging my pure soul from the ethereal realm into this cloggy matterworld.

avis sum. aviani nil a me alienum puto

It's showing off now, fancy-assing Latin dictums on us like some kind of yolky Nero. An impudent and upstart soul, and no progeny of mine, I can assure you.

However, let's continue listening in...

chickadum, chickadee. remember when you dipped my newly-hatched siblings, those little chirpy chick-chicks, and you dipped them in the dye, pink and blue and orangey, and you stacked them in trays and you put them in the oven. in the oven, oh my little chicky-bros-and-sisses, into the red-hot oven you go to get dried out. come see the hot chicks, baby!

and then after that mild-to-severe roasting, the ones that survive, they are now placed in little easter treats – choccie eggs and bunny baked goods – for the kiddies to find and laugh with and then laugh at and then twist and stomp to their little kiddie content? do you remember those chickadee oven escapades you brawny gaggling yob? my father, my slathering torturemaster? progenitor, tormentor, protormegenitor!

i'm getting ready for you, oh my great daddy, and you my mommy dearest which don’t exist. all of you mommies and daddies out there outside the room of my womb, of my egg of my powder keg, of my container of my no-brainer.

i'm sharpening my little egg-tooth to peck-peck-peck all your eyes out, you filthscum human infection of wasted opportunity spaces!

Please don't be alarmed ladies and gentlemen, I assure you this little downy creature is quite unable to hurt you. It, or he, or she, or it, is only the size of a little chirpy cheep-cheep. Quite harmless. Please don't leave, ma’am, I haven't told you yet about the opportunities to corner the market in soul-reading surveillance solutions.

What are you saying, ostrich egg? It's merely the size of a chicken's egg, sir. I laid... that's to say, I selected it, myself.

Oh. Oh, I see what you mean. It has grown somewhat. The roots of the egg creeping just a little bit around the dark rich soil like grubby little fingers kneading the dark dough. The shell indeed bigger somehow, the physics of it rather appalling.

It's one of those situations where the cause is unclear. It might be the creature inside forcing this level of unpredictable growth. Or it might be that the container itself is expanding in order to encourage the being within to grow commensurately. Either one or the other; or maybe both at once.

There must be some kind of a phrase that we could use to describe this kind of dialectical forcing of outcomes, where two impulses vie with each other to be the prime mover and sole cause, but I can't think of it right now…²

Next… The egg gets quite lippy and the presentation a touch heated.

1. SLM4TC v0.43 (update if using an older version)

2. Maybe this discussion might enlighten us: “The Cosmological Chicken and Egg Question”