The Giant Part I

 

Last night, we took my daughter and her family to see Cirque du Soleil’s Echo. It was truly one of the best shows I have ever enjoyed. In fact, I’ve never witnessed any show greater than the many Cirque du Soleil productions I’ve been to. There is always a favorite part of each show for me; last night, my favorite part, by far, was the giant, red, puppet-man.

It was impossible for me to count the number of artists involved as marionettists. One was responsible for one foot; another artist was responsible for another foot. There were cables and several artists working their respective parts in sync. The red puppet seemed to be most interested in one dancer in particular. By way of her own cables and careful choreography, the giant, red, puppet-man knelt down and took her in his hands. He stood up and she stood in his enormous hand. At this point, my disbelief was suspended enough to see that the girl and the giant were developing a relationship; seemingly in awe of one another. I forgot every artist responsible for the giant and I was only curious as to how this special relationship might develop.  

For a moment, I was a boy, and I was perfectly happy believing in the characters on the stage. Perhaps, in the back of my mind, I knew there must be an elaborate system of cables and a slew of clever operators, but to focus on those mechanics would have been to miss the show; and I was simply not willing to miss the show in order to see how it worked. The trade would have left me feeling sad.

Could this be the way consciousness suspends disbelief in order for each of us to truly consider the show? Classical physics explains some macroscopic phenomena and quantum physics operates the tiniest details in another, completely unique, way. Without the license to drive this home in a scientific way, I’m trying to articulate my beliefs philosophically.

In the production I refer to as my life, I am the puppet. I’m not the eyes, for they are matter. I do not see with them; the eyes are mechanical and being operated with muscular cables. I am not the hands; my hands are made up of materials like bones and cartilage and moving, on command, with other cables.

Of course, the sticky part is where disbelief begins and where new belief occurs. As a puppet, who is responsible for believing? Every dancing cell of my body must cooperate with the trillions of other cells on behalf of the one, giant trick being played. This gives each cell (or dancer) the belief that it is a part of this giant being. If you could study my body the way I could study the giant, red, puppet-man last night, you would see the choreography that has gone into this illusion. One cell is going here and another cell is going there. One muscle contracts and another relaxes. And the amazing synchronization of all of these events create me. Everything about me is mechanical and trillions of operators are in on the story; living it in complete belief. The collective belief of the many players is the part being played by the thought impulses. All of the senses gather at the center and all of the signals are formed there as well. This busy madhouse is what feels like a brain to me.

Billions of years have gone into the illusion we believe to be our material world. Trillions of workers are behind each giant, believing they too are selves. I see other giants on the street and I smile a giant smile as we walk by each other; oblivious to the production behind us.