If the noösphere is a mirror it is like Caliban's mirror - gazing into it enrages us but we can't decide whether this because we see ourselves or fail to see ourselves there. Or to put it another way, it is like a Cambrian explosion of memeplexes, a wild fecundity of monstrosities, a vital and grotesque vitality of possibilities that volatilises and consumes all historical footholds. What gives it such vitality but the elusive hint of realisation or awakening - an image that haunts the language in which the parts name themselves - that shimmers in each of the fragmented and fragmenting forms of identification that are offered. To disengage and yet affirm all of it at once would be madness if the elements did not destroy themselves more quickly than their collisions would do. They do not understand themselves as forms of seeking, but through sheer speed, through the melting away of all restraints to speed, they embody the paradox of an open commitment in which the openness becomes radicalised as the demand for commitment grows more urgent.