Our culture for the most part, here in the West anyway, is made of solutions to this space-time Jell-O -- from fax machines to bulldozers and weight loss programs, we are about solving matter energy space and time. Jenny Craig and Ma Bell and the U.S. Mails and the bottomless pit of confusion called psychiatric theory are all tangled in this interesting matrix, something like bits of chopped fruit in a Jell-O salad. Not immovable but appearing solid, it feels and looks dense; but in actuality a good stream of hot water would melt it away. If there is any mission to individual consciousness it might be to reach the temperature of hot water, enough focus to wash off Jell-O.
There is no difference between the attention that flies to the stars at night when the body is asleep and the attention that curses a cold engine at the start of a morning's commute, or weeps over Internal Revenue communiqués. Dreams reach 'reality' when sufficient attention is focused on them. Inside the Jell-O mold this is done by communicating in volume, which done over time allows parts within the mold to move around -- something like trails and tunnels inside an anthill, being carved by the force of communication. But most of the work is really done outside the mold, in the kitchen of consciousness, so to speak. (Yes, it is strained).
Let us praise the love of chefs and admire their art, their finely detailed handiwork, without flinching from the fate that awaits it. Jell-O, like civilization, is a temporary thing, bound for transition. And even the web of the Jell-O-mold we call time itself is doomed as the chef ultimately turns his attention to other things.