Thursday, December 16, 2004


Oh, and the lawns are quartered in so neatly here; the geometric plantlife lines the edge of every person's universe. And the sun is so kind here, and the morning chill not so vicious for the wind. And every house is perfect along the fence-high horizon... you might think you were in Hell, or even in the center of America, but as I've been to neither place I can only go on stories about them, for use in any comparisons. It all depends on where you're from, whether you see Heaven or Hell in a blade of grass, a chimney and a clear empty sky. All depends on where you're from, where you're going, and where you ARE... But what is the most astounding, is the view you get from both of these angles at the same time; a paradox between extreemes arises, though you cannot see it more than just a moment, before it slides down one or the other side of the hill. This is a vantage point we will discuss later on, as it is treacherous and the meaning of life. And so instead I look simply at the frost, and the shadow as it creeps, hiding the dying salt of the night, and shrinking up against the friendly fence until it dissappears. It is simple to turn off the winds of judgement and see only colors, if that is what you really want to do. And when the winds become so over-harsh, so painful and so merciless, you do: you are taught to want otherwise. You are taught to want to have mercy on yourself, in seeing a plaster house, a picket fence. You are taught to desire an end to the ongoing dialogue, between people you've never met who are from places you've never been, whose existence you have every reason to doubt. When the simple act of singing brings with it all the forces of heaven and hell, all the crafts of Satan and of Michael, you find there is reason to shush the speaking void that knows no satisfaction, no quenching of its thirst... and the only way to satisfy its lust is not to listen, not to know of it... Oh and if there was a way to see back, backwards to the eyes of those who never saw any of the sights that make up our universe; if we could see anew, truly, and truly be of other than the eyes of our States and the wills of our Masters; therein what would we see? Therein, what would we be then? And where would we begin; in simple and non-speaking registry of color? of photons of light, alone and freed from meaning, freed from eons of layered doubt and hopes, alone in darkness, shining out like fire, like a simple point of existence in itself? We need both sides of our minds, in order to think this. That gap between the scientific mind, and the artistic and humanitarian mind, must be bridged for either to do its work. The hopes and dreams of the every word of literature, are alone and will say nothing unless the access, the connect is made, into the thoughtless mind of movement, of action like that of stars. We are weighed down, and perhaps made mute and immaterial, by the very division which we think are at core of our studies: the separation between the sciences, and the arts. The further down we drive the stake between them; putting even the two genders themselves at their opposite extremes, to increase the implied breakage; the further away we place ourselves from where we want to be: from what these talents might bring us. To cripple them and to cripple ourselves in doing so, is the one and greatest downfall of the study by humans of the world. Perhaps it can be put this way: on the one side, is the study by humans of the world in which they exist; and on the other, the study by humans of themselves... Or at least, this is what their definitions would have us believe... This funny and bewildering distinction may be of use, or it may be of detriment, to our learning anything. And what is it to have learned something, anyway? Far away, divided by generations and lifetimes from the learners, can it really be said "we" learn anything? By demonstration of a new machine's existance, does it signify "we've" learned? By demonstration that we still exist, somehow, and cornered safely off between these fences we may dwell somehow in peace, does this say "we" have learned something else? Something to which we cannot point concretely but yet must assume, must be led to believe, that has been done to "us", that has made "us" different from those eyes of millenias ago, to whom none of this would presumably make any sense? Is there, then, any learning, any changing that is ever done, from one lifetime to the next, or is it merely a rearranging of photons; of objects for the eye to see, to catch between one darkness and the next? Taught anew each time we open our eyes, what to see in front of them and how to see it; taught to see like we are taught to walk; is there a chance even for free-seeing to occur, is it possible anymore, or was it ever? I know not, but I know the experience, of feeling the voices of definition drown away, subdue themselves in silence, I know physically the feeling of them evaporating away, as I let myself be lost in the yellow of sleeping lawns, in the air of a tight morning, asking myself again and again, why are you here? why are you here? and then ceasing, suddenly, in its own preposterousness.


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