Reflections On A New Calendar Year
The recombinant stream of manipulated sounds imprinted as a semiotic adaptation to perception are perhaps akin to a series of parallel tumblers made of the words, that turn in association to the arrangement of transient photons, a composition of energetic sound, the blurry and yet distinct ghost images as memories invisibly glued to neurons that fly across the synapses, flashing in our imaginations like the atmospheric lightning hidden behind dark moving clouds above the prairies and fields of Self we glide upon.
An inner atmosphere. An ambulant habitation grafted onto the cellular that in turn, relies on the mineral content of a sedimentary fossilization of bone to walk upon the surface of three dimensions where the words lead us, or cower where the words inform us, there be monsters.
This two edged sword compels us hither and yon and yet internally, we remain motionless, with the exception of our perception of associations, identifications and relationships between the words that act like mainsprings in an internal clock. The intertwined spring unspools a flickering film made seamless by a sleight of hand, full of exiting and entering character actors who portray drama, loss, great expectations, courage, cowardice and loneliness. We are the incomparable authors of vast libraries, full of encyclopedias, fictions, historical works, and diaries, the material comes from the exterior projected within and the interior projecting from without, and between the words of the script we improvise in this theater, are truths, lies, desires, and above of the imagination, the ability to create what does not exist, and yet is. The play of inward outward distinctions as a creative scrim.
Does the theater of the exterior world also dream, also project, also have desires beyond a human anthropomorphism? In other words can the aggregate sum of the exterior universe dream, imagine and struggle to know itself? I think this is likely, I think this may be the origin of our odd positioning, to calculate the sums of the inexpressible, to make hives, to weave tapestries, like the pollinated nectar of the mind, collected by the billion count, which then creates, in turn, new lives, new scenarios, more fractal possibilities, variegation and evolutionary genomes that flourish in the far country beyond our animal perceptions.
A purpose within a state and station we cannot discern but can imagine, can relate to, can witness, can even participate within to taste, to reject or covet. This perhaps is a co-creation by the raw material of words made material by behavior, the clanking of bones, the work of the fingers, all of this wrought by the raw material of the mind seeking coherence that is a benchmark to be reached not by distance but by a creation within a creation, an enfolded dialog between worlds wherein we serve as agents, representatives, and envoys of what cannot be seen by molding this material into our arts and relations, by failure, by rejection by accepting these terms for a limited time, all of which beyond our own doubts, irregardless, seems to me as a form of praise that we utter without thinking, partake of without acknowledgment or humility. What a miraculous place this is, full of everything we need with the capability to chose, or reject with no authoritarian monarch to make a judgment upon us as we seemingly have the choice to judge for ourselves. How different the real world is from the fabrications we inhabit of our own poor architecture.
What we serve is incommensurable, that much I know, and the aggregate sum is much greater than my Self, and yet I have been chosen to partake of this for a time in a co-creation. Serving whilst being served by air, water, sunlight.., (a list too long to make, is it not? ) in a contingency wherein I am all dependencies, in need, weaving my clothing, weaving my clay mold, as a gown to inhabit where this far country allows us to perhaps participate in greater creations, greater needs beyond our Selves that are being fabricated by this nectar as I type, unaware, yet restive, by way of an umbilicus cord from where I actually exist as a portion of the whole, I salute what may come, underway whilst peering through the fog, as Whitman may have said, better, with a hail and a farewell.
