File boxes stuffed with notes, and books on rows of shelves in my garage that I presume are moldering in the summer heat and humidity.Some hoard references like a folder of evidence in a cold case file that I plead guilty to as charged, and the deeper mystery to me is that if I was pressed to give a rational and cogent universal answer as to why this is so, perhaps all of my efforts have sublimated a desire to return to innocence. Here is your answer in ten words or less. Flocks of birds like a dust storm below the floating clouds swarm in a ballet. From whence they came and where they go I do not know. They pause above me in the trees loudly chattering on every branch, only to depart with a flurry of beating wings at a moment's notice.
I have no idea why, whether their cries are praise or meaningless to the big picture, a picture that eludes the range of sensate recognition, and so there is a mystery afoot, regardless of the subject at hand. A sort of self recognition in the mirror of naive provincialism.
Books on theology, metaphysics, physics, archaeology, neurobiology, psychology, biocentrism, mythology rest in a web, and I, like a fly was caught by a delusion of ambition to find the more I know, the less I know.
About anything. On the subject of the paranormal, this is perhaps a dissenting point of view.
If I could go back thirty years, i would find this situation implausible and would vehemently deny such a thing could happen, confident in my own grounding but that ground is undercut floating in the maw of space, held together with a glue that is always and forever contingent in it's assembly, hence the title of this blog.
I see an old woman as if speaking to a child who asks the child, "Where does the wind go?"
People chatter so much I think they would fall in their tracks from exhaustion. Compelled by this or that in the throes of enchantment, about what they are not, what they do not know, what they think a purpose is, and what a lack of purpose is. All very worldly and possessed as they presume our shadow world is and despite that it is what they themselves have made of it. What more could one say? The territorial prerogative of expertise is a sardonic and often hilariously inverted tragicomedy is it not?
The greater part of valor is to look away, and perhaps also to look away from oneself. Eating attention like nutrition-less junk... synthetic food like an opiate. Unable to listen. Uncomfortable, squirming when exposed to silence. Acting what one imagines oneself to be or acting by imagination to manipulate, in some misbegotten instinct of survival. Old people and children, the dogs, the cats, the aviary know better the meaning of freedom that I do not.Letting go of the tether that is inquiry as a behavior I suppose to me is akin to being a Taoist or being suspended in Zen or the dissolution of a solid by centripetal action. Call this resistance, perhaps existence is like rubbing sticks together to create a sort of short range light similar to using a flashlight in fathomless range of a cave. The divisor and the multiplier of observation, rumination and myth, the non apologetic reality of individual reality tunnels that worm this way or that throughout the Earth and yet from a greater height of relativism, all of this activity seems hive like in the compound myopia of human purpose. A enormous puzzle, a incommensurable living entanglement without boundaries if we search deep enough into the subterranean streams that glide through us, absolutely unnoticed due to this proclivity of our own purposes, we can view vast fields of arrangements in a spectrum of diminished and becoming and yet it never misplaces a single discernment. Where this leads could be a bubble in a soda can or the false presumption that we are lost to a greater engagement, a phenomenon that is incommensurable to our biology.
I do not know.
Over several weeks I have dreamed pleasant rather nostalgic dreams of those I have seen for decades, always on the same theme repeated in endless variations. I am with them and we are attempting to return wherever the dream began. It could be a street, a home, the woods and in doing so, we become lost, distracted, blockaded. Twice they were interrupted violently.A loud voice cried Bruce! each time.
The last time I thought it was my wife. It took a conscious effort to fall back asleep as my wife dozed.
Who is that? What is that? What is the reason? Someone has reached across the aisle to tap me on the shoulder in the midst of my engagement of simulating the equivalent of speaking to myself through play acting inside of a dream.
I don't know what if anything that means or the reason for it which is so atypical of the Origami of the intellect inside of it's nest of sticks as facts. The trees perhaps do know, oddly enough. I remember reading Krishnamurti's diary in regard to the peace he found in resting as it were, in Nature's arms, under the trees. Listening to the wind. Are we invisible like poltergeists to Nature? A mysterious disruptive force known only to our planet by a wind that consists of billions of whispering nonsensical acts that have only the purposes of the dead, as Jung thought? Who is the ghost? Me? All this talk of ghosts not knowing they are ghosts have an inverse ordering.
I look at that woman in the drug store. I can read her face as she dream through it. Irritated, anxious, compelled by this or that to be absent in her body. I wondered how much she will remember of being here.
That book whose preface had a peculiar statement. I write this for you so you will remember. I could not remember as a child. I rode on my tricycle saying, impressing an oath upon myself. I must remember this.
Why? As if some vague memory stirred for an instant, that instinctively knew that a benchmark was important, but to a five year old? I remain an amnesiac in all this.. The only distinction perhaps between myself and another person is that I recognize this, and yet in the same manner all of this possesses a incommensurable peculiarity about it.