Tuesday, August 26, 2014

The Unseen Indelible Provocations of A Paranormalist

The Approach Of A Transit Between Stations

"Reality in a dynamic universe is non-objective. Consciousness is the only reality" -M.R Franks

Do you ever question why you sift the abstractions of the realities you inhabit as if you were sifting clues, echoes and reflections of what remains to be asked, let alone, questioned? This is my own retrocausal journey of sign posts that remain indecipherable. A mirror turned back upon itself. The metalogic that deconstructs the threads of a opaque architecture. Questioning what is an answer from within them. The surrealism of ourselves as adherents to the unknown is equally strange as our circumstances.

How do we hear our thoughts? What created their voice that is our voice? Every aspect of the mirror we call self awareness during our waking hours incorporates an inherent blindness that is unquestioned. Our abode in the matrixed web of neurons within the faceted functioning of the physical brain remains elusive and unquestioned. A leased physicality within the metaphor of a house that Poe placed on paper as his own thoughts turned to the rooms that we dare not enter while the structure itself inexorably fails as we peer from within on a perfect summer day.

What has condensed our curiosity to become both impracticable and compelling in our motivation to question what is presented as apparent? How do we express this situation? Perhaps an attempt is a balm for restive spirits in search of their own form. An autobiography of indelible and unseen provocations.

A play of shadow and light restlessly turning in a spectrum of painted irradiation's creating illusions, the illusion of a rainbow of colors. Someone I respect suggested this was provided for and yet on the other end of this equation, there is nothing that we possess outside of a tenuous expression that our manifestation is representative of the unapprehended. He looked away with a sigh of resignation and muttered..”this guessing game…”

What writes these words and what translates them back into a voice that can only be heard without a physical ear to capture a strange presence, unnameable yet persistent? What are we the reflection of, a variant of and..what are we not? Questions of a biologically based provincialism, a profound naivety, a eternal innocence of location.

Under the sway of suggestion by sign and by symbol they pass on the street dreaming by a default of circumstance listening, speaking in a codex arranged as a musical composition multiplied by the million yet isolated as fractals of an unimaginable orchestra..One wonders whom or what is listening, watching perched upon a shore as a connoisseur of this art?

Neither cat calls nor applause results other than the wind as it touches the tall grass across the prairie waving in abeyance to yet another aspect of itself, seemingly divorced from it’s effect, unseen but felt. The waves of the felt that inform thought as a chimera animated from without, perhaps as an illusion of motion from what is more applicable to this..the spaces between what seems to be animated..the interstatial strings of some strange loom weaving, threading the apprehended.

Can we frame a question that transcends our location in an oceanic as a drop? Can we measure what has not been asked? Can we do so while we appear to be in transit gliding over the rails, seated in a metaphysical chair unattached to any logic that is applicable to the whole?

We have only the contingencies of the apparent from station to station. Some board this conveyance as others depart as the pot is stirred by these images of what cannot be represented.

The pretense of pretending is the locus of thought based upon a solid foundation of mystery that compels us to think on these things we have packed in our satchel. Carry on luggage

Station to station, one being contingent upon the other within the squaring of a circle without a cartography that lacks any memory of a beginning or end, we glance at the passing shadows in a seeming pantomime of the indecipherable, secure in our ignorance, upheld by circumstances that dance before us, opaque and clarified, dense and yet without form.

1 comment:

  1. I really like the photo illustration -- it exemplifies the hoary old cliche that that light you may think you perceive at the "end of the tunnel," suggesting some impending "enlightenment" or opening, may actually just be the headlight of a huge black train quickly bearing down on you while you still remain on the tracks, trapped in the tunnel of our own presumptions. Or maybe not.

    C'est la vie!