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To perceive I must clearly Recieve. To recieve Clearly I must be Receptive. To be receptive I must release my Conception, clearly. Dear Reader, What follows is intended to be poetical in nature if not in form. It is only in the manifestation of the muse that language makes the leap from conveying ordered information to one of displaying a hologram of experience, truth. Truth cannot be known, kept as a momento in the cupboards of my being and used as required. Truth is immutable. Knowledge is accumulative. Any attempt to manipulate Truth is a movement within pseudotruth, perceptual truth, and so false. Similarly, experience cannot be anything other than presence. Memories and expectations are a movement within pseudoexperience, percieved experience, and so are as dreams. From the "Ground", that which is nontemporally prior, perception arises; from this primary division secondary and subsequent conceptual divisions arise exponentially. Thus is the composting confusion of knowlege accumulated; and left unturned proceeds to rot. The usually conveyable information is mundane by necessity. With varying degrees of habit and conditioning I must indulge the routines and challenges of my day. Virtually all of my interrelations are of this nature; familiarity breeds contempt. Empathy is the intercourse of right desire, but the lovers prefer to masterbate. This is a certain price of enforced isolation. I am separated from community by definition; by income and education, racial origin and custom, and most effectively by employment. My employment or occupation becomes the most important definition of myself. I displace my need of innate meaning to the transitory realm of relative empowerment, and forever seek its temporary nutritive quality. Thus my need for deep emotive connection is rendered impotent, and I phantasize that this connectedness can be compressed into my immediate surround. I also believe this to be relatively independant of "them", which has now come to include even my neighbors. Soon, however, the cloying attentions and incessant demands of isolative living force an emotive retreat from even the famillial "us". I am now an utterly seperated creature and must psychically masterbate, both in stimulating a suitably self-rewarding conceptual structure, and in vociferously attempting to maintain a stimulating and secure microenvironment (personal space). When even my spouse and children are a manifestation of "them", I am truly in the fire of hell; the state of utter separation of perception and conception. This is the curse of the muse; vision compressed through persona must be let out. Only at dissolution of the persona may the muse, and the human, rest. Whether this loss of identity is an actual state, whether the physical form would be able to persist in such a condition, is a moot inquiry. Only one being (t)here could have sufficient insight for comment, and would have no desire to do so. As a species we are in perpetual banishment from the Eden of rest. We must do what it takes to survive. This for most entails a seemingly endless struggle to stay afloat in the maelstrom of basic provision. Yet I am a sentient creature and so am inimitably imbued with the muse. The beauty of the written form is that it can be absorbed, assuming a receptive state in the reader and a common definition of terms, as a precise communication; conveying an experiential state. All forms of expression have at their core the preconceptive understanding of the reciever. I see what I want (know) to see and hear what I want (know) to hear and feel what I want (know) to feel. Perhaps, if the art touches at sufficient depth, I can see what you want me to; but it will be mine. |
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