Every
conclusion is yet another reference to the shackles we are confined to wear.
We bring a box camera to river rapids of life and expect kayaking to produce
memorable stills. Every sensory
identification named, is
another brick in the prison, actually made by the endless
nametags given to everything we encounter, in
this insularly so fashioned. Mind into speakable
sentences is
a chain gang’s song of the day. All
perceived subject/object displays are lowbrow comparative truth comedies. Time
is the ultimate metaphor, for
not being real by lying and then being in wait. The
essence of history is as the essence of now but revealed as
results rather than isness. Knowledge is a tourist’s point of view. Breath is a deeper mundane
truth of this expressed. To
hold up a mirror is to view the
wily imminent recent past with steadfast intrigue. Our notion of details says more about
our
observational style than the ‘it’ we have confirmed at the very essence of
reality. There
is no audience at that very essence. There is no
reality there, for our pretend is only by
insular agreement, in our human offish sort of way. We
are the pride of our own slop, forever refining. Like a negative Zen, we
are bound to consciously eliminate everything that
it isn’t . . .
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