Like many of my posts, this is an overgrown comment in response to questions after my own heart by a blog bud, this one is of exceptional character in that, like my very life, I cannot stop coming back and revising it with fresh insights, like a flower following the sun. I will pin this post here for the rest of the month for public display of its gestation, rather than do a chapter two:
Red Dirt Girl, you are welcomed to quote away to your heart’s content. Better yet, just synthesize what resonates into whatever it resonates. I have two full pages back in my to-be-posted file that began as an attempt to give a comment sized answer to your evocative — evocative hell — they are all the very same question that drives all the other curiosities ecstatically indulged by the corporeal entity that types this reply.
Truth is not found in civilization’s versions, the facts of what (agreed language and description), where (point to a place or map and agree), when (point to a star or calendar and agree), who (point to a person or group and agree) or how (we have owners manuals for everything but nature, though religion has their books, scientists still agree they are theorizing, albeit with full knowledge of who pays their checks). All those questions seek to dissolve, correct or enhance civilization’s misguiding myth.
Truth is observed best with no questions at all, but for the sake of answers, only through the question of why, because we can’t point at it with our fingers and words from our minds either glance off or become absorbed in its indescribable lack of intention. Why are metaphors so beautifully simplifying and so infinitely plentiful? Why does the truth of existence appear clearer the more I identify with either the body of which this body is but a cell or the cells that make up this body? As above, so below. And we, always in the middle, make our own meanings, our own paintings of a pipe.
The endlessness of the questions in answer to cosmology of why may be the essence of life, the noticer of extremes we call consciousness, the unbearable insufficiency of our words to do more than caress something they can never capture. But that is personal truth I have and, by its nature being the way of everything, will forever inadequately describe. Maybe.
As for the interweb holoscan as a source of things in which belief may be invested so that righteousness may be assumed or sides may be taken come hell or high water — forget that. I find it to be distracting to build theories (the closest I come to belief, or describable truth) based on the desire for certainty, infallible bedrocks of unshakable faith against the evolutionary stream of all future experience to the contrary.
I like theories, lots of different ones, continually free to find resonance to all my experience, to taste the spices and test the spin in all the information. When they begin to coagulate around a pet set of purring premises my curiosity sets off an alarm that it has become forbidden its customary stroll through now heretical neighborhoods on early curfew. Vivé l’varietié.
Wisdom says understand the heretics of civilization, and see the sodden mob they insist on dragging into the future clinging to blinding beliefs in creationism, god granted ownership of all we survey, worshiping our godlike fucking with everything on this edenic planet, manifest destiny, etc. I am working on the big momma theory of all theories that can make peace with war, and lies, and soulless people-users profiting from their power to create fear and salivation whenever they ring their terrorist bells — but they keep blowing it up, or was that my bell?