"In the name of the past we carry out the greatest deceits in the present"
"Doesn't it happen to you, that sometimes you confide much more in just anybody?"
"We're satisfied with too little. When friends understand each other well, when families understand each other well, then we think that everything is harmonious. Pure illusion, a mirror for larks. Sometimes I feel that there's more understanding between two people punching each other in the face than among those who are there looking on from outside."
-- Julio Cortázar
I've embarked on a particular journey which has no end. The pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, which moves a hundred steps away with every hundred steps towards it. The pot of gold contains the eternal spirit, inner most being. However, it isn't externally visible. It cannot be touched, seen, smelled, tasted, heard. It lies buried deep within, beneath all the layers, beneath the ceaselessly rolling waves, beneath the heaps of dirt, dust, grime.
The journey home is unique in that we never left it. Imagine setting out to look for, to find, to discover the shelter while existing from within the shelter itself.
What is this journey home? Where am I going? From where am I leaving? What is the source? Who is the source? How important is my reaching it? My tasting, seeing, hearing, smelling, touching it? How long must I go? How deep do I dig? Will I fall into the vast field of emptiness upon arrival? What am I afraid of? What is the source of my fear? Who do I fear? Who is afraid?
The past is a novel of old stories, ones we know of intimately by heart. We can recite them verbatim, word for word, replicate the emotion to be felt, the responses to be had, the phenomena to be experienced. We reference our old stories to understand our present. Rephrase. We reference our old stories to convince ourselves that we understand our present.
Does the present require any understanding? What is there to be understood? Why is understanding a goal? For whom do we understand? To whom do we understand for? How do we understand the present? Is understanding possible without old stories to continue from?
We reference our old stories to convince ourselves we are in understanding with our present. To convince ourselves, implies, implying understanding is merely a continuation of something we choose to believe in. Faith. Belief. Illusion. Delusion. False. Mirage. Mirror. Our old stories are a reflection of our interpretation of the present. Not a very good one. More historically good rather than authentic.
How many historians would you trust in their word of the accounts which they deemed factual had actually happened? How different would history be if told by this person, that person, them, we, you, I instead of the historian?
Old stories requires perspective. Perspective feeds a point of view. A point of view reinforces a single source of viewing. A single source of viewing implies a single seer. A single seer has one pair of eyes. One eye. One I. One. I. Eye. I. Eye. I. I.
Our old stories paves way for fictional stories in our present. A stranger who knows no past, no history, no old stories has no deceit, no preference, no delusion, no falseness, no single eye, no I. A blank slate. A fresh palate. A new smell. A new ear. A new tongue. A new nose. A new hand.
Complacency is a condition of preferring old stories as opposed to new ones. Past times are replayed like old VCR tapes of family home videos. Remember when... Remember how... Remember who... I'm a stranger. I don't remember who, what, when, how. Who are you? I want to know. Why are you? I'd like to understand. What is you? Lets figure this out together.
Past time. Present time. Past time. Present time. Past. Present. Old. New. Not new. Now. Was. Is. Old. Was. Now. Is.
We reference our old stories to convince ourselves we are in understanding with our present. To convince ourselves, implies, implying understanding is merely a continuation of something we choose to believe in. Faith. Belief. Illusion. Delusion. False. Mirage. Mirror. Our old stories are a reflection of our interpretation of the present. Not a very good one. More historically good rather than authentic.
How many historians would you trust in their word of the accounts which they deemed factual had actually happened? How different would history be if told by this person, that person, them, we, you, I instead of the historian?
Old stories requires perspective. Perspective feeds a point of view. A point of view reinforces a single source of viewing. A single source of viewing implies a single seer. A single seer has one pair of eyes. One eye. One I. One. I. Eye. I. Eye. I. I.
Our old stories paves way for fictional stories in our present. A stranger who knows no past, no history, no old stories has no deceit, no preference, no delusion, no falseness, no single eye, no I. A blank slate. A fresh palate. A new smell. A new ear. A new tongue. A new nose. A new hand.
Complacency is a condition of preferring old stories as opposed to new ones. Past times are replayed like old VCR tapes of family home videos. Remember when... Remember how... Remember who... I'm a stranger. I don't remember who, what, when, how. Who are you? I want to know. Why are you? I'd like to understand. What is you? Lets figure this out together.
Past time. Present time. Past time. Present time. Past. Present. Old. New. Not new. Now. Was. Is. Old. Was. Now. Is.
