beyond language

Smooth sounding rain

Smooth sounding rain stroked manifold layers of green quivering leaves

.

 

Smooth sounding rain stroked manifold layers of green quivering leaves

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Smooth sounding rain stroked manifold layers of green quivering leaves.

Silence within the great symphony of rain.

 

    Silence whilst listening to a thousand voices of cold tropical drops smashing into leaves and edges.

Silence that is grey;
       profoundly incomprehensible.

And a voice that wraps things full of wonder with words full of emptiness. 

 

   A sight that dwells endlessly on a dream planet, a dream life.

 

A layer of skin that pierces darkness and absorbs the world into a

       nugget of perception.

To breathe in awe of all surrounding perplexing forms, a close connection with improbability.

 

Then it stops, the ever-changing new turns old and rigid. Common, ordinary minutes.

Then again and again there is a plan, a prospect.  The vertigo of wonder disappears…

routine conquers anew.

 

Echoing thunder is heard… far beyond the touchable. 

             

 

                    To be one with what has been,

    

what is

 

what will be…

Breathe

Breathe, quite slowly…

as you caress the dim surface

follow the curves, the missing parts

again, were we incomplete

unfinished as anything in time

are you still living this minute?

I cannot blame you,

let’s wait a while… the rain may pass

it’s fine to be weak – fear is homely

that hour may come, later tonight

after so many things have torn us apart

let’s wait, cocoon life

we may soar imperfectly, rottenly

there is no choice;

live this fate

frailly fly soon

when the rain has stopped,

when the soil is dry

so we can take off … again

We… post-postmodernists?

Our Age is too near to get sight of its boundaries, it is too early to understand its misconceptions. We are too dogmatic in our denial of dogma, absolutely certain in the impossibility of absolute truth. We refuse categorization, even the relativistic classification nauseates us with its blatant inaccuracy. We have exhausted the map of the expected, we have sailed off the edge of objectivity. Is there enough courage at last to tear open the last unexamined convictions?

 

Science has detonated such a bright flash in the sky of our conceptions, it left us bleakly trembling under the paleness of the explainable.  Our lust craves for some personal knowledge beyond the downpour of communication.  Yet, we are still too philosophical in the claim that philosophy is futile and irrelevant, too logical while we humiliate the world into meaninglessness.

 

Every man has always been in error. We scrutinize the lack of breadth in antiquity, humans living under the conditions of necessity. But has the wealth of leisure begotten any real savory experience of the magnitude of the universe? Do we not still live under the dining lamp, stuff our heads with hamburgers and neglect the vastness of space and time only to idle hours of curiosity?

 

Do we prefer to stand still in opposition to progress or move frantically to and fro in opposition to linearity? Is there much to gain in opposing the current of history? Does the weight of our question collapse under our temptation to doubt?

 

Why do we seek definition?  How can we induce our subjective universe to submit to our words before we have been able to glance it all? Existence is too chaotic to wear the stale garment of adjectives and deductions. Whatever we seek – if we seek anything at all – lies beyond the fortress of definition.

 

Let the living eyes of the future bury us with their dead words,

                                                for we will be by then … dead things.

The Great Unknown

There is a startling recognition in the first blink of the day, when the eyes open their lids, raise the gates of secluded darkness and the light-rays of colors come streaming into the cognizance of a new day. This recognition I speak of is far from definable, it is the unspoken conviction that life is altogether unknown and new. I awake to a new day, a new series of uncoiling sensuous experiences emerge passively from all around me. I say passively because I do nothing and the whole world around me pours into my consciousness like a voracious waterfall falling into a crystal diaphanous pond. As soothing as the morning light is it announces a silent scream urging me to interrogate my commonsense, to question my convictions, to ask this futile conundrum: where does it all take place? But as soon as I ask this query and reply with words the question loses all meaning. It is not a question to be answered by the wit of our words. It is a question answered in silence. It is to stop repeating compulsive nonsense in our heads. It is to remain still and perceive whatever 
 

IS….

And remain there. |Silent|Still|Calm|Quiet|Mute

Where does it all take place… forget about what you know about the mind, the body, consciousness, the human brain, the weary heart.

Focus on your perceptions in the same manner as you would look at a flowing river… nameless, ineffable, and unutterable.

THEN…


I come back to my computer. And write about it. Baptize it with names and riddles. I call it:

  

 

On Art or the Philosophy of Art

earthborn_2020_pablo_saborio

 

Art is perception. Perception with meaning. Meaning that goes beyond the insipid realm of words. Philosophers have in vain struggled to define reality. Careful consideration will prove this to be the most absurd conundrum. By definition, the only objects we can define are words. The act of defining is providing an object of reality a corresponding word to name it. Words are sign posts. They point to something other than themselves. Existence is not a word. An attempt to define it is as impossible as to receive nutrition by naming all the ingredients in the plate of food in front of you. Knowledge is not words. Knowledge is to grasp the meaning behind the words. If it were possible one day that, at the peak of our scientific and philosophical endeavor, we attain awareness of all the processes of nature and biological life we may set up a (sign post) model of the whole of reality with words and mathematical formulas, all we’ve done is created a new universe, a replica of this one in our heads. We wouldn’t have defined reality, we would have reproduced it. Reality does not have a meaning, it is meaningless. The only objects that have meaning are the man-made. Or more precisely, meaning comes through as man is The Beholder of the World. A tree does not have meaning, it is not false or true, it just is. Veracity and falsity are only found in our propositions about things, not in things themselves. By nature we are beings that dwell upon Meaning. We are in love with the quest of finding an image of ourselves. We want to become contemplators of our own intimate nature. As the highest quest in life is to know oneself through and through we create mental images of ourselves. For once we have a complete image of ourselves we surpass it, we are new individual with a new knowledge, in short, we are born again.

 

The objects of art pursue this conquest. They speak to us in perceptions of form and color. They illuminate the objects of our world and their relationship with ourselves. They are, in the highest sense of the word, philosophical. For philosophy. in the most naive sense, is reflection. The Objets d’art reflect the world the surrounds us and is hidden within us, they provide a laboratory for transforming our being. Art materializes into the physical world unspoken intuitions that make up our inner constitution; we bring forth into the world a mirror that reflects our cavernous soul. With the images of art we can shape our mind, for our mind is like a block of marble. The art of life is to mold this sculpture; it is the process of transformation that is at the heart of life itself.