I See Me, I See You, I See The World

In

I see without words and then must interpret my inner language into words you can understand. You envision what I am saying through these symbols and interpret them to your own set of symbols. Sometimes, we can give each other new symbols. I see the world through the wordless, and commune with the outer world by going deep inside of me. I am a cosmonaut, a traveler of consciousness. A deep, rich inner life is where I continually reside. It is from this place I find a reservoir of basic, yet vital things that sustain me. In order to see here, one must delve inward and very deeply until other realities begin to reveal themselves. Now “I” am immaterial. My consciousness sees itself and I understand it is a basic operating program. Consciousness: like a immaterial materiality that is the same stuff from which we make our dreams. Only here, it is seeing this while we are awake. By doing this, I free myself from the constrains of the mainstream mindset, and indoctrinated ideas from society. Yesterday I was told who I am, what to believe, what is fact and fiction from some outside source, some authority, some figure that wishes to interact with my being as if it is an animal to be caught for a pen to be made domicile and domesticated, good for petting or eating. And then in this moment of truly seeing myself, the consensus hallucination has cracked open and the human world becomes nothing but stories. Children play make-believe and try to hold the other children hostage. For me, all the cardboard jails have fallen apart.

Out

I see your eyes and I feel warm. I wish for you to be more than something that belongs to me. I miss your skin and the way you made me feel. I do not know why I am so moved by you, why losing you has destroyed me. I cannot find any reasons and lose my faith in goodness. My muse has fled and suddenly the world is stark, Godless, empty and meaningless. I love you still in a way that I have never known. You are saying and doing things that would seem to be very hurtful, almost intolerable. Yet, I feel no withdrawal. My heart remains an extension of yours and if I must give you up, then I can only watch you go and keep high hopes for all of us to be happy. We keep our contact, because we both know there is some strange connection between us. We miss each other, but now we are just friends. Sometimes you fish to see if we can still have physical intimacy not understanding the amount and intensity of sheer pain I have felt from knowing you are unable to give your heart to me. I must be firm to be your friend, although we sit much too close and our hugs are much too long, too tender, and filled with head-kisses and tears. I see you as most of us would like to be seen, with a basic goodness and a way of being that is beyond forgiveness, which is an allowance and well wishing for all you are facing now. I see you have only just begun recently to really see me. Not the me that is the object of some desire, or a gratification to be filled, but as a being with thoughts, feelings, struggles just as you. We met, and it became an exercise of looking out and finding yourself in another.

World View

I see the world as Artist. There is no other way of seeing that is more fundamental to me. The art of the moment, the beauty of some monstrous ugliness, the potentiality of everything that surrounds me and what I purposefully seek.  My daughter lays on the bed eating a green apple. A birch tree stretches its branches in an angular symmetry across the road. The brittleness of winter falling down and spring falling up into the sky. The world appears as things which become abstracted, conceptual, and metaphoric. Yet, the sunlight just right upon a peeling barn is a simple statement of gray and orange. I see the world visually, although it is something past the image. It is a language of symbols. Musical notes are colors. The melodies are stitches of these colors in fabrics that have a texture that can be known with these senses. Moss and fungus appease some need for organic chewiness. A face tells a thousand stories with miniscule nuances expressed. Under it all some bittersweet motion continually pours into more disappearance. Art is nothing more than being vulnerable to me. Vulnerability is how the seed grows: it exposes itself. In this exposing, its inner beauty or truth of it is revealed to the observer. If it is not this exposing, it is simply an idolatrous image, something quite easily seen as a facsimile of true art.  Art must be that terrifying naked moment.