It's Elemental

Tag: Unconscious

  • how do you know what knowledge is?

    It’s quite a dilemma – not being able to directly check much of what we are exposed to and presented as ‘knowledge’.  Unless we begin to discover our own ways of knowing (a very difficult proposition, but I think possible), then we likely remain wanderers in the fog of our own (and other’s) unconsciousness.  

    Of course, at least in any near future, it doesn’t seem like subconscious situational effects can be avoided – nor do I think they should be.  Much of what we enjoy as part of our everyday capacities for thinking, feeling, and willing are rooted deeply and complexly in unconscious processes.  Indeed, what is normally conscious for us is perhaps one of the tiniest slices out of what can be potentially conscious, and perhaps the potentially conscious is just the tiniest slice out of the full depth and breadth of the universe as a whole – or not (because, in accord with what I just said, this is an impossible determination, requiring consciousness to take place).  

    In any case, pretty much EVERY modern study that follows the basic scientific practices is a study in obfuscation, requiring for its potential success a decided ignorance of as many ‘attenuating’, ‘circumstantial’, ‘probabilistic’, or ‘random’ factors as possible.  The more willfully ignorant a study becomes, the more exact are its pronouncements, and the more its knowledge is sequestered from the whole.  This is why all studies require additional work to be re-connected to the complex actualities of the world, necessitating interpretation, reframing, and recontextualization.   

    This suggests a different way of performing ‘studies’, discovered long ago by Goethe and others, in which the situatedness, the contingency, the circumstantial, are all necessarily included aspects of any attempt to work with and understand a phenomenon. 

    plants-11


  • down they sing

    down down down inside there is a silent speech
    you sense it with your fingers as they absent-mindedly clasp
    the empty space between your palms
    a holding on to something that never was
    the words are unlike these, and your eyes cannot fix them
    into harsh dualities of coincidence
    cannot shatter their glass frames
    and spill them into false awakening,
    for they are too alive with movement and carelessness
    too bursting with their own unconscious
    to be forgotten by your recognition
    swayed no longer by pointed barbs of attention
    you slip unknowingly into the place you always were already
    the lemniscatory pulsing of the arteries
    a sonata played on your inner organs
    frayed concepts dissolving in your living words
    like salt into the warm liquid of time
    no longer obeying your self-congratulatory epistemology
    nor your heroically reflective meta-stases
    by which of course we can only mean

    but you know what I mean
    because you read now with your fingers, your breath
    your earlobes and your wings
    the sleepless ones are here
    joyous in your sleep
    sowers of your dreamless dreams
    singers of your wordless words