Many say that the end of the world is upon us, that we will all be replaced by electronics, but of that I have no fear, for electronics may claim to be smarter than we are, but if you’ve ever tried to interconnect or network them, you know that half of the time they will fail miserably and even in those rare cases where they work initially they will soon enough fail.
So I think I will live on, keep pad and pen at hand, and just for safety sake, a box of candles and matches.
It is of little surprise that we find this a dizzying world, for we always try to look forward, but since the future is often vague, we try and keep one eye on the past to understand what our other eye is poorly seeing.
The mind does not care to be pulled in two directions at once, objects with stabbing pains, and when that fails to correct us, a weariness we cannot overcome.
The Buddha would tell you it is best to keep both eyes in the present, to focus softly and see what is there without judgement or preconception, to simply
be, assured that all senses are merely crude tools to shape what is amorphous into something we can grasp and file, but time itself knows there is nothing more than now, ever.
Awakening in the morning when you first see the sun and the dew resting on the leaf which eye are you using. When you stare into the mirror through what eye do you see, and what eyes stare back at you.
When you see the deer lying in the road which eye do you use. In a nightmare, when you slip into the deeper, darker world, what eye is used then. When you fade into death what eye sees your departure. Think carefully on this for only one eye can see the answer lying within.
We can sit for a time, and speak of our pains, how they cause us to stop and look inward while the world proceeds on it’s axis, in a slow march through time and space, and we share the anger and anguish of our too fallible bodies which time reclaims in slow progression.
We do not pause and cast eyes on the egrets, heron and ibis returning for the night as the retreating sun paints the clouds in colors known best to flames consuming all, to wings flapping as perches are taken adjusted, as conversations are continued while night settles slowly over the preserve, the birds marvel at how we allow ourselves to be absent from the simple beauty of the world that surrounds us.
You must be home now, or somewhere you can answer my call, and the busy signal or disembodied voice, purporting to be you can only mean that this very moment if you are calling me the busy signal or disembodied voice purporting to be me is giving you a momentary frustration rivaling my own. This must be the state of the world for otherwise you failure to answer could mean but one thing, and I can no more accept the preposterous idea that you might actually be speaking to someone else rather than awaiting my call with bated breath, and certainly not that you are sleeping, your phone switched off, never mind that where you are, it is well past midnight.
Words have geographic homes and here old favorites seem ill at ease, fitting poorly into thoughts that demand their presence. I use them regardless, but we both know that they will hide their shadings, but in a world where words are the last option, we both know that I have no alternative but to turn to them, to wheedle, to cajole, and ultimately to submit to whatever they will allow me. After all, the alternative his silence, and for a writer, that is death by a single cut.
You never read the ultimate autobiography which doesn’t exist unless you live in an Oulipian world. You can write up to the moment Of your death, and we would, if begrudgingly, conceded the last moments incompleteness, but you cannot write a true and complete autobiography without falling into the recursive abyss where everything that you say is suddenly autological and the reader collapses in on himself, a literary blackhole.