Might foam upon some quantum beach
A froth of worlds roll out?
Swift surge of brief realities
In nihilistic shout?
Should quantum tides thrust sentience forth
Upon lost temporal shores,
That consciousness may well outlast
Its quantum tidal bores…
So strange this stasis.
Gray pause more endless
Than the life or eternity at each its ends…
I would you awe…
Not the tiny, nor small,
Nor restless profane,
Not the mundane that soul saps
The spirit to blister and crack in sorrow.
I would your eyes rise from that endless void
That levels the heights even as it fills the valleys.
If there be exaltation,
If there be wonder,
If there be yearnings that spring from our souls,
Let them be sublime in their seeking,
Believe in their knowing,
Secure in their journey
And awash in their wonder
Till heaven and earth are one…
Continuing today’s philosophical musings –
“Study reveals individual neurons in the human brain are triggered by the subject’s conscious perception, rather than by the visual stimulus.” (Redorbit).
Through the examination of morphed faces, researchers concluded that only in the act of recognition did neurons actually fire. Subjective perception rather than objective visual stimulus caused the firing.
Professor Rodrigo Quiroga at the University of Leicester then went on to say, “In a sense, the interpretation of this result goes way back to British Empiricism and even to Aristotle. As Aristotle put it, we create images of the external world and use these images rather than the sensory stimulus itself for our thoughts. These neurons encode exactly that.”
Subjective perception… and the power of worldview and our mental models of the world around us.
Ever so subtly the chains that bind
Wrap us in their siren embrace.
And though I see you,
I see you as I see you –
Not as you really are… and rarely your true face.
Dreams may rise,
Ethereal as smoke they rise.
They neither scatter nor dissipate,
Nor constrain through rigid form,
But stack, instead, one upon another
Our yearnings toward heaven.
Seldom sensible in appearance or use,
They remain precarious in balance, and
Half glimpsed longings,
Urgent desires of our nighttime,
Rich compass of our days.
Dark mist rising,
Drum beneath a keening sky –
This scent of loam, of leaf, of yearning,
Of memory’s wail
And piacular’s cry…
This fragment of verse sprang from a rainy summer evening full of smells, sounds and dark, misty half-glimpses into the surrounding forest. Peering out through shadowy trees, I could have been sitting around a campfire with my Neolithic kin so many thousands of years ago.
The mood became a pensive, quiet centering that gradually gave rise to what I can only think of as one stream of those ancient, primal feelings that seem to lie hidden beneath daytime’s logical, civilized veneer.
Continue reading One rainy night…