So that which we call "true" is not really so true after all. Rather, it is a construct of our own making, of which we are generally not aware at all, since it is a social construct that predates us probably by generations. And so, "tradition" becomes "truth" because it has been around for so long as to be believed as such.
So if that which is "true" is not necessarily so at all, and one was persistently aware of this, a sense of irony would persist, would necessarily have to persist within one's mind. This is not really a "preference"; it is a reality: the reality of appearances and of beliefs held. Such reality would be present to one who understood this "transparency" as perpetual fallacy that reinstates and recreates itself.
And this is precisely why I changed the name of this blog to "fragments." Everything comes to us in fragments, be it sensory, emotional, or mental. It comes not in wholes. We are so trained that we give our fragmentary existence meaning by interpreting all these fragments, depending also on our state of body, emotion, and mind. We believe that we understand and comprehend and, in such belief, "create" ourselves, our lives and our world. This is how it is and probably how it must be--at least until we are able to move out from under such beliefs about ourselves.
Sometimes I feel very strange and awkward in the flesh, in this human body. It feels as if this is not my normal form. I can appreciate all the at least billions of years it took to evolve it to its present form, but I also feel as if I've been rather recently plopped into this human form, which is akin to an organic, fleshy machine, though I mean no denigration in saying that. It is a quite phenomenal organism, probably the most phenomenal organism of its kind. Yet I find it strange and even awkward or ponderous that I have to convey thoughts by writing words by typing with my hands, taking words "from my mind," in a body I must work at to have it survive by feeding it, cleaning it, cleansing it--an animal flesh body from the planet Earth. To most people what I say here would sound crazy, much like some arrogant alien. I thought, while walking this morning, how strange that these arms hang at my sides now, and that my eyes and face communicate to other people without saying a word. Sometimes I find that I know people's thoughts, and especially their emotions. It's not that try or that I'm so interested; it's just that I do, that's all. Nor is it that I am aloof or antisocial; I'm actually quite friendly and take an actual interest in others: I want them to feel good and be well, and I am heartened when this is so. But even if people did know their own minds, which they don't for the most part, they are not much supposed to actually reveal how it is for them; such honesty is disquieting and disruptive to the "flow" of society. But this leads me back once more to the notion that existence is fragmentary and that our attempts to interpret and make sense of ourselves and our lives and the world is fraught with inaccuracy and fallacy.
So if that which is "true" is not necessarily so at all, and one was persistently aware of this, a sense of irony would persist, would necessarily have to persist within one's mind. This is not really a "preference"; it is a reality: the reality of appearances and of beliefs held. Such reality would be present to one who understood this "transparency" as perpetual fallacy that reinstates and recreates itself.
And this is precisely why I changed the name of this blog to "fragments." Everything comes to us in fragments, be it sensory, emotional, or mental. It comes not in wholes. We are so trained that we give our fragmentary existence meaning by interpreting all these fragments, depending also on our state of body, emotion, and mind. We believe that we understand and comprehend and, in such belief, "create" ourselves, our lives and our world. This is how it is and probably how it must be--at least until we are able to move out from under such beliefs about ourselves.
Sometimes I feel very strange and awkward in the flesh, in this human body. It feels as if this is not my normal form. I can appreciate all the at least billions of years it took to evolve it to its present form, but I also feel as if I've been rather recently plopped into this human form, which is akin to an organic, fleshy machine, though I mean no denigration in saying that. It is a quite phenomenal organism, probably the most phenomenal organism of its kind. Yet I find it strange and even awkward or ponderous that I have to convey thoughts by writing words by typing with my hands, taking words "from my mind," in a body I must work at to have it survive by feeding it, cleaning it, cleansing it--an animal flesh body from the planet Earth. To most people what I say here would sound crazy, much like some arrogant alien. I thought, while walking this morning, how strange that these arms hang at my sides now, and that my eyes and face communicate to other people without saying a word. Sometimes I find that I know people's thoughts, and especially their emotions. It's not that try or that I'm so interested; it's just that I do, that's all. Nor is it that I am aloof or antisocial; I'm actually quite friendly and take an actual interest in others: I want them to feel good and be well, and I am heartened when this is so. But even if people did know their own minds, which they don't for the most part, they are not much supposed to actually reveal how it is for them; such honesty is disquieting and disruptive to the "flow" of society. But this leads me back once more to the notion that existence is fragmentary and that our attempts to interpret and make sense of ourselves and our lives and the world is fraught with inaccuracy and fallacy.
