It is possible to confuse the surface of a thing for the thing itself. When we do that we misunderstand everything about it. It is possible to confuse the mechanics of a thing for the thing itself. When we do that we forget about it's past, fail to see it's now, and cannot imagine it's destiny. We lose time. When we are lost in the girders of a bridge, looking at the columns, the asphalt and cables, we may forget and call this thing a "bridge" with all the things associated. We may believe a thing is it's purpose. A bridge is to move cars and people and products across the waters, when in fact this bridge, at this time was built for beauty, and love. So now we have a quandary, because our vision has deluded us into believing this thing is dead, it is steel and tar and paint. We fail to see the columns under the sand, or the rusted piles of iron it is becoming and will become. We don't see the pigeon shit or the hawks or the suicides. It is easier to filter all that out and become deluded into thinking a bridge is a bridge.
But what if it falls down? Then it isn't a bridge any more? But the rust is still there, the steel, the paint, all there. Pigeon shit may wash off, but it stays long enough to argue the case for the bridge. Then it flows downstream and the bridge rusts, the steel breaks down and the sands take up the color of the old bridge. Something was missing after the bridge came down, something left. Maybe the bridge had a soul, and maybe few could see the soul of the bridge in the steel cables and asphalt drives.
Now somebody took a picture of that bridge in an early morning fog and developed it in platinum and they hung it in a great gallery. It hangs there today. People who look at it can smell the fog, hear the birds and the rumble of the trucks. They sense the soul of that bridge. So that's where the soul went? Were the Plains Indians right to worry about the camera? Some young lover wrote a passionate poem, an epic tome poem comparing their love to that bridge, that wonderful bridge! And reading that poem you get a sense of the soul of that bridge, because it was built for love and for beauty. So there's more soul for you, we're getting closer.
Behind all surfaces, inside all mechanics, there are bits and pieces of a greater soul, enhancing and embracing the delusion of surface while providing the reason for life, for slogging through the physical strain of holding up a body, a form. Yet all is vibration, all is movement, all matter mere properties. So the mass is brass because you've got your head up your ass.
You can't go on forever, you know, pretending you don't understand the eleven dimensions and the folly of picking and choosing a few for particular attention, that's just squinting. Babies play peek-a-boo because it's fun. Mommies play it because it's fun and the baby laughs so sweetly. Neither is fooled by surfaces, no baby ever thought the mother was gone. The confusion comes when the laughter stops. A woman sobbing with her hands over her face, weeping over the covered up face of her baby, this too is confusion. This is a delusion of surfaces that can cause collapse. The knees get weak, the thighs tremble and the stomach sucks in a deep sob and there is a collapse, the bridge between two souls seems gone. This is confusion over surfaces.
When the last photo of the last bridge left behind by the last two people is dust, all of that, all of them, will be as the paint and shit that flowed downstream and stuck to the shore. Still there, just not so easy to see anymore, like a mother with her hands over her face, it's hard to see. And yet, it is because we are small and the rest is so big that we focus on parts and surfaces. But behind the fingers, behind the tears streaming down the face, is Mother and Children should know that. The covered up baby, the cold slab of meat and bone, this is not all there is to a baby and the soul has floated downstream to stick to another shore, but never gone. Even scientists agree things cannot be destroyed, only changed, and change is life, life is change.
What happens to the salt you put in the stew? It's in the flavor, in the smell. It's everywhere there is stew.
We aren't the meat, we're the salt of the earth.
But what if it falls down? Then it isn't a bridge any more? But the rust is still there, the steel, the paint, all there. Pigeon shit may wash off, but it stays long enough to argue the case for the bridge. Then it flows downstream and the bridge rusts, the steel breaks down and the sands take up the color of the old bridge. Something was missing after the bridge came down, something left. Maybe the bridge had a soul, and maybe few could see the soul of the bridge in the steel cables and asphalt drives.
Now somebody took a picture of that bridge in an early morning fog and developed it in platinum and they hung it in a great gallery. It hangs there today. People who look at it can smell the fog, hear the birds and the rumble of the trucks. They sense the soul of that bridge. So that's where the soul went? Were the Plains Indians right to worry about the camera? Some young lover wrote a passionate poem, an epic tome poem comparing their love to that bridge, that wonderful bridge! And reading that poem you get a sense of the soul of that bridge, because it was built for love and for beauty. So there's more soul for you, we're getting closer.
Behind all surfaces, inside all mechanics, there are bits and pieces of a greater soul, enhancing and embracing the delusion of surface while providing the reason for life, for slogging through the physical strain of holding up a body, a form. Yet all is vibration, all is movement, all matter mere properties. So the mass is brass because you've got your head up your ass.
You can't go on forever, you know, pretending you don't understand the eleven dimensions and the folly of picking and choosing a few for particular attention, that's just squinting. Babies play peek-a-boo because it's fun. Mommies play it because it's fun and the baby laughs so sweetly. Neither is fooled by surfaces, no baby ever thought the mother was gone. The confusion comes when the laughter stops. A woman sobbing with her hands over her face, weeping over the covered up face of her baby, this too is confusion. This is a delusion of surfaces that can cause collapse. The knees get weak, the thighs tremble and the stomach sucks in a deep sob and there is a collapse, the bridge between two souls seems gone. This is confusion over surfaces.
When the last photo of the last bridge left behind by the last two people is dust, all of that, all of them, will be as the paint and shit that flowed downstream and stuck to the shore. Still there, just not so easy to see anymore, like a mother with her hands over her face, it's hard to see. And yet, it is because we are small and the rest is so big that we focus on parts and surfaces. But behind the fingers, behind the tears streaming down the face, is Mother and Children should know that. The covered up baby, the cold slab of meat and bone, this is not all there is to a baby and the soul has floated downstream to stick to another shore, but never gone. Even scientists agree things cannot be destroyed, only changed, and change is life, life is change.
What happens to the salt you put in the stew? It's in the flavor, in the smell. It's everywhere there is stew.
We aren't the meat, we're the salt of the earth.
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