VERBOSE • batcave, bc • 2003.07.9
Perhaps that which strikes a monkey the most about a bannana is it's color. Such a hue vibrates at infinite levels, triggering the urge for consumtion. Oscillating from light waves, refracted into focus through it's eyeball, projected upon millions of living cells organically encoding the image into electric pulses on contact, flowing through the nervous system to the monkey's brain, where it is parsed to be percieved as a sensuous field reflecting upon his consicousness, finally striking the awarness from which his very existance arises... so at what stage is the color conditioned?
The level that conditions the form's perception must be key to the bannana's aesthetic.
Archetypal- primordial taste, a refraction which conditions every sensual perception. Experienced directly by anybody who chooses to uncondition his senses to that level.
The way emerges in the abscence of thought. Like a natural reflection of the same strand which conditions all viewer's very perception.
The most beautiful forms are nothing more than utterly functional... formless in an abscence of substance conditioning the form outside of a grasping perception, arising from a smooth series of consciously directed natural reactions.
Anything we could produce is no more than a stiff conditioned attempt to capture what which would naturally appear if we were otherwise watching the sunset instead of mucking about with words.
Staring at screens our perception is fooled into being hypmotized by it's own reflection- listen to me, I proclaim, as both our time burns away in an attempt to propogate 'my' understanding onto another unsuspecting emailer using rational thougtforms, hardly contained by the set of assumtions we label with itself, language.
All of which you already know deep down, if you are even able to cognize a single concept of this, exposing that the forms of the words I am using are actually relative and absolutely hollow formless spiralling waves projecting from my mind, refracting already understood concepts in your mind to piece together a horridly complex puzzle of an image tragically simple, the point of which indicates that I've already said enough.
Even mentioning your name as the first word of this letter is too much of a socially conditioned reaction to bear realizing the fact that I've already realized it and realized that I've realized it, spiralling into infinity, where further realization dawns that the words used to communicate the occurrence of the realizations were even more deeply engrained than the impulse to reflect your name, triggering further infinite realizations where the uncontained light of eternity dawns, at which point you and I are already one in the same awareness, where dualistic names become utterly meaningless.
Trapped in the moment of these words, the hollow shadows of our projection that we were violent enough to have ended up caught in, are perpetuating themselves in this circular motion until we, as each, find our path to spiral up or down.
The effort it takes to turn the experience into these words then back into your violently mundane reading experience, actually misses the entire point by distracting you from comtemplating somthing as compelling as a tree, which is within your visual field right now, though you clearly choose to ignore it, continuing to read this rambling reflection to try and understand yourself better by perceiving these illusions- the experienced form of which you already know, unbound to, which understanding would better be achieved by looking at somthing like a tree right now, which you, again, clearly continue not to do, ignorantly preferring to indulge in the patterns of my uncontrolled mind, needlessly perpetuating your existance.
May the point of these pointless words point up towards the uncontained in which you are pointlessly suspended.
Which is to expose the pale reflection of the imagery projecting through what you conventionally call yourself, actually no more than a fluxuating illusion, sqeezing itself through this linear medium, like a snake attempting to slither up a pipe only as thick as itself, unrealizing that the pipe is nothing but his perception, and his effort has no climax. If only this hypothetical snake could relax so deeply, the natural force of gravity would help him out.
Stuck, in the patterns of our mind mind mind, reflecting here so blatantly, we're exposed as if standing before the world naked- though this is the only way that we have been conditioned to communicate through this medium. A conditioning pattern, a conditioned conditioning pattern, pattern, which through copious volumes of childhood effort, prevented us from turning our untouched minds upon the formless form of unconditioned perception itself.
Now it's just the following words reflecting within themselves in conditioned patterns, soon triggering a listing of the words that these words are ignorantly referring to in their vague assumtions possibly confusing us into further shadows of ignorance, as we perpetually repeat words such as: condition, reflection, pattern, patterned reflection, conditioned pattern reflection.
Whatever it is that they mean.
If the reader can understand these words in even an infinite fraction of the way they are meant, he bears all of our extended greetings fellow fellow, as we float back into the void from which all emerged as inevitably as the systems on which time balances will destroy it. Products of the same cosmic and cultural systems, we are brought closer together by conditioned communication- the same propogating conditioning which pulled us apart in the first place. Pulled us up.
May we all follow the spiralling lead of formless form, to purge these unconsciously reflecting lingual patterns, to still our minds into silence to observe that original term you so elegantly and effortlessly coined 'common aesthetics'.
If you wish to communicate at this lower level of yours, mindfully reflect whatever passes by your mind after reading anything, ever.
Floating back down, our attempts are feeble, and supposed gifts are within everybody who can appreciate the forms they explore the roots of.
We're effortlessly found attempting to reflect through the primitive tools of our creation, operating upon the trunk of it's arising, the images which continually arise in our waving minds. Like a leaf conjuring up all it's energy to whisper to another leaf how they're really part of the same branch, and trunk, rooted in even higher systems, whispering that it's tired of trying to catch the wind all day. It's final effort before returning to the formlessness of it's being.
Likwise, it may appear that we actually choose to create form, though we choose no more than water chooses to reflect light waves.
The mind perceives it's awarness, thought is ceased, then only one opportunity clearly presents itself as the way.
It's only in a deluded confusion of emotion driven exploration, we're driven to decode the sterile concepts which facilitate the form's emergence, reflecting them through that conditioned effort in an attempt to capture what we perceive to be aspects of the form we whish to express.
Words are hollow; images, though empty, strike at a less conditioned primordial level, offering direct experience enabling realizations that words alone could not conjur.
Simply stencils triggering patterns deep within layers of the mind, refracting to be re-experienced, the increasing formlessness which rooted the memory's imprint.
In one way, the experience of a human reflection may subtract from the viewer from directly perceiving a less conditioned natural form, comtemplating which they are more likely to spontaneously realize what human reflects are too conditioned to trigger.
Though in another way, the gross perception of a conditioned human reflection may be the only object blatant enough to point the way.
But I really couldn't tell you, as there isn't much effort involved on my behalf. I just tilt my head back and forth until it looks groovy...
Though indeed, if you have some papers on aesthetics, I'd certainly have a look at them to see how that sort of subject could be contained with words. I've always thought it would be interesting to read somthing like that.
All is complete in it's incompletion. Empty though enough.