How we understand ourselves is just about choosing to put on a certain color t-shirt that we like each morning. At some points in the process, we may not like certain colors, consciously or unconsciously. We may adorn our shirts with spikes, razors, glue. We may disapprove of the color choices of others. We may have the illusion that getting too close to another color will somehow change our own, make it fade away or catch fire. We may see defenses aligned on the shirts of others. It is interesting how society almost necessitates that we pick a color, wear SOMETHING, but inevitably this is held against us by some group or another. Being a shirtless anomaly is perhaps a threat. The t-shirt is the kinda accepted middle ground. Language is the neck hole, culture and religion are the sleeves, the back is our history and oddly enough, the chest piece facing forward is our fears. The ring that ends the shirt at the bottom is our impetus, drive, desire, hope, our dream. This ending is cast around our waists, keeping us always in fluxes of motion in one direction or another and ever contained inward against our bodies. We all wear clothing. Could that simple fact alone be enough to keep our minds satisfied and calmed? Could it clarify why coming to within two inches of person X feels painful to you? Why you seem to fit in with orange? Why it is such a gift to have intimacy with someone, a wordless understanding outside of time? You realize that air is made up of molecules, so is clothing, so are we. The way the wind blows through our clothes changes the tune, creates drag, can make ghosts suddenly appear in our place. But its all beautiful. Planets have moons or rings, stars have planets, universes have galaxies. Existence plays hide and seek with itself while the dryer tumbles us all around. Time is the ultimate voyeur; if you can catch it peeping, it knows to scurry away, not to interrupt the sacred union. We cease tumbling for a moment. We can even skip back to a primordial wash cycle. Would it be interesting to consider ourselves rather as birds? Plumage identifiable to regions, but never identical feather to feather if you approach with care. Songs that bewilder, perplex, annoy, move us, comfort us. Yes, some birds are copy cats, creating a pastiche of the local landscape as their own call. Some can fly, but a good number cant. Some can swim, others cant. Speed, agility, mating habits, rituals, size of beak, wingspan, lifespan, solitary, formation, predator, scavenger, choices of climate and of light source to guide their wakefulness. We all have our nests, and they too vary in size, location, duration, function, material. When you finally return home, what song will you cry out into the chasm of the wilderness? What color t-shirt are you wearing? Ah, just a reminder that even science says that there is no way, no way at all, to tell and prove if my blue is not actually your red and vice versa. The white of my teeth may look pink to you, IF I could see things from your perspective. There is no way we can see things from each others perspectives. But, I think we can agree on one thing: that all the colors and all the songs we have to share are still beautiful, even if we have no idea how exactly we are being seen or heard by the rest of creation. All colors are a result of what the light both reveals and negates in its wake, and likewise sounds are all waves in the ocean, one eternal frequency of time and space. Oh, but whos keeping count...
Posted on: Sun, 16 Mar 2014 06:02:17 +0000
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