“And what the dead had no speech for, when living,
They can tell you, being dead: the communication
Of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living.” — T.S. Eliot
Excerpt from my book, which includes, just as it does within the book, another one of the many poems, by famous poets (who are deceased), that seem to help corroborate what i write about:
The “I” that says it sees the “trees” is a manmade, fabricated symbol that is unnecessary; it can be referred to if it represents the whole; however, if reference to it involves positing that the perceiver is something separate from the perceived, then miscalculation and error have taken place. The patterns that one perceives are the patterns that one is; such patterns compose and constitute consciousness. Without such patterns, ordinary consciousness is not possible. If one is supremely intelligent, one can be a mind that does not merely depend on patterns, at all times, in order to healthily function. Such a mind can function as an immense, quiet stillness that is beyond the mechanizations of patterns and attributes; but even this goes only so far and, to remain healthy, the mind must often look at trees, rivers, and other wonderful, flowing manifestations of the earth. It must look at them without separation.
To go beyond the confines of limited patterns, one must first realize that one’s consciousness is not at all separate from the patterns and images that it perceives and functions as. In other words, if one observes things merely via conflict and miscalculated separations, one is then observing with great error. Such error often merely sees itself as separate from the patterns and conflict that compose what it is. If one’s erroneous observations are a millstone around one’s neck, how can such a one have the energy to transcend into a vast, intelligent, placid stillness that is open to the possibility of visitation from the immeasurable benediction of what is truly sacred? A broken mind, full of separation, would be incapable of moving beyond its dead borders that separate it from everything else.
from Wallace Stevens:
I am what is around me.
Women understand this.
One is not duchess
A hundred yards from a carriage.
These, then are portraits:
A black vestibule;
A high bed sheltered by curtains.
These are merely instances.