Wherever will we be once we exit this tract of thoughts? Much has been surmised about the relationship between reading and travel. Where do you find yourself? What is a day’s reading. What information feeing our consciousness, because that’s how we imagine it, no? That we take in the world and somehow it turns into bits of knowable material. Whatever do we experience everyday that leads us to think to build the a notion of transcendence? I love the moments in time-time-lapse videos where something rather major happens to direct the flow drastically. The technology so desperately wants to reproduce its idea of a continuous flow, one dependable record of everything that constituted the way one thing became another. But invariably the time-lapse jerks, in small ways and more dramatic leaps. It makes known the inconsistencies. I imagine everything we have before us in our day. How much is the small knowledge of the world that we gain by sight informed by what we see our hands doing? They are in from of us all the time, doing things. They are capable of doing so many things. And yet, I bet if there was a time-lapse recording of what only our hands did all day long for one day, and then another — I bet that many of the days would be the same. I bet we could see a familiar shape emerge. What would we look like? This embodiment? What if we weren’t some projection outward onto the word, what if we took up no space at all? And instead of considering what we were made of existed on this side of the senses, what if our body, our presence showed all that came without? How many coffee mugs would we be made up of? What color dominates our day? Do we then appear as all the pages we pressed upon our faces?
We see words, we press them to our foreheads, but there is also the action of pressing them to our hearts. Or maybe we don’t even complete the action of our own volition, we don’t choose, or at least the feeling is not one of choice, that something weill dig itself deep into our sense making space. Questions of heart and head, fancy bread.
Choices, choices, chance. When we make a choice we are responding to our memory of our self. a future, we could put it there, (we could put it there because it is a question of space — not really time), a future memory. We act as though we will have remembered. Remembered ourselves, remembered how we were and we were made as we are presently. Technically to be able ot exercise that freedom of choice of will we so desperately for some reason cherish, we would have to amend our conception of who we will futilely be. Luckily that’s up for us to decide, but rarely do we ever get distance enough from the surrounding things that press up against us that we can gain enough freedom.
And we think that objects bend to our wishes.