The whole of something.
Toward the end we sleep. Perhaps the body is tired. Or the spirit. Perhaps there’s not much more wanting to be seen. So we sleep.
Maybe the inner world is wanting to be seen. But how far into the darkness can we look? We close eyes. We leave our home, the one with closets, empty cans and containers, shirts on chairs wrinkling.
There’s a cap. The name of a country and a war that ended sixty five years ago. Camaflauge with gold lettering. There on the bed table beside white handled cup with cooled coffee.
Is it accurate to say that what is seen outside is what is available to be seen inside? Without metaphorical implication. But in the dark.
Origin as oneself?
As oneself, or, in itself. What we call the world — is it the temporary manifestation of invisible emptiness spurred by interested attentive care materializing to available consciousness?
All these things. Chairs and doors, lamps and floor, bird feeders squirrels cannot compromise.
We have no idea about God. Nor God, I surmise, any idea of us. Each a curiosity to the other.
It was a long time ago, he says a while ago. The hat like house cat doing that watching thing they do with diffident gaze.
Just one cup of coffee, just one sip, for the road.
Mourning dove outside patio door.
“Origin,” according to Georg Feuerstein, is “the ever-present reality . . . by nature divine and spiritual” out of which the different structurations of consciousness unfold in space-time. 5 It is atemporal and nonspatial, existing outside time and space—insofar as something nonspatial can be “outside.” The origin, for Gebser, is “before all time” and is the “entirety of the very beginning,” just as the present is “the entirety of everything temporal,” including “yesterday, today, tomorrow, and even the pre-temporal and timeless.” 6 It is “sheer presence,” a primal spiritual radiance whose luminosity is obscured by the lesser light of the consciousness structures that proceed from it. In this sense it is like the Pleroma mentioned earlier, which also exists outside of the created world, and is indeed the source and support of that world.As in this room. A man sleeps. It is a room in a hospice house. Still, the entirety of him, his life, me, my life, is here unfolding out of origin.
...
Gebser is saying something similar when he speaks of his consciousness structures “unfolding” out of origin. They are contained within it, in a state of “latency,” which Gebser calls the “demonstrable presence of the future,” a condition that is true of each of the consciousness structures that emerge: each exists in potential in the structure prior to it. For our lives as a whole this is a powerful insight: each of our tomorrows emerges from all of our todays. And, as a student of G. I. Gurdjieff once remarked, the whole point of “work on oneself” is to ensure that your tomorrow is not merely a repetition of today.
(—p.236, A Secret History of Consciousness, by Gary Lachman)
Toward the end we sleep. Perhaps the body is tired. Or the spirit. Perhaps there’s not much more wanting to be seen. So we sleep.
Maybe the inner world is wanting to be seen. But how far into the darkness can we look? We close eyes. We leave our home, the one with closets, empty cans and containers, shirts on chairs wrinkling.
There’s a cap. The name of a country and a war that ended sixty five years ago. Camaflauge with gold lettering. There on the bed table beside white handled cup with cooled coffee.
Is it accurate to say that what is seen outside is what is available to be seen inside? Without metaphorical implication. But in the dark.
Origin as oneself?
As oneself, or, in itself. What we call the world — is it the temporary manifestation of invisible emptiness spurred by interested attentive care materializing to available consciousness?
All these things. Chairs and doors, lamps and floor, bird feeders squirrels cannot compromise.
We have no idea about God. Nor God, I surmise, any idea of us. Each a curiosity to the other.
It was a long time ago, he says a while ago. The hat like house cat doing that watching thing they do with diffident gaze.
Just one cup of coffee, just one sip, for the road.
Mourning dove outside patio door.