Roads Without Signs

One of my favorite subjects to wonder about is the nature of human perception.  I wonder especially about the nature of our commitment of leisure towards exploring and describing perceptions that are fundamentally un-perceivable, such as God and infinity. These endeavors and perceptions are largely the basis of culture.  When we attempt to rationalize these perceptions, we face the same predicament a bird would if it tried to explain air to a fish.  A phenomenologist might write five books as a frontal assault on the subject (and be granted tenure).  A Buddhist monk would just sit very still under a tree and wait for enlightenment to arrive on a breeze.  A poet or artist might accept the task is impossible, and instead tease out meaningful and unexpectedly related perceptions that somehow work their way from the edge of the mind’s retina to its central nerve of comprehension.

Holy Order

Anthropologist: a man
smelling another man’s hands.
Poet: a man
smelling his own hands.
Philosopher: a man
smelling with his hands.
God: among us
smelling our hands.

G W Sisk
Sept. 2010


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