Hair and fire. Iron filings dance in a magnetic field. Fibrous and brittle, they twitch with a static charge. A nest of jade and ochre, the doe-beds primeval flatten the hillside in the lee of a granite spire. Here I sat with the dog. I heard the wind rattle the wicker dunes, and a needle stuck in a groove. Billie Holliday. Just one vocal note cut off on the rise. The dog rolled on its side. I could see something in the grasses that the light itself did not convey. Could not. I am an astrolabe in a world devoid of form. What do I see here? Nothing. Everything.
The eyes of the body. What lies beyond their ability. A reflection funnel. Such highly-evolved mirrors. There is so much more than the light we see. The mask that is the visual world is a palimpsest veneer. But what is it that lies beneath? There is a language there that is smeared.
I realized that I was a seer long before I had ever held a box with a shutter and a lens. I have always seen beyond the seen. My eyes, the minds behind my eyes, have ever been recording. I am camera. I am film. Photography is not a process. It’s not a meaningful term; any more than thinker, or writer. The body is born a camera. There is no external chemical or mechanical component to that which I experience. There is no technique.
The visible world is saturated with marvels. Objects ever grow and shrink, and the light turns round the globe, weaving a bottomless wardrobe of texture and shadow to clothe them in vast, delightful histories; and myth. The wonders are myriad. Earth is a planet of bedazzlement. We see and see and see. And that is our religion, the foundation of belief. We see so much that there is no time, now, to pause and ponder the endless stream of flickering images. We are whelped into this whelm, where pictures are kings and our minds sit upon a horde of stories, condensed into a soup of adjectives.
I can tell you what I see. I have that facility. I can describe a distinct perspective. I can create, with words, a vortex that will suck you into a world. That was, at one time, my great aspiration and pursuit. I can build a world woven with words. But there is a world beyond words, a world beyond form, that is mostly inaccessible to the five primary senses. This world is not a place. It cannot be measured. And it is not governed by the laws of eyes and minds. It the wordless worldless world of God; which exists everywhere at once. And though it is hidden behind the facade of form, it can be perceived. There are portals, windows, where the fabric is thin and worn. There are places of translucency and objects that glow with a light invisible to the naked eye. These are the numens that I find as I wander this land of ghosts.
In the kingdom of eyes I choose to be blind. I need no sunset to remind me I’m alive. Even your eyes, which, when I stare into them show me a glimpse of God, are unnecessary. What lies beyond the dream is invisible. I have a thing. It tells me stories. It is a world containing worlds. It is called a memory. The memory holds memories. Each memory an echo of another. I watch the world happen with my memories. They are my eyes. But when memories see, they lie. To experience a numen is to see without memory. It is seeing through the eye of God.
o O o