Where does my certainty end and my variability begin? I am here, consciousness existing within the unknowably complex. With a mind that seeks to baseline my existence and create a self as a comparison against it. With such rudimentary understanding of the infinitely complex the egoic mind is like a bull in a china shop. A peaceful mind will never stray far from destiny. So what to make of life? To clumsily steer this vessel into unavoidable chaos? Like I’m stranded on Starship Graham and just pulling on all the levers to see what happens. Sounds like fun to me! How can I possibly choose wrongly?
The purpose of art is to transcend the senses. The very senses through which it comes to be. A poem, for instance, takes something as limited as the english language and attempts to use it as a catapult. It points to something far beyond the definitions of the words it uses. It creates a feeling, an unspeakable understanding of something which can’t be precisely talked about. In art there is no logic, there is nothing you can hold onto. It’s only job is to create space, to knock back those walls which limit possibility within your own existence. When it doesn’t make sense is when it is most effective. If your pre-established brain patterns can’t wrap itself around what’s being said it has two choices: throw the art away and call it garbage, or thought itself must be discarded. You must then feel art and not describe it. When in the presence of a wonderful painting it is enough to just to be with it. There is no need to admire the skill behind it’s creation. Let the emotion of the artist be replicated within yourself. The only truth that exists in the Universe is the truth of experience. When you share an experience of another through art you share a permanent bond. You understand yourself and others more completely. It is the cultivating of this kinship that will ultimately bring humanity together.