Leftovers
Conscience is what the given nature-nurture frame of reference allows.
Conscience is what the given nature-nurture frame of reference can bear.
* * * *
Language is the mechanism that imagination uses in ways and means beyond counting,
To bind the awareness in every contortion that frames of reference manage to contrive.
* * * *
Imagine having never smelled a smell.
Imagine having never tasted a flavor.
Imagine having never seen an image.
Imagine having never heard a sound.
Imagine having never felt a sensation.
Imagine any combination of the above.
What would your frame of reference be?
What would your world, your universe, be?
* * * *
If you are unable to decipher American English, circa Year 2000, Anno Domini-Common Era,
Specifically, California Great Central Valley, with a Germanic, Midwestern-Southern, lingual mélange,
You will, alas, more than likely have great difficulty reading even a few pages of this manifesto.
For all languages require frame of reference compatibility, to be even partially grasped.
So, be wary of all translations, should such an unlikely thing ever come to pass.
* * * *
Many philosophical works, from all times, from all geographies, have been translated into many tongues.
Which means, what readers are reading, is subjective interpretation of an author’s original intentions.
Some works have been strained through several languages, through several frames of reference.
So, who knows if any of those who inquire, have at all gleaned, what was initially written.
And that assumes, of course, that the rendition of the original storyteller can be trusted.
* * * *
By the time you recognize anything – a sight, a sound, a smell, a taste, a sensation – it is long gone,
And your frame of reference is interpreting the perceptions recorded along the mind’s neuron trails.
What we call existence is really nothing more than a constant rehash of yesterday’s song and dance.
* * * *
You see only see what you perceive.
You see only see what you know.
You see only see what you believe.
Everyone is but a frame of reference.
Patterns born of the mystery prior to all.
* * * *
You will harvest from these and other thoughts, other insights,
Whatever it is, you are most ready to learn, most ready to discern.
You may want to pass by another time or so down the winding trail.
To see what else might be gleaned, what else might be fathomed,
As the frame of reference gradually flowers more expansively.
* * * *
Memories are the world you carry,
The universe you hold to be real and true,
The frame of reference to which you feel so entitled.
Atlas shrugged; you can, too.
* * * *
No one can ever see, ever do, what they have not learned to see or do.
Large or small, full or empty, the nature-nurture frame of reference is all.
* * * *
There are many writers writing, there are many speakers speaking.
All describing the same mystery though the prisms of different frames of reference.
Different times, different geographies, different cultures, different languages, different everything.
There is no need to favor one over another; only to ascertain if the voice is the same.
* * * *
How can this done-as-quickly-as-it-happens dream of space and time,
Be considered anything more than impromptu theater, full of every imaginable intrigue.
But, for those whose nature-nurture have given the intelligence, the wit, to step outside any and all limits,
It is an opportunity to witness the mystery in whatever way frame of reference allows.
* * * *
Another sack of grist working its way through the mill.
Another escapade, another sorty, another distracting sidebar.
Another undulating wrinkle in the ever-expanding frame of reference.
* * * *
Language, being the ever-changing play of consciousness that it is,
How can there ever be accurate translation between two or more frames of reference?
Even the most sincere, serious, intent, between two like-minds,
Inevitably stumble along unshared trails.
* * * *
Memories are but electromagnetic-chemical reactions, perceived by awareness.
They can never be what really happened from more than a single perspective, yours.
Your frame of reference, your translation, your values, your opinions, your judgments.
* * * *
You can only know the frame of reference
Molded by the habituation of the mind-body
Into which you were cast by the genetic lottery.
* * * *
You can only know what the given frame of reference,
Cast by the nature-nurture of your genetic lottery, allows.
* * * *
Yet another memory joining in with all the others,
Merging together into the synergistic frame of reference,
The dreamtime, in which you imagine your imaginary self, real.
* * * *
To interpret anything clearly, accurately,
The translator must possess a wide-ranging frame of reference,
Including language, history, culture, art, philosophy, folktales, myths, metaphors, symbols,
And whatever else intersects, intertwines, the present context,
With that of the original source.
Soundbites
Ego is attachment to your frame of reference.
* * * *
Are You awareness, this moment? Or frame of reference, this moment?
* * * *
Frame of reference, or awareness without frames?
* * * *
The moment, the now, the huff ‘n puff of the imaginary nature-nurture frame of reference, is all you are.
* * * *
Looking out through the frame of reference is the sure way to participate in the human debacle.
* * * *
All that experience, all that knowledge – that frame of reference – is a burden you need not always carry.
* * * *
What you bring to any classroom is your frame of reference.
* * * *
The accuracy of any translation is always subject to the translator’s frame of reference.
* * * *
Anything you learn is a translation of your frame of reference.
* * * *
Frame of reference, frame of imagination.
Breadcrumbs
This soliloquy is as whole a metaphorical elephant, as this lingual frame of reference can muster.
I being but one of who-knows-how-many scribes expounding the greatest revelation.
Whose handiworks will persevere in the ever-shifting dunes of dreamtime,
Will perhaps be referenced as some future historian’s footnote,
Or perhaps, stacked with other esoteric works, on some obscure bookshelf.
Assuming humankind even survives long enough for history to be available for viewing.
* * * *
The frame of reference from whence this work comes,
Has many facets from its walkabout with imagination.
* * * *
The mystery has used this frame of reference to its own ends.
* * * *
Odds are, you would not want to be around me for long bursts, if at all.
My chit-chat is pretty routine, pretty repetitive, pretty mundane, pretty boring, pretty yawn.
I am a recording of a frame of reference, to which relatively few are inclined.
* * * *
Regarding these many thoughts, they are how I see the mystery.
They are my response to the infinity of vagaries in this quantum theater,
As directly and clearly and poignantly articulated, as this frame of reference allows.
As this astonishing dream, this dumbfounding dream, seems to have been programmed to do.
To daily, with Sisyphean effort, push the boulder up the mountain, is not the chore many would think it.
As Camus concluded in his Myth of Sisyphus essay: Sisyphus teaches the higher fidelity,
That negates the gods and raises rocks. He too concludes that all is well.
This universe, henceforth without a master, seems to him neither sterile nor futile.
Each atom of that stone, each mineral flake of that night filled mountain, n itself forms a world.
The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man's heart.
One must imagine Sisyphus happy.
* * * *
The eternal philosopher, historian, anthropologist, scientist, mathematician,
And any other academic arenas this mind was drawn to reconnoiter,
All together, pervade the ever-expanding frame of reference.
So full, so empty, an imaginary destiny plays out.
* * * *
Yet another distracting sidebar; another ripple in the ever-expanding frame of reference.
* * * *
If parts of this body of work are someday translated into other languages,
Who can ever truly know whether or not the interpretations of the sundry frames of reference,
Are even remotely close to what was intended, envisioned, by this quantum mind,
In the context of the original window of the dream called time.
Beware all translations; especially your own.
* * * *
Always more than a little beyond amazing to watch the tiny seeds of a thought
Evolve from scratch paper to screen, into what you are now reading.
The wonders of this modern age have been invaluable partners
In their bringing this mind’s frame of reference, its vision of reality,
To all who have the ears to hear and eyes to see this mystery for themselves.
How fortunate I feel to have been witness to this opus, no matter what becomes of it.