Are thoughts, emotions, feelings real? Are they meaningful? Meaningless? Are we just trying to find words for what cannot be expressed?
Is the deep rooted longing for ‘communication’, for communion, (one of) the reason we made up words, to be able to come as close as possible to the person next to us, when sex is not an option, where physical contact is not permitted. When trying to offer comfort a thousand words offer nothing, whereas one hug conveys the message in an instant.
Words aren’t real, they are not what they represent, always a pale construct of an object in the physical world; a drawing of a table is not a table. The symbol is not the object. Only a table is a table, an apple an apple, an atom an atom.
Understanding the world around me is no easy feat. My imagination and intelligence are limited. With every single thing I have come to understand, I understand even less of all that is. I know nothing, I could see everything if my eyes were truly open.
All that is, is in me and I am nothing really
from dye bowl in top picture to the results; the plant stencil pattern is another flour-resist experiment; the dye is the one used several times before, we've just had our two days-of-summer (I hope not!) with extreme temperatures, so the dying was fast and intense: the cloth went in tuesday evening and came out his thursday morning; the dye itself is very smelly!
The fabric wrapped around the black beans is still soaking. I've used the remaining dye plus the dregs found in a bucket (walnut and leaves?) for another wicking experiment: a WhiteJacket has gone in! more pics later