Anti- Knowledge

Newton was a refugee of memory, 

washed up on shore.

Even his words derived

from humblest, most varied roots,

nursed by droplets of rain.

Words that were fixed with meanings

like a river that has forgotten its origins.

So the author asks the reader:

where is this Galileo 

who can point towards the stars 

that are reflected in everyone's eyes? 

That we ourselves are not 

at the centre of our universe, 

and that we are held together

 by a cosmic tapestry 

that weaves into fragile 

yet blossoming detail 

across from the stars 

which we have always thought 

were above and beyond us.

 What simple solution, 

yet what incredible blindness and solitude. 

Our ocean and atmosphere mirror the universe.

I had planned writing all of this down somewhat sooner but there had been pitfalls and landslides of memory which had thinned out the current and dissipated the flame of my heart. I was perhaps seven years old and hanging up a coat before going into class and I realised that I was spinning away from a fragile but powerful rhythm. But it is not the writer's choice of why or when the writer will write; the time simply presents itself and the wilderness becomes clear with perspective. The wilderness and indecision become the polestar and without these there is no sense to be found. The wolves' instinct and correspondence with the wild is sadly misunderstood by many humans and William Paley's clockmaker (a story told to illustrate design in the universe) rolls his eyes at such lack of apparent order. The words that stir my soul and turn my memories into kindling, and my life into something like a roaring hearth are these:

"Our mother has been absent every since we founded Rome,

But there's going to be a party when the wolf comes home."

- John Darnielle

I need not explain myself any further. I set out to discover the truth at first and then determined to uncover my self-deception and find out whether it was all a fraud. But I am first and foremost an observer and I have witnessed both melancholy and chaos, inevitably allowing the dawn of realisation to naturally occur. Trusting to some intuition and personal dialogue with nature I find that we are all partly lost, we are all accepting things as they are and as they should be. So we are caught upstream without fully realising the expanse and panorama of the ocean. We get caught in snags and whilst we imagine they are holding and securing us us from wild and uncaring currents and unfathomable descent into oblivion, we are more or less cradling a deep illusion; that nature does not need to be curtailed and offers a great expanse of what we could ever wish to need or live within. 

Why does the pack of wolves fade as though resented by history? Where has that sense of shared rhythm and unbridled vigour disappeared? That incomparably strong relationship between two types of consciousness both ancient and newly blossoming. The wolf understood without language that it was not one but many wolves, and some time we may learn that we are not singular but part of a great, interconnected whole. The paper-thin architecture, the simplicity and stationary aspect of morality which needs to be learned and not commanded, the playful nature of even the most sincere musicians; they are born from oceans brimming with an source life that is just as valuable, though it is mysterious and without recent language. Forests teem with rich foliage and wildlife abounds, and the force of the smallest streams is an arterial flow and bloodline not only for humanity but for everything that gives us oxygen to breathe; that is, we are not remotely distinguishable from the photosynthesising of the world's forests and we have always been extensions of the simplest flowering of detail. Our possible garden of Eden is what defines and makes us.