What passes for the increasingly popular field of Consciousness Studies is, in almost all cases, a study of brain activity, not a study of consciousness. Only consciousness knows about consciousness. Only awareness is aware of awareness. Science is an activity of the finite mind, that is, an activity of thought and perception, and necessarily superimposes the limitations of mind upon everything it knows or perceives.
Spira, Rupert. The Nature of Consciousness (p. 25). New Harbinger Publications. Kindle Edition.
“To let go of judgment does not mean that you don’t see what they do. It means that you recognize their behavior as a form of conditioning, and you see it and accept it as that. You don’t construct an identity out of it for that person. That liberates you as well as the other person from identification with conditioning, with form, with mind.”
— Eckhart Tolle
“Real ability is to respect relative truth without damaging oneself by refusing to realize that it will be superseded. When you observe that today’s controversies often reveal not relevance but the clash of the untaught with the wrongly taught, and when you can endure this knowledge without cynicism, as a lover of humankind, greater compensations will be open to you than a sense of your own importance or satisfaction in thinking about the unreliability of others.” ~ Idries Shah, A Perfumed Scorpion
I do not know much. But there are certain advantages in not knowing. Like virgin territory, the mind is free of preconceptions. Everything I do not know forms the greater part of me: This is my largesse. And with this I understand everything. The things I do not know constitute my truth.
| Clarice Lispector
Without being essentialist, or perhaps being only momentarily so, I wanted to say, Often when you're reading poetry, it's the grid you're experiencing, and the grid is not the same thing as that subterranean container, where some meaning might lie, the actual story of the poem, rather it's the shape of the emanations refracted through language and feeling (though many contemporary poems have no feeling) that you're reading. I didn't know how to draw the effect of looking down on something, so I asked for a volunteer. Someone tall offered, and as I was looking up at his attempt to look down, I realized there was a flaw to my thinking. The place from which the emanations arose was not intact, it was not a container wherein lay meaning. It was ta grid itself but of what I could not explain within the allotted time. I had to let the class go: it was 3:51, one minute into their "free" time. I couldn't find my words; they remained sitting there. How could I send them off to read Roberson's book without having explained poetry to them. "there is a grid above and a grid below," I said slowly, trying not to uplift my voice into a question. Perhaps to read poetry was to read through a sieve. I wanted to incorporate the idea of a matrix. "Poetry comes out of nothing," I said, opening something I would never be able to close. "Read the nothing," I shouted after them as they walked out the door.