A work in progress

This is what I have so far for this meditation. I suppose there is nothing wrong with serializing a work in progress with the explicit purpose of having your peers’ commentary.




Sometimes, in our search for meaning, it is impossible to find anything of substance, or depth to write about. The very act of writing at times can seem like a constraint: a trap that attempts to bedrock that part of the mind—feelings which are most inconsistent—to a sensible logocentric vantage point. However, the more I try to counter these elusive feelings (and battle with form and style) the more often I have a recurring and distinct epiphany: even the most mundane of things can create vast permutations on the reality in which we exist…

So, is existence merely the “ineluctable modality of sight”, or something “more”?



In this blog then, I want to perhaps lightly tread the surface of my search for an origin, in a recollection of a moment conjured through memory (a memory from this summer) saturated by my present feelings of elusiveness, and present existential dilemma’s. This memory will also serve as an instance suspended in time for the purpose of theoretical debate. To begin—and please bear with me—I would like to discuss myth, and its relationship in the creation of reality according to Eliade.

In Eliade’s study of myth (Myth And Reality) he is quite comprehensive in making the argument that Myth is not merely fable (prevalent cultural fiction) but a true, and experienced reality maintained through repition. The function of myth thus supplies every level of meaning to one’s existence. In particular, it functions by returning one’s existence to a time of origin—a time without time—a time when supernatural beings created various realities that swerve into a singular reality. Thus myth (these creation stories) and these supreme realities are one in the same, and can be conjured into present reality if their knowledge is preserved in esoteric tradition. This definition is of course quite thorough, and is partial to my previous ponderings on myth.

I will now discuss my memory as enters this moment. It is of course fabricated by own perception of myself:

Standing on a slick platform covered in rain water, my hand has a firm grip on the railing so as to keep my balance In case the wind picks up some more. I am observing a vast expanse of mountain ranges in glacier national park, and they are still patched heavily with snow. There is a dense forest some 2 to 3 thousand feet beneath me, and solemn cloud that keeps