Looking Past The Meon

by practicalspactical

Somehow we read history and move through the world and accept the ends of others as just another dumbshow, accepting that there is some difference between the actor and the person and we can deal with the actor without mixing ourselves up with the person — even thus, a Hitler or a Marshal Foch sends millions of these actors, these walking moments, to grassy fields where the sharp rap of bullets or the cool breeze of a scentless wind carries their moments away and leaves only empty meat.

And it takes a special eye to look past — to look past the other eye, that cannot report directly, but nevertheless reports indirectly the infinitude of internal happening, of inner sight — the meon – aye, it takes a special eye to look past that, a cunning eye, the eye of the sociopath, the eye of the dictator, the eye of the general —

And even so, and even so, when I turn my gaze back upon the organized structure of meat and sinew and electricity that seems to dance at my sweet tune, these strange long protruding fingers, these strange small troll toes, these fleshly limbs that grow like tree roots out of the locus of my consciousness, strange and different first appendages — what madness would that be to lose all sense that your body is your own – but when the mental gaze returns to yourself and who you are and what you are – intentionality – there to you could miss and overlook the watcher and see only the moving of parts and the moving of limbs and the doing of actions — the actor — and unconcern yourself with actuality or place – and overlook your own true and centered living self — — —