Many people discuss the dichotomy of visual entertainment and literature, and the precedence of reading over that medium, albeit true,
very seldom do we look at it as a kind of story in our lives. Growing up, we've mastered nomenclatures and definitions (at least, we think have) and our minds were lost in the process. Most things became ordinary or "boring" to us, because we are now able to identify and describe those things. What was originally a vital part to our decoding mechanism on the organism we call earth is now a term that is stamped by the experts.
Culture replaces authentic feeling with words. As an example of this, imagine an infant lying in its cradle, and the window is open, and into the room comes something, marvelous, mysterious, glittering, shedding light of many colors, movement, sound, a transformative hierophany of integrated perception and the child is enthralled and then the mother comes into the room and she says to the child, “that’s a bird, baby, that’s a bird,” instantly the complex wave of the angel peacock iridescent trans-formative mystery is collapsed, into the word. All mystery is gone, the child learns this is a bird, this is a bird, and by the time we’re five or six years old all the mystery of reality has been carefully tiled over with words. This is a bird, this is a house, this is the sky, and we seal ourselves in within a linguistic shell of dis-empowered perception.
Then, as the never ending seekers of that next stimulation, we are led to the realm of entertainment, all the way to the grave; the special effect feeders, to fill our newly complex minds, and the gap that thinks: "my boredom is not based on conditioning. This is normal". But we forgot we're all actors in a linguistic dream; the cursed and gifted species.
Culture replaces authentic feeling with words. As an example of this, imagine an infant lying in its cradle, and the window is open, and into the room comes something, marvelous, mysterious, glittering, shedding light of many colors, movement, sound, a transformative hierophany of integrated perception and the child is enthralled and then the mother comes into the room and she says to the child, “that’s a bird, baby, that’s a bird,” instantly the complex wave of the angel peacock iridescent trans-formative mystery is collapsed, into the word. All mystery is gone, the child learns this is a bird, this is a bird, and by the time we’re five or six years old all the mystery of reality has been carefully tiled over with words. This is a bird, this is a house, this is the sky, and we seal ourselves in within a linguistic shell of dis-empowered perception.
Then, as the never ending seekers of that next stimulation, we are led to the realm of entertainment, all the way to the grave; the special effect feeders, to fill our newly complex minds, and the gap that thinks: "my boredom is not based on conditioning. This is normal". But we forgot we're all actors in a linguistic dream; the cursed and gifted species.
36-40, M