This following piece, “The Garden of the World” is one of my early attempts at a kind of philosophical dialogue. It’s very derivative, and mixes up a lot of influences and threads from various philosophies, from various places and times. Then again, all philosophy is human philosophy, and no place or time in the history of humanity is alien to any other. The whole mass of ephemeral cultural distinctions, either accepted as tradition or newly fabricated then adopted, have ironically been the very fetters that all genuine philosophy- and indeed universalist spirituality-has sought to overcome. Ironic , in that very often philosophy, theology, and intellectual and spiritual tradition are then divested of their original creative, expansive (often transgressive) spirit and taken as fixed, self-limiting, self-marking, identifiers - little more than costumes or team sport colours. (Of course, I don't rate my own attempts particularly highly, if at all. Some do it much better and my clunky attempts are far from the watermark!)
*****************
‘The Garden of the World’
(Takes place in a dreamlike state)
The kindly sybil then took my hand. She led me to a pleasant garden- all roses and fountains- in the centre of which, a dirty whirlwind screamed, kicking up dust and leaves.
“Here is the world” she said
“and there is the human race, within that whirlwind. The eddy rises from the wrath of wasted energy – all of the wars, all of the superfluous words, theories, symbols, images, poses, guises, costumes, councils, kings, commercials, isms, gestures, identities, positions, – all those conceits conjured to obscure- and thus to keep unsatisfied -the simple needs of people to lead happy and fulfilled lives”
“But what is the world, really? What are people then?” I asked
She replied
“It is not that there is body, and mind, and a world of other bodies and minds that are ultimately separate. Rather, there is boundless experience taking relatively individuated forms and instances, that there is particular presence emerging from absence (of particularity) in one creative, formless tissue of being and time. A many that are one, a one that is many, like thoughts and the mind. More could be said, but it would be merely detail, and there is a danger that too many words fog the clear mirror of the mind”
“But what is the purpose of all this?” I asked
She smiled.
“Two ways. Myriad ways. One way. No way! But here are two ways at least to find a point of reference – whatever good they may provide”
Her face took on a sombre and serious countenance as she intoned in verse;
“The Mind of Great Nature moves in the vale,
It is called both the weaver
and weave of the Worlds
Harmony in dispersal,
filling all the forms,
Heaven’s cloth and pattern
endlessly unfurls”
She continued
“That is one way to regard things. Here is another”
Her face became less grave, her smiling eyes sparked into new mirth. She spoke;
“picture this; at the beginning of an aeon a great black dog, immeasurably vast, feels the bite of a flea behind it’s ear, and motions itself to scratch. From this first reaction, to the scratch and flinging off of the flea, a hundred thousand billion eras pass. Meanwhile, on the back of that flea, a world forms, and brings forth life. People are born and fill their lives with conflict and cruelty, believing their engagements to be of foremost moment. They toil and bind onto themselves a bric-a-brac of cobbled identities. They fight, and swing from day to day in painful clamour. How unhappy. How unnecessary”