[An Exploration of the problem of using the complex tool of Science for the interpretation of reality. And the harsh truth that the more complex the tool, the less real the user's interpretation of his reality: the less useful it is for understanding it. (Partly because the creator, therefore interpreter, is less and less involved and therefore less and less needed and therefore less and less there). And though it is a good practical tool (since it is the only one we have) for making and hence understanding things, science is not a good interpretive tool for making or understanding reality.]
Reality is what is; which means it is being.
And the only proper interpretation of being is through the doing of it.
Which has the precondition of listening to it.
The only proper attitude to being is listening to it, then doing it.
Hence, the proper tool to interpret reality is not, thank heavens, the scientific method, it is the ear. As well, the mind, oddly enough, is not the proper, or even in the material sense, the actual interpretative instrument for consciousness; or being; or as Christ calls it: Life. It is the heart. Which sees and hears without trying. The mind complicates, quite literally, the interpretation; looking upon reality as an observer does a distant and possibly dangerous experiment.
Rather, the proper interpretive structure of reality is being itself. Which is reflective in its nature; that is to say, passive. In our nature, therefore in our poetry, the sheep is the passive ideal. Thus as a sheep, as the ancient Hebrews insisted, a man’s being is the reflective ideal of his reality; of his Shepherd and pastureland.
Or, just as his mirror is the proper interpretive instrument of a man’s hair, so his being is the proper interpretive instrument of a man’s life—which, correctly stated is his God. Each man may hold within his meager frame as deep and wide a reflection of life as he wishes to face. However, the mirror of man is not before him to behold, rather the mirror is himself holding within him his God: he, the very image of infinity; he, the very being that stands before him; gazing into him; reflecting upon itself. And this passivity, as opposed to the endless toil of the mind, requires no effort, no experience, no experimentation, analysis or mathematics. As in zero. It is a thing that just is. The only action needed is custodial; is cleanliness; that is to say: sanity; a keeping of the mirror clean of anything that clutters.
Again, strangely, the proper tool for understanding is not knowledge.
Maybe to do right by knowledge and for clarity, I should say intellectual or factual or scientific knowledge; which is the knowing of many things, maybe even a mountain of things so high it looks like almost everything; which, there is little doubt, is the only sense in which almost everyone uses it. Knowledge, in this sense, is not reflective, it is opaque. It does not give light. It does not glitter nor glimmer as a mirror—alive because what it holds is life. This knowledge, rather, is stone. No matter how great a stone, no matter how high and sheer its face, it is still dead. What is written on this dead thing, though it may be a never ending attempt to engrave on it a living word, is instead an epitaph: “Here lies a bunch of things. But I forgot why.”
It is no wonder the modern man’s intellectual dream of artificial intelligence is called artificial; for it is only an extension of his modern superstition that intelligence is intelligent: Dead before the chisel is ever used.
This knowledge shatters the glass it was meant simply to adorn, to frame, and to support.