Fictions

My constantly reconfiguring interpretive eyes dart about, or stare, in turn. Sometimes my eyes see habitually, blindly, and sometimes with the delusion of focus or purpose. But always, my brain processes the imagery I absorb visually through the scrim of a “reality” I perpetually deconstruct and reconstruct.  This reality, comprised of the interactions of odd bits of perceptions, sensations and cognitions served up to my plastic brain du jour, fluctuates at least every nanosecond. And, quite frankly, it’s a messy affair in there! Apparently, mine is a “reality” at the mercy of the elements, awash in brain chemicals flooding my synapses, buffeted by eddies of chemistry firing away in interstitial battles regressing into infinitesimally smaller macro molecular levels ever more minutely layered inside my brain cells and other cells, some of which are probably dispersed half way across one of the multiverses.

Only minimally accessible to current science and medicine, the genesis of my brain’s realities is as fair game for speculation as anything else.  So in any real sense, what else can we say about images, absolutely, other than they seem somehow either causally or temporally associated with a host of random and often unpredictable reactions when viewed and assimilated into individual realities by certain members of our species; namely, the ones who happen to notice them at all. Hence, my choice to quote Oscar Wilde’s quip “It is only the shallow person who does not judge by appearances.” Although I could also quote John Gray’s conclusion at the end of his dismal “Straw Dogs,” that perhaps the sole aim of existence is “simply to see.”