Reality seems to pervade human life. Various forms of reality affect me in many different ways. The water, the reflection in the glass, a conversation, the music playing. 'Imposed' reality, probably wrong word there, maybe 'dominant', or so-called accepted reality. This is as much about perception and appearance as existence and transcendence. The realms that philosophy may distinguish between epistemology and ontology. And how to articulate oneself from where you stand or sit, from who you are. To speak, a little, to write, a little more, to photograph, a little. The ground that I exist on this reality that manifests itself in appearances, here and there, never settled, I sit on a seat in this hotel to write these words. I imagine all sorts of stuff, most of the stuff is in dreams, or just beyond consciousness. This writing makes an appearance each day, a short while. I could imagine a trace or a trail or a continuity or story of yesterday, last month, last year, my life, imagine this into words, sentences, pages, books, bookshelves, library. I don't quite do that. Reality comes and goes. I make notes. Reality makes an appearance, in things I do, sense, see, hear, feel. I hold little bits and pieces of that reality and sometimes make a line of words out of it. Sometimes a photograph. These ambiguous articulations become an appearance of elusive reality. Maybe this experience of here and now is reality, but as soon as I say that the reality, the experience, is gone. Reality affects everything I do and think and feel, but reality is elusive, in a way reality doesn't exist. But reality does exist. Maybe the reality I'm trying to articulate here is less like the glass, and more like the water. But even saying that I realise the glass that the water is in is no more real than the water. This particular perception of the glass depends on (human) fixing of time and space.
I might ask myself why this word 'reality' exists. The word is in the dictionary. I can look up the word in wiki on my iPhone. But I stay with the wondering and wonder why we don't just whistle, sounds, and call this reality language. I think many of us could get through most of our days by just whistling. Music, tunes, patterns, rhythms, loud, soft, long, short. With feeling, in a thoughtful way. Just whistling our way through the day. Back to previous thought, language as a symbolic sign system. Written down, on something; paper, screen. How to notate whistling. A mark on a stone, tree, in the sand. A language of whistling.