The Shadow of a Rabbit in a Clump of Carrots

A Celestial Ceiling of Rorschach

Something in the wiring of our brains makes us look for patterns.

We need to recognize our surroundings and identify experiences. Familiarity breeds comfort as well as contempt. But we seek comfort first. Comfort comes once we find our bearings. Contempt is a luxury.

To find our place in the universe we examine and mark and lay claim to those things we can hold. Some of this claiming and marking is physical. Other knowledge is held in the eyes and mind. We impose patterns to reveal the rhythms beyond them. We look to the clouds, scan the stars, stare at paint stains, listen to repetitions, we look at random and fixed items and seek for reference points.

We want the world to make sense to us. If something isn’t ordered if something isn’t clearly organized, we organize it. Intently searching the stars, we construct constellations. We gather colored sand and arrange it on a board, forming a mandela.

We are organizers. What can be gathered, we set in rows, groups, sets. We are describers. We are owners and dividers. We are gatherers. If something doesn’t have a name we name it. We grasp and name and find patterns if for no other reason than to credit a supernatural being for preventing or precipitating an outcome of unfathomable consequences. It is a deep seated human craving to understand the path of chaos.

When the scheme presents itself for all to see it loses its mystery. Otherwise the plan is only known to those who seek in the particular regions where it seems to reside.

Some search in the world of sound. Some in the life of words, others delve for answers in a fluid truth of dance.

I find invisible stains.

I look for the shadow of a rabbit in a clump of carrots.

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