As a lover of philosophy, I often ran into the problem of truth.
My experience has, however, made aware of the impossibility to fix it in a definite and unambiguous for all the facts is not scientific and can not be measured mathematically. In the world of science has taught us that it is not always possible to monitor and evaluate a phenomenon without change by our own intervention.
In the world of so-called historical sciences, the concept of truth is more elusive and relative. Ultimately, the truth is a variable that changes depending on the dominant power.
When you have various structures of thought opposing each express its truth, that this will be for all members who recognize the structure, and you will almost always possible, or with the weapons of logic, nor with the documents, nor with the testimony, to reconstruct a truth which is that beyond any doubt.
probably only in the distant future, different truths, the findings from a scientific methodology, can be traced to a single knowledge that all recognize as true.
There are still many things to say, but a blog, you know, is not a treaty.
Speaking of the search for truth, it is natural to me to propose two essays that address the problem of interpretation of signs by which things occur.
Signs
discovered within
playing with your fireworks,
between life and death and the bitter burning
go. How strong is the wind that shakes the branches and
dust
creator of new dunes, a vast fiery
ebb of whispers and faces
disarginate dragged through the streets, free from rules and
faults. How much love
dismembered, the ardor, the stars ignite
unbundled
in gloomy note, sounds drift
unconscious. Inconsistent truth
stop and give in and dissolves over time
uncontrolled: the vain and careless
look proves that the dream
fuzzy escapes me. Wonder
takes me and every stone is alive
and speaks and sings and vibrates with heat, as I bent to interpret
signs
universe.
July 30, 2005
Archaeologists
Shaft Graves and tholos thombs
, opposed long walls wet
of stars and thousands of corpses buried as continuous
of Lost Dreams
emicerebro The powder is dispersed in
mud
neurons from which sprout thistles - Prehistory
maze of
say come over the
unidentified flying objects show a miracle - now born
capers and poppies
where wasps chase the cruising
burrs of wind and pollen suspended.
dazzling sky rages
Mediterranean with clarity on
Wa-na-ka-te-te-ro-no me -
And they came in riding fast on rough manes animals
to dominate the lands of sun glazed
to cover them with puzzles -
decipherers tireless
look inside invisible crumbs
holes that filled
November 22, 2004
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