We know by means of our intelligence that what the intelligence does not comprehend is more real than what it does comprehend. Religion is more than ritual; intellect is often less. A ritual without content might be best, bonfire without meaning. Isn’t grief a process of learning not to know? We set it, like liquid chocolate, inside a mold, give it air and heat, watch it congeal into a square we can eat. Not body and blood, but sugar and cacao, because grief—if well cultivated—can sweeten over time. And still, tasting is not comprehension, but taking in without scale from 1 to 5. Give me a number, and I’ll tell you it’s not wrong. My pain was 8, even at times 10, but I lacked understanding of it.
Intelligence takes a moment of spirit and pronounces it an art world ploy. If you gaze into my eyes in a public place, it’s the public that matters, not the dual act of witness being witnessed. To witness witness takes us past the scale as scale, places us in a room of special effects, where the word “special” means contrived. But not all witness is. There’s honesty in my gaze at a girl in Gaza, her eyes emptied, body darkened with dust, even if I can’t comprehend her experience. But honesty without comprehension feels powerless.
At a street corner in Hilo, a large SUV turned left, then stopped. Out stepped a woman with an aluminum covered dish, note attached at the top. A plate for you, aunty, she said to a homeless woman in a wheel chair. The woman’s back was to Hilo, her face turned toward the harbor. I thanked the woman who brought food, but said nothing to the woman in the wheelchair.
Note: The first sentence is from Simone Weil's Gravity and Grace.
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