Index 
Ode to the Senses
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Sight, my glorious, glorious sight extends my world hundreds of steps. That's usually as far as I can see before distinctions blur to background homogeneity, though I have seen miles from a mountain top. Forward sensing, always forward. To see behind, I must make behind in front. Always looking, ahead, forward; In the direction of natural movement; Anticipatory. I know the appearance of wherefore I will step; accordingly, I step eagerly or gingerly. Hearing, ahh, yes, lovely, lovely, lovely hearing; you bring me those comforting sounds and not sounds. I can bid my eyes not see, I cannot bid my ears not hear. Lovely hearing, you let music open my soul. You know no direction, though your range is almost the same as sight in forest or field. You alert me to turn and "face" things I hear "behind". Your magic even makes the trees disappear as you envelope me in protective sound. You fade for me now, old friend, though your melodies yet ring clear in my memories. |
Smell, subtle smell, always there, rarely noticed, diffuse, hints on the wind, directional, but not, for it is touch that tells of the wind. Touch, most intimate touch; It knows no direction, only HERE, the final warning, the most sacred pleasures. Taste perhaps even more intimate because it is only within. Touch has let it pass. Touch is the boundary between "me" and "space". Taste has nothing to do with space. Space it seems is a disk centered around me, perhaps more a cabachon. It comes from my senses; it's what I can sense outside me. |