We treat our perceptions as if they’re constant and intransigent, when many are actually flexible and come from a place.
When we understand where they come from we can actually alter where they’re going to go. It’s stepping out of the physics of no, into the biology of maybe, of possibility.
That’s where we think about the ecology of the brain. The brain doesn’t just sit inside your skull; it sits in an interaction between what’s inside your skull and its body, and the body in the world. That’s where perception lives. We often forget, especially in the contemporary digital world, that we evolved in this body, in this body in this world, and that’s where the brain makes meaning.
Perception is in the space between.
I have spent my entire life attempting to perceive what I was seeing. Indeed, the puzzling out of the puzzle that lays before me has taken up an inordinate amount of time. When I was thinking, people assumed that I was dreaming. I was.
The Piper was my first real attempt to articulate my thinking. I was thinking about the insanity of all that we thought of as sane.
Teaching in schools, schools that were, by their nature and their environments, challenging, helped to form my perceptions. I was in the space between me and the rest of the world. Being a particular type of person, I thought what I believed I was seeing was what was actually there. I was seeing what others were missing. The others thought I was dreaming. They were right.
My writing process of The Piper took on a rather novel approach. I taught myself to dream the characters and the plots. Each night I would go to bed reminding myself of the story so far. I would set my dreaming self task. I would programme, as best as I could, the dormant mind into thinking through narrative and character-based problems. The second book in the series benefited from this approach.
Here’s to dreamers.
May they never wake.