“Harvester of Eyes, That’s Me”

There is no one time for harvest. It’s always harvest time. The cemeteries throng with the hulls of ongoing harvests. Who is the harvester? Merely the old man with the long beard, or Time, the winged hourglass seen on the old Calvinist headstones? Or is it the hooded scythe bearer? No, those are the masks of the harvester’s servant.

The harvester watches from within us; and it watches from without, perhaps using the moon as its magnifying lens. It is the harvester of perception, of experience. The harvester is seated behind every pair of human eyes, behind ego and false self; it’s seated too, in simpler creatures: behind the glittering eyes of a bird, behind clusters of spider eyes. It watches from behind blind fish; it harvests all perception, even perception via cilia. The harvester reaps *seeing* itself, along with the raw energy of untamed life released when the organism disintegrates…

The death of the outer organism, of the vehicle of the faceless infinite inner seer, then comes about in utter completeness: unrestrained, unstoppable, annihilating personality, memory, conventional self–unless…

Unless the outer organism, sentient enough, perceptive enough, and diligent enough, makes an arrangement with the harvester, and creates a field of independent selfhood that can perceive, and harvest, in other planes; to provide more finely attuned harvests for the harvester.

Or, cf., this book, say: Gurdjieff: An Introduction to His Life and Ideas

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