bySunday, September 27, 2020
Bad feelings that emerge from a discovery process can cause us to arrive at premature conclusions due to their unpleasantness, often because they arise from a disappointing, or even nasty, surprise. Bad feelings are curiosity killers, and force us into creating single stories about a person's character, or to create prejudices that dampen a will for future inquiry - they evaporate all desire for disclosing further knowledge about another. These feelings produce an "ugh field": an absolute horizon of curiosity that we avoid venturing past or enduring, even though the limit of information has not yet been reached.
The only reason that we truly stop asking the question of another: "Who are you?", is that we have decided on an answer, we have degraded inquiry with certainty, the ultimate death; we have quenched the burning desire to know anything more by arriving at a terrible and ultimate conclusion. This not only places the limit on our own curiosity, but on the potential of the other to become - a terminus as final as the death of possibility or being itself.
bySaturday, September 26, 2020The Grass Is Greener Where You Water It
"Each time you turn your attention towards some other distraction, a piece of me is tarnished, a part of me decays: somewhere within the structures of my being a small portion dies a faint death. You are making a corpse of me in fits and starts - despair creeps over my flesh like a slow and purposeful rigor mortis." - from The Mimesis Diaries
byFriday, September 25, 2020
I have met a lovely and shapely girl in the countryside who was accompanying her parents on a "constitutional holiday" rather than a vacation (at least, that's how they termed it). Grete (that's her name) told me that they had decided to get out of their hometown for a day due to the recent passing of her brother, Gregor (after a long illness, some wretched bug took him), but had decided to stay for a week longer. Her parents seemed quite a bit odd, and kept pointing out that Grete is such "a lovely and shapely girl", and that her change from a wan, thin waif to a lovely and shapely girl had taken place while they had all been focusing on her ill brother. It seems that she underwent quite a metamorphosis in that period, and though she has odd parents (who are obviously trying to marry her off), she's quite vivacious, is witty in conversation, and has a certain joie de vivre. I kept having the thought that her name wasn't right, and I think I may have even blurted out "Gretel" accidentally, just to hear myself account for the missing "L". Lol. First impressions are often operating as placeholders for paradigm shifts however, so I think I'll just see how things pan out. She's cute, but the whole experience seemed a little Kafkaesque.
byThursday, September 24, 2020
I experienced my first end-of-history illusion when I was eight years old. I was filled with a sense of dread, straggling up the Buttle Street Hill, lugging a 365 entry daybook of fables and poems on the way home from school, thinking that I had nothing more to say. I mean, seriously, what if I couldn't think of anything else to say? It had nothing to do with having something interesting or valuable to say, I wasn't yet exposed to the notion that I could even be an interesting or valuable person, but that there was literally nothing left for me to say. I'd used it all up - everything that I could think of had been said and I was literally feeling emptied of things to talk about. It was quite a dramatic existential anxiety for an eight year old, who only ever wanted to be an author, to experience.
byWednesday, September 23, 2020
They will come, the sorrows with their brutalities and humiliations, their executioner's masks; their shrill and baying mobs. They will nestle in the continuum of time, immovable, become part of the world that spins and all of the scars on all of the skins will flare with the knots of their history, with an honest and gnashing recursion.
Yet the words and the time to come, the future that is roaring and the seeds and the bloomings and the orchestras of surprise and wonder and love, shall these be folded and left aside for the sheernesses and loomings that will be given to the sorrows? Can you be sure how much love is left in the calendar of days remaining? How many dawns will hold their names like blessings on your lips; how many nights will the moon bear witness to your tributes and your treasures and your ecstasies?
Shall your words thread traumas through each square inch of time, a tapestry of hoaxes woven to the detriment of life, a rug of wounds for the barefoot and motionless? Or shall your words be hoisted flags that catch and sing the wind and the sun and the eternal season that the spark of life sets ablaze? Write your dreams into the ether; your bliss into the love; your hopes into the earth: give your voice, give your voice - time has every future for your echoes.