Jun. 26th, 2016

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It's like seeing a color and being disappointed everything behind it isn't the same color, an endless cone going out into and beyond space. Because the good was possible in your thought, and that made your thought so happy, the world is now a disappointment, and if it doesn't come to you you're fine with it going straight to the hell it now feels like. Disappointment. When what you were waiting for does not come then all of time is cheapened. High standards and sunk cost are the same thing.

And yet we have never done enough, more is always possible, to lower our expectations is to commit the other sunk cost fallacy of assuming we need to have something guaranteed to be real in our hands at the end of the day no matter how many chances it's made us forego. We waited so long for something it seemed like self-betrayal to hold out for uncertain more.

The trick's to assume we don't know enough to declare our knowledge knowledge, but not that we thus know nothing (which would need knowledge to say). There are no special cases to skepticism. We must be just as skeptical of our skepticism - perhaps such that we avoid the word as redundant. And remember always that no doubt is worth entertaining unless our guesses matter. Honest skepticism must be in the service of a decision, a commitment. A felt reality.

Now if only we knew just what reality we've felt.

Of course we know all about it - or rather we know one of its infinite infinities of knowables.

But which? Well, this one.

But is it enough? It will be enough for what we're able to do. Perhaps not what we want to, but the second we think so the answer's to change what we want.

But not to change it to nothing. Though passing through nothing's perhaps unavoidable. Perhaps how our wobbling needle learns where to hold still.
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Right up to a (moved back, back again, again back) deadline, thus actually able to write formally, or anyway not in note flurries. I write more slowly than I used to. Not better, just slower. A hard thing to admit, though unusual levels of stress and other new factors could conceivably be involved. And my deviously endointertextual subject - I've commanded my brain to kibosh all exo connections.

(I like "kibosh" almost as much as "akimbo." But love the latter too much to pair them. The one way it seems possible, anyhow - hard to picture a "kibosh" akimbo. Also hasn't Interpol warned against using either word more than twice in a year?)

Googled a bit inside quotes from a rare text I didn't want to type out and got just one cut-and-paste-ready hit, which turned out to be a conference paper making a significant portion of my present chapter's argument, posted a few years before I must have come up with it. Nothing quite like that particular set of mixed feelings, at least when writing on literature. You don't want to have been the first to say whatever important (to you) thing you're saying! You want to catch people up or expose them to what's already there, to highlight what's legible rather than bring it forth from pitch darkness - that's the author's job. But it's still no fun to find you're redundant when it had looked like you weren't, even as an interpreter. Even 10 percent redundant, or whatever this proportion amounts to.

But also corroboration is nice, no matter how sure you are of your argument's value. Assuming the corroborator seems sane. Because while you could always be crazy, even crazy people can tell when others are. Crazy ain't subtle, from outside.


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