proximoception (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
proximoception) wrote2008-10-28 03:01 pm
proximoception) wrote2008-10-28 03:01 pm
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William Shakespeare:
Among other things he figured out, Shakespeare figured out that the best of us, those that go out past town where the others commote until we are alone, do not know who we are, but move on, solving thing after thing, until we reach what cannot be solved. The different ways to be come about because there must be a choice of solutions, when we are faced with what cannot be solved--even if we cannot choose, we cannot help choosing. The choice to not choose is a choice, and maybe one resembling all the others at once, or in sequence. Shakespeare figured out that the best of us are therefore fucking crazy. In town there is no choosing. Town-people.
False solutions are not level. Where they leave the level, dirt gathers and dead leaves cake and animals wander in and make homes and die and are snowed on and suffused by fungi and layers calcify or are pressed into oozes and as seasons change feed strange-eyed flowers courted by fat flies and bees. Cornercake-people.
But Shakespeare, figuring out that this was so, got past the choice, and maybe (because how would I know) thought, what got me past the choice? What kinds of people get out past the choice? What rocking back and forth do you need to do to have been everywhere recently enough to remember it? What magic is this, what art, what wit? Shakespeare, all alone but sane, gave names to the Shakespeares that got him there. It was really something for a while; but of course the Shakespeares died, one by one, and the last went back to town. Shakespeare-people.
Among other things he figured out, Shakespeare figured out that the best of us, those that go out past town where the others commote until we are alone, do not know who we are, but move on, solving thing after thing, until we reach what cannot be solved. The different ways to be come about because there must be a choice of solutions, when we are faced with what cannot be solved--even if we cannot choose, we cannot help choosing. The choice to not choose is a choice, and maybe one resembling all the others at once, or in sequence. Shakespeare figured out that the best of us are therefore fucking crazy. In town there is no choosing. Town-people.
False solutions are not level. Where they leave the level, dirt gathers and dead leaves cake and animals wander in and make homes and die and are snowed on and suffused by fungi and layers calcify or are pressed into oozes and as seasons change feed strange-eyed flowers courted by fat flies and bees. Cornercake-people.
But Shakespeare, figuring out that this was so, got past the choice, and maybe (because how would I know) thought, what got me past the choice? What kinds of people get out past the choice? What rocking back and forth do you need to do to have been everywhere recently enough to remember it? What magic is this, what art, what wit? Shakespeare, all alone but sane, gave names to the Shakespeares that got him there. It was really something for a while; but of course the Shakespeares died, one by one, and the last went back to town. Shakespeare-people.
our town