Oct. 8th, 2013

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The way we fill in global unknowns with excerpts from the local known is both completely necessary and the source of all our woe. Knowing you're doing it is crucial. The well-traveled famously make fewer assumptions. The aged as famously don't know how you should solve your problems, can only gesture at the nearest bits of probable solidity out in the dark, the flood, the fog. Which they and you know you likely can't get to. Maybe someday.

The consequent slightly distinct unreality of the local - for not being global, scattered about in which all the best things silently shine into being, briefly hope for you, sigh and sink. And of the global - for not being what we'd thought, hence for most purposes not being at all. An existence escaping essence till a second from now might as well not have one, we hiss. Least known of all being the border between the two unreals, just where our placid pollution and the big world's churning undrinkable brack choke into one another. Know what you don't know and you'll know what you know, one says, presumably thinking of Minesweeper. The other winces to hear it, this proof that we don't even know what we know.

This is true in space but worse in time. We can't even pass on our gains across a lifetime, self to same - certain noble efforts last a year, some more, most then capsize. As another one notes, "huge gaps in the Western states" disperse our claims.

Worst is when we do know, global-know. But local knows too well its local news, babbles loud over the insight. The foam shows where the meeting would be, where the 2nd dimension turns corner into 3rd, both find it's each. Shows where the meeting could be found were it not for foam.
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Murakami's the heavy favorite (over Munro) to win this year's Nobel.

On the strength of 1Q84.

What the fuck?

Seriously - while I'm eternally mad at people who make high claims for There Will Be Blood or Donnie Darko these make perfect sense next to the total madness of even a vaguely positive assessment of that book.
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The events of A Separation are so absorbing you only occasionally have time to marvel at how much the two leads resemble Dan Harmon and (Blue Velvet era) Isabella Rossellini. Both were great, but the supporting cast steals it, especially the kids. Some of the little one's expressions are nearly unbearable.

You sniff hard for veiled criticism of religion, and there really seems to be some, but you can think of equivalent troubles coming from other sources. Wouldn't take more than thirty minutes' thought to replot it as an American domestic drama. Maybe five if you set it in the South.

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