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Sep. 16th, 2014 12:18 amAll those conversations that almost got there.
Those things that might have been meant stayed on despairing in the shadows of the room when the talkers had gone. Despairing and dissolving back inside their liquid prison.
You sometimes hear someone scream knowing's the problem. That knowing replaces truth while killing it, a net of razors that locks into place one inch beneath the skin.
You worry that the essential thing still seems sometimes to exist only in the unknowing. That superheroes, chef shows and rappers stir up more memories of the old art than art's annotators.
Worry other times that it's personality types. Each gets to speak once once the once better-seeming ones fail. Each starts strong but starts to hear itself. Its own failure is indistinguishable from hearing itself fail. Then silence from that quarter for millennia.
To take something in its best light is to also take yourself in yours: as the person able to summon that light, to adjust it, sometimes tint it. As the person whose life matters enough to be enlarged by what might seek to.
No idea floats free. The pull of its ground is more implacable, more thorough, more intense than Earth's on things. Whatever can't become part of you, a part that stays a part of you, is dashed. Its twin may come but unless you've changed it too will dash apart.
The only salvation for ideas is that they only start to fall when you notice them. The choice of what to catch seems unimportant, since they start as wisps and fall at once to nothing, and since they're all over - many more of them than there are atoms. But nothing could be more.
That catching too many ideas makes us too much like ideas ourselves is a nightmare thought surviving into daylight. It feels like we've found the right ones but too late. That outside their right sequence they're all wrong.
It's no historical accident that Empsons precede Blooms.
But there are days when manners are unimportant.
When even another's keys failing to fit your locks doesn't kill what you're holding.
Art makes life out of life and art, but it couldn't if life were not already art (and art life).
Whatever is lost by modeling the general in some small subset of its particulars you at least keep it feeling like something that has particulars, as the general, true general, always must. Where general models lose grain and die. Can become part of no one so die.
But no one can know enough particulars. Those trying who don't lose the general lose crucial particulars elsewhere. And all you really needed to know was how they fit the general.
Which they only will once from one single perspective anyway. It will look like you seek to make how you see things, and possibly you, live forever. But when you knew what you were doing you knew that was incidental: you want to bring back things to another you, but at best can only connect other yous to you, things to your perspective of things. Which are easy as breath next to squaring your self and perspective.
But all these statements glass away that that I might have meant. Sometimes you can feel it. As though the whole air were a sigh.
Those things that might have been meant stayed on despairing in the shadows of the room when the talkers had gone. Despairing and dissolving back inside their liquid prison.
You sometimes hear someone scream knowing's the problem. That knowing replaces truth while killing it, a net of razors that locks into place one inch beneath the skin.
You worry that the essential thing still seems sometimes to exist only in the unknowing. That superheroes, chef shows and rappers stir up more memories of the old art than art's annotators.
Worry other times that it's personality types. Each gets to speak once once the once better-seeming ones fail. Each starts strong but starts to hear itself. Its own failure is indistinguishable from hearing itself fail. Then silence from that quarter for millennia.
To take something in its best light is to also take yourself in yours: as the person able to summon that light, to adjust it, sometimes tint it. As the person whose life matters enough to be enlarged by what might seek to.
No idea floats free. The pull of its ground is more implacable, more thorough, more intense than Earth's on things. Whatever can't become part of you, a part that stays a part of you, is dashed. Its twin may come but unless you've changed it too will dash apart.
The only salvation for ideas is that they only start to fall when you notice them. The choice of what to catch seems unimportant, since they start as wisps and fall at once to nothing, and since they're all over - many more of them than there are atoms. But nothing could be more.
That catching too many ideas makes us too much like ideas ourselves is a nightmare thought surviving into daylight. It feels like we've found the right ones but too late. That outside their right sequence they're all wrong.
It's no historical accident that Empsons precede Blooms.
But there are days when manners are unimportant.
When even another's keys failing to fit your locks doesn't kill what you're holding.
Art makes life out of life and art, but it couldn't if life were not already art (and art life).
Whatever is lost by modeling the general in some small subset of its particulars you at least keep it feeling like something that has particulars, as the general, true general, always must. Where general models lose grain and die. Can become part of no one so die.
But no one can know enough particulars. Those trying who don't lose the general lose crucial particulars elsewhere. And all you really needed to know was how they fit the general.
Which they only will once from one single perspective anyway. It will look like you seek to make how you see things, and possibly you, live forever. But when you knew what you were doing you knew that was incidental: you want to bring back things to another you, but at best can only connect other yous to you, things to your perspective of things. Which are easy as breath next to squaring your self and perspective.
But all these statements glass away that that I might have meant. Sometimes you can feel it. As though the whole air were a sigh.
