(no subject)

It's not that you take a step back into yourself and all the cracks fill in, but that there are no cracks. Consistency is not required there, and not really elective either, since you'll declare it by fiat behind your own back wherever you turn. It's not just an ignoring of other evidence to examine one piece, but a default assumption that all related evidence has already been examined. Your sense of reality is boundlessly smug even if you never are personally. And this makes sense: problems nag. To create sufficient silence to solve even one nearly all the others must be temporarily declared non-problems. We model the world, and models aren't ambiguous. But we don't know how it all fits. Guesses won't cut it in a model, and guess buildup especially won't, since you'll soon run into what can't be - placeholders for facts are at best fact-like at one or two stress points, have backyards all chaos and dream. So what we instead need is a solution in which works in progress can be suspended. And the only solution capable of doing this for what doesn't hold together as an object, as something you could even suspend, is the sense that what isn't so is. Don't question it, is the motto of any mind, even though minds are made to question, are the only things that can. Language is not to blame, is an innocent medium. Culture isn't either, though it will give us most of our library of excuses, our ready phrases and distractions papering over the cracks - or rather hiding the larger scandal that we permit none, that all is impossibly fused inside. Worse than fused, overlapping, interlapping, and on inspection not even properly touching. Not even on the same plane, nor viewable together from any perspective, since views, perspectives require at least temporarily stable relationships among at least temporarily coherent entities. The inside's version of temporary is a very different one. It knows nothing of time. It knows only readiness: doubts of what emanates outward from our tiny focal diamond must be massaged away wherever detected, like bubbles beneath a sticker on a toy in an ocean abyss. We already had "erasure," we pre-structuralists (and none have ever wound up post this pre). It's what's not half-erased that's the trouble. Not principle, but principle's loneliness. Knew we one flower, held we one grain, could one hand be filled you could know the whole all, it is true. And we certainly can fill, hold, know. But we are not you. No one is - not the you that is meant, the you that speaks both me and it without falling through holes in your glossary. The subject exists, the world does, but not the subject free to range it. The subject gets lost, gets astonished, replaced, before it can find its pants. But not before its glasses are on. Nothing is illusion in a way that would save us. Even buddhists are immature optimists. It's not that we can't because no one could, but inclusively that we can't and no one can and someone could and once we kind of did. The terror of the running clock that's right just twice a day.

(no subject)

The justified fear:

That the wonderful things you come upon when breaking your head on an author, a book, a line will in fact come across in your prose, such that you know that you've said what you saw, but that to others it will be exactly what very close to everything anyone else has written about authors, books, lines is to you: uninteresting, untrue and/or redundant. While staying balls of gold to you forever (hence balls of gold).

That you'd have to explain you to explain what's Au in your universe. Which, among other taboos, unearths combined intense fears of both success and failure, the most reliable formula for motivation-destruction yet discovered.

(I think the police are coming for me after the wordplay in that Au sentence, but I'm too ambivalent to move.)