Limiting the Is

So. Ok. Am here. The pen bouncing on the exact same spot. None of the thousand angles of sight enticing enough to rush off and construct flashing mirages. … and one, only one construct will make the bootstrap leap to the next level …

You gotta believe this. Nothing to do with belief. It’s the way it is. The descriptive marrow bites the dust. You can let the nonsensical rush ride and hope to grab hold of something and eventually fashion out something that is succinct and sensible to more than this audience of one. Two, if you count Mr. Monster here. Grinning evilly at my inability to articulate the unutterable.

Face it. Pull out the stops on clichés. Let’s see the snake fest hiding under the rocks of this scrubby garden. Amatchi koodari phoon. You don’t get it do you? Gardens come from the lord. Make a run on the larder and out you go eatin swill at the local pigsty.

Quality! Quality! Quality! QUALITY! Shouted the preacher of Sorts. Don’t you hear the quality in the wind? Get out of measuring by the yardarm of the law. Moral rectitude is good when you want to maintain an anally retentive complex of obedience to the law. Respect for the laws of the universe. It’s not about respect you know. It’s not about earning brownie points for action stickers. Not about “the validation of your existence on the basis of your activity matrix”.

… but …

Nah. You can’t cure the illness. Superstition runs rifer than cards shuffled on the fast decks of chance. Just let the words rise and fall and beat your motivational engine into shape. 99 times of 100, all you hear is the loveless echo of an empty shell. You can cancel out the supposed mocks. It’s a s-c-i-e-n-t-i-f-i-c problem…after some Sorts. Study and investigation and tumbler listening at the vaults of Dawn are just the way things are in this Greek sky.

…Shangri la and Mark Knopfler… background music …

Gotcha! Shame at your inability to spin up some fanciful bauble for the word races. I looked at my non-practiced mess with mild regret. I looked up to Grace and watched the shadow of tears flit across my face.

Tighter, harder, brighter. The wind bends around me in a taut hug. Yes. It whispered. Abandon the structures.

Soapbox: Empirically it’s proven that structureless explorations will result in structureless, meaningless results. This is true. But, when you let your mouth run away spouting meaningless crap you realize that there is a deeper structure seeking to break out. A structure without form or substance. In the sad sack language of the 21^st century: A mega structure. The mother of all structures. Etc, etc, etcetera.

And Jonathan Livingstone Seagull pulls up in a screeching rush of wind: Aaah, finally, the dumb fuck realizes. A grin. A saucy wiggle of the tail and he looks back at me from an Antarean orbit. See, as simple as that.

Yes. The original sin: Limiting the Is.