Fictioning
For every post made here a few more are stillborn. A few other pages get filled with words somewhere else in documents that dwarf this one: textual romps so roaming yet so cloistered that I'm finally manging to approach the true meaning of the statement that the causal histories of the world are "long and wide". Length not fathomable in our terms and width that would skull-fuck the unprepared mind. So in absence of total knowledge we make ourselves familar, anthropocentric fictions. They may be harsh and disturbing, they may even be instructive; they may even look outwards at the cosmos or whatever, but they are still familar and intuitive. You'll find no irredeemable weirdness even in the dust heaps of the absurdest of absurdist movements: for example, Dali's paranoiac-critical method is still so familiar. Paranoia was someone's reality; we can assume it was Dali's reality. And you do not question the creator's reality.
Most of our lives are spent in fictions, in ground-shattering internal monologues, in wranglings over categories and what is readily perceptible, in sputterings from analysis to the "given" to re-analysis to the "not-given", to the "will-never-be-given". Or is this just my reality? Nevertheless, it is an understandable reality: just one of some dude who is a little too withdrawn, a little too little-sense-making for his own good, a little too fond of awkward, loping turns of phrase when something succinct would do just as well. I'm like this all the time, and I sometimes try to find antecedent causes to my being "like this". But causal histories are long and wide. Here is a representative sample of my own causal history that settles nothing:
1) I was fascinated by insects' internal organs.
2) I was the youngest kid in the second grade.
3) I once broke an egg in a bird's nest and cried under the tree.
4) I once saw a kitten in a drum of oil.
5) In the second grade I was too shy to ask to go to the bathroom and once I lost it.
6) I saw my parents' ski hills covered in smoke and artillery craters.
7) In the first grade I wanted a pencil sharpener shaped like a cow.
8) First love was to me an alternating series of anxiety attacks and exuberant episodes.
9) I likened my first experience of lust to thirst.
(I've taken a long turn into very public self-therapy. I'm not sorry.)
Consider: "He who despises himself still esteems himself as one who despises."
Most of our lives are spent in fictions, in ground-shattering internal monologues, in wranglings over categories and what is readily perceptible, in sputterings from analysis to the "given" to re-analysis to the "not-given", to the "will-never-be-given". Or is this just my reality? Nevertheless, it is an understandable reality: just one of some dude who is a little too withdrawn, a little too little-sense-making for his own good, a little too fond of awkward, loping turns of phrase when something succinct would do just as well. I'm like this all the time, and I sometimes try to find antecedent causes to my being "like this". But causal histories are long and wide. Here is a representative sample of my own causal history that settles nothing:
1) I was fascinated by insects' internal organs.
2) I was the youngest kid in the second grade.
3) I once broke an egg in a bird's nest and cried under the tree.
4) I once saw a kitten in a drum of oil.
5) In the second grade I was too shy to ask to go to the bathroom and once I lost it.
6) I saw my parents' ski hills covered in smoke and artillery craters.
7) In the first grade I wanted a pencil sharpener shaped like a cow.
8) First love was to me an alternating series of anxiety attacks and exuberant episodes.
9) I likened my first experience of lust to thirst.
(I've taken a long turn into very public self-therapy. I'm not sorry.)
Consider: "He who despises himself still esteems himself as one who despises."
posted by A. D. at 12:37 AM
2 Comments:
but…so much depends on meiosis! chiasma, the acrobatics of crossing over and what not.
On the other hand, it could be that one time an evil monster destroyed my empire… (I built empires out of Styrofoam…go figure)
and number 3...i share with you the sorrow...
Oh, I quite agree; the sample is by no means exhaustive. My empires were built out of watermarks on a metal container. They had destruction built right into them: evaporation.
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