When I finally gained enough of a grip on my own failing perspective to build some kind of post-apoplectic narrative on the events (or lack thereof) of recent times, it was already too late to change the aposition of any guiding star. One of those plain and simple desires for clarity best expressed with a razor blade and spare skin, excess blood and the hulking behemoth of jagged lines written in equally malleable follicle laden growth. What would my muse say? Maybe she can answer that question, but so far silence is the only reply given to my many questions. I can’t escape the feeling that she’s said all she is going to say about the matter, and it is my responsibilty to decode and construct.
Nothing like the whisp of perception on a cloudy day to instruct the multitude. Where is the invective, that passionate hatred masquerading as cool confidence while the reverse side gambles on the point differential between unevenly matched averages? More height, less weight, maybe the super-powered exposition, perhaps a running tally of hysteria or somnombulence? Lost in the cottilion of now betwixt stares, movements, affluent communications and music, we wake as if new to the world, not knowing much of anything except the repetitious refrain that something must be out there, or at the very least, its existence is debated less than the probability of finding it. There are no conditions on what is acceptable. Insistence was the first part of me to go.
Falling asleep while ostensibly waiting for something to happen, last night’s return was marked by equal measurements of misconstrued realization as well as rationalization. Whatever passes for unanimity, the more express and tragic the actualized rationale, action will follow on a roughly equal gradient to the forces of propulsion, and for a brief moment, they aligned in phrase and allocution. Some nights you just need to get home to avoid another reminder that the phrase “as presently constituted” has no minimum duration. One step farther…the cars and trucks really bothered me as well, but that is a subject for another day. Conspicuous consumption, the act of a morphological villian, etc.
For the saving grace embodied in something someone wrote and performed so long ago, relevancy is not doomed to radiate away. If anything, the increased powers of observation transform us all into Shrodinger’s Cat, roaming our box and wondering if our own finite understanding of the surrounding universe can ever be anything more than a mid-step towards a concrete state of existence. The slow ebb and flow of confirmed state(s) of matter tell us more about the observer than the miniscule amount of energy contained in the subject. How quickly does potential become actualization? Breakdown amounts to so much more than disinclination and grievous damage, but leading indicators are leading indicators. So much for the grand exit, right?
Playing with names from the past and some rare and meticulous pre-party excitement, the evening was the ominpresent reminder that cultural infidels should not mix with the chief proponents of the ownership society. I bet they make pretty good additions to the middle class, but that is only a normitive prerequisite of fanaticism for the out-stretched arm. Pity, another static representation of a pre-planned excursion into the properties of mass. Exculpatory and mindless, for that is the answer to the question posed by the cell philosopher. Of each individual thing, what is its nature? To ponder is all we can do…at least those of us without plans or brass rings. Insoucience never sounded so good.
