Archiv für den Monat: November 2023

8:23 8 11 23

For posterity, wripped into neat squares. But maybe, thousand years from now, a little piece will endure the rot and find its way into the hands of an archeologist, who will attempt to decipher the neurotic script, the disarray of thoughts and try to find meaning, where there is none.

dear reader of the future, study not these scribblings – i am merely cleaning the drive – making room for new, for better thoughts. And everywhere now, in this our age of intellectual significance, when nothing is banal and everthing is cherished, there is so much. i sometimes feel, in my head there is no fillable real-estate left – everthing is peopled with throw-away information and like a hoarder, I tremble compulsively when forced to dismiss, discard and disown, judge or discriminate between what to chuck and what to cherish. Like Saunders, who, i am certain, is rigorous. his rigor albeit concerns the written and not the thought. is any conjured path wrong? can it be judged? or is the pattern created lost or works not on the level of detail but as a net – there is no pattern, only the function of the holding everthing together, the sound structure, not the individual units.

My mind wanders off. patience has evaporated or has been trimmed away. time is the tyrant who commands and rules solitary. the straight arrow to the bull’s eye of result. there is no bench to sit upon and rest and play, and feed the pigeons – every thought is scrutinized according to its function, its utility. and if deemed useless, i do chuck it. well, maybe not thoughts, but definitely dust collectors like people. they squat on the prime real-estate of time. time, of which there is plenty and which lies desolate and unpopulated, as it were.

but is time not mine to do with as i like? just as thoughts? it is my slave and serves me. no other shall have it lest i give it freely. but.

and language is there to be used and it lives and dies. pehaps dictionaries, like museums, similarly hoard species long extinct. very much so. but astounding relics of the past nevertheless mirror back to us images of our ancestors, as our extinct word-species will, at some point, have a needle in them, powdery, mummified, speciments that future generations will study with the desire to understand, reconstruct, but will never. because in the little note near the word-specimen they will read – „used during…“, or „from the epoch of…“. and they will never understand, because its use has become obsolete, in all the manifold ways obsolence occurs.

And is there, or am i such a child, an old child of modernity, who is useless, is dust at best? can one reconstruct a picture out of dust, a substance that will explain or help explain? Sure, nothing is useless – perhaps is useless dust not at all useless – perhaps it is filling up a space that would otherwise have been a vaccuum and then there would be a conjecture and a question mark at best. but the dust points to something – saying or embodying a sign, a hint – there was! there was something. a proof of not nothing. there was someone who – someone who thought something – someone who said something. and this dust is your parent or ancestor of those future thoughts.

time features promenently now. why? before, even a couple of years before, i need not stray too far back, not one thought of time, no awareness of its existence. what time means now–then it was whim – the egocentric whim that reigned over all. not when, but want. to whim i knelt before. now – a humble subject of time.

cleaning the dust collected on the thought-shelves, stacks of thoughts in the corners, piled one upon another, with a thin layer of emotion between them, like rice paper or wax paper, browned and leathery what once was seemingly, poignantly alive, so prickly and ardent. the mental lists make me weary and it doesn’t help to bring them to paper. when i cast my eyes on the rows of musts, exhaustion ensues, the sand kernel by sand kernel growing mountain of musts, overwhelming and humbling me, having not yet ventured on the uphill journey.

is the child dying into an adult? the child who just is, just does, just wants now, who cares not for utility, who has no direction, like time, it lives in one and all the dimensions of the eleven-dimensional world of its own capricious design, or on the plane of designlessness – just the will to see, to be curious, the will just…