sideon

whitened

At

At the centre of thought is silence. At the centre of silence? Thought.

The Longer

The longer this goes on the worse it gets. What I mean is, if it isn’t immediately obvious, that the greater the mass of words that stretches out ahead of the aspiring reader the more inclined is this reader’s attentiveness to wander; your eyes – for any reader can only inescapably be you, whichever you you happen to be . . .  your eyes, I was saying – the repetition necessary, of your eyes I mean, for it’s a bit much to have such a gap in the thread of words, an interpolation, and then go picking back up the original thread as if there were no gap, expecting the reader to jump around like some circus animal, and what’s more, elegantly, picking up on loose and semi-abandoned threads as if this were the most natural thing in the word, the writer having awarded himself the strangest liberties with the written word, for of course he couldn’t get away with those kind of stuttering liberties with the spoken word. Confusion and irritation is all the kind of stuff his slovenly sentences would produce. The reader though, rather than the listener, tends to be a far more tolerant creature; he accepts the unnatural, maybe even expects it, considers it maybe aesthetic, this language torn loose.

But with all this clarifying I’ve lost all the seemliness of my thread; so as I was saying the greater the mass lying ahead of the reader the more inclined that reader’s eyes to skim over the words falsely; falsely that is in that the words are seen but not absorbed, forgotten as soon as passed over; the act of reading a visual progression rather than a soulful or intellectual one, the words not sinking in. And why not sinking in? Inattentiveness. Well yes, but why inattentive? Perhaps a myriad of reasons, but perhaps the main one: that with the volume lying ahead one could afford a lapse or two, there is no urgency to one’s attention, there is plenty of time to re-enter the fray as an active pursuer of the truth contained within - if there is any truth contained within - and presumably at a time of greater consequence, for naturally if one’s attention is wandering loosely, then one might, rather than look at one's elusive self think this is proof of the lack of urgency of the matter at hand; that it has failed to grasp, to tether oneself to the matter, proof of its inadequacy.

So anyway the longer this goes on the worse it gets - and I couldn't say I'm under the impression it began well - so rather than it getting any worse - and you may think that difficult to achieve - I’ll stop here.

Kept

They kept on appearing.
- With frightening regularity?
Well I don't know about the frightening, but certainly with great regularity.

blu

Fail

"I fail to recognise this. Or rather, I don't fail to recognise, or if I do, I fail willingly. So no, it's not that I fail but that I refuse to recognise."
Why refuse to recognise?
"Because it's insulting."

Scattered

The elements were scattered.
And what then?
They remained scattered.

Compression

A fabulous compression, everything fabulously compressed. Well, perhaps not everything. But something. Something compressed. Compressed absolutely.

But what if in fact it's being expanded and not compressed; that is to say there's no compression going on, no great whole being distilled to some precise and concise form, a form bursting at the seams with significance - you squeeze it and you're drenched with all this significance. And what kind of compression can be going on if I myself haven't the slightest idea of what it is that is actually being compressed?

But perhaps if did know, then mightn't it be true there would be no such compression, no reduction to essence. All we'd have is some artificial construct, some ungainly contraption nailed together artlessly, and rather than placed discreetly in the corner hoping to attract noone's attention there it is placed proudly out there in the centre, in the most splendidly prominent spot, and tied around the protruding and all too visible nails are ribbons no less - the whole thing proudly declaring, "Behold! I have simplified, yes, but not at the expense of truth or elegance!"

But give it a kick and the whole contraption falls to pieces, and that's exactly what should be done. What else should you do to a piece of shit with ribbons attached?

But you probably won't be too popular if you do administer the necessary kick. You may even be attacked by some of its admirers, some of whom were crawling around in the hopeless structure, blissful, feeling themselves defined and happily so by their inhabitation within its perimeters, its parameters. Can you really expect gratitude when you shatter the thing with one well aimed kick? Not really, no. You had better have something else to offer them quick or you don't know what they might do.

But now that it is shattered, perhaps you'll find, most likely, rather than going for you that they'll go scrabbling in the dirt, grabbing at the fragments, and out with their tools - their hammers and so on - and they're banging away, making a desperate racket, putting it all back together again, or if not quite it, something resembling it in its place, finally producing - what can you expect – something even more hopeless.

And now there stand before it, pleased and relieved, humble and proud. It's a testament to its permanence, its truth, that there it stands, again.

And so what do you do but up and deliver another kick, this time sending it surely beyond the reaches of all repair.

garish

profyle

ship

angel

grey

When

"When you add it all up, what does it amount to?"
"The total."

graysnow

i's

delicate

Gen. Mattis

"You go into Afghanistan, you got guys who slap women around for five years because they didn't wear a veil. You know, guys like that ain't got no manhood left anyway. So it's a hell of a lot of fun to shoot them."

- Gen. James Mattis, new commander of U.S. Central Command

I think psychotic is the word, and bounteously armed with the means of incarnating his and others' psychosis. Killing human beings is a hell of a lot of fun; you just have to find the right ones to kill. And it seems anywhere the women wear veils the men as an undifferentiated whole can be distinguished as those ripe for the killing. Generally I would imagine people who regard the shooting of people as a hell of a lot of fun aren't too intellectually rigorous in their notions of who precisely are these men without manhood who it's a hell of a lot of fun to kill. The 21st Century British-Anerican Liberation Tour: Bringing Democracy to a Country Probably Quite a Long Way Away From You.
[Quote courtesy of very interesting site wood s lot]

tortoise

comingtogetherorelsedispersing

mostlyred

lightened

pastoral

side

laughing

herebeglyphs

Is

This is a copy.

italian

glowing

Enough

There isn't enough people to go round.
Well what if they went in a straight line? Would there be enough then?
There might.