Storystyling : Readin from Boox (six / 7)

 long paths, easy ways

--hey, thou three letter looking! don’t you know that there’s been an age long dispute about the nature of the perception of self?

--thou wha?!! I don’t give a fuck about centuries of babbling, mindless argument, and senseless fight for the winning idiocy that morons devise in order to convince themselves that they exist, let alone figure out who they are, not to mention the otherz.

--why don’t u pull yoself the-fucking-gither and be as reasonable as the topic requires tho to be! listen here: the crux of the debate revolves around the question whether becoming aware of oneself precedes the recognition of others or if by perceiving others one consolidates a sense of the self by virtue of distinction.

--bullshit!!! It takes a fucking minute—NOT eons—to realize that it is by virtue of distinctions either way.

--here’s the thing: there is no either way option, okay?

--now, that ‘s yet another in the series of annoying moments history keeps treating one to. I don’t give a fuck about the implied refutation of the antimanichean logic or some such shit. i do not even take into consideration a possibility to object to the rigidity of choices—that would mean agreeing to be “rational” when being “rational” is a trap.

--hey, thou three letter looking! gotcha…sure—no surrender to devious maneuvering into speaking in a tongue colliding with the words of one’s own. Look here: there’s a good book that has a word or two to say on that and related topix, alrajt?

--huh, I guess…all ears.

--the title of the book…

--is On How To Phunkie ReadWrite Remix (øøøø)…

--and it offers a case study that reveals what civilization has experienced as a consequence of…

--(a) the burden of dichotomy & (b) the ramifications of each option…

--respectively. As for (a), the author named Malcolm Jones accentuates the significance of the fact that there are two hemispheres, two eyes, left and right side, east and west, and a whole bunch of other examples proving…

--that the bullshit called polarity is innate.

--The essay in which Dr. Jones explores (and self-indulgently believes to be exposing) the reality of opposites is entitled…

--“Just As There Is a Third Eye Somewhere, So There Is an Absence of Numbers Elsewhere” and it looks at the complexity the mind confronts in the encounter with the question…

--“Do I first detect what I am not…

--and by means of exclusion figure out my identity…

--or do I recognize myself first…

--and then make a distinction between that and (this)…

--I mean everything else?”

--hey, tho three letter looking, why the fuck do you use quotation marks when you are not fucking quoting?

--yo, coz that’s a direct question, but i’m not actually asking you, see…yeah, i know it’s weird…?

--I guess…

--Now, back to the book…

--and the (b) aspect of the dilemma…

--that underscores the primacy of the perception from within as opposed to that from without…

--and/or vice versa.

--An interesting point made there is that each option can be converted into a scenario that reveals: (1) a hyperinflated sense of the self & (2) annihilation of that concept altogether.

--These turn out to converge in the narrative that offers a solution to those that find themselves featuring in these tales of identity.

--It is a corner of this globe in a dark pocket of urban jungles…

--underneath a knot of highways, overpasses, underpasses, viaducts, and transversals…

--that functions as a gigantic waste depot, junk yard, stench depository, slime sewers…

--grease stash, puke bank, discharge tanks, excrement treasure chest.

-- shit, man! I mean whadaphunkiemafotherphunkiephunk!

--yeah, I know…There go those who suffer from the consequences of disorderly sequencing the instances of the perception of self.

--yeah, I know…The article notes the remark made by a passerby overlooking the scene and murmuring that the world is worryingly overpopulated anyway.

--S/he added that even the desert s/he is forced to call his/her habitat…

--feels eerily crammed.

--Needless to say, the observation reverberates…

--with the prevalent insight into the polymorphous nature of spatiality…

--and amorphous character of temporality.

--Clearly, this reinstates the question of self-perception, introspection...

--as well as other instances of—reflection.

 

: like phunk!

 

Like phunk!

kessenem / pleazy.

 

/

How many eons does it take to dive all the way to the place where that mirror can be found? Sometimes, it takes a nanosecond. Sometimes, it can go on for-who-knows-what-chunks-of-chronos-empire on end. At times, it eludes those patterns that divide what we do into the lumps dubbed 60 seconds or precisely the same number of minutes: it could feel like the ethereal monolith that separates the current moment from the dawn of man, and yet, the fact of the matter is recorded as the passage of a couple of hours; conversely, days may be piling up like numberless beads on an endless string, while the feel is that of a split second.

How does one cope with such paradox? Sometimes, one really needs to be reminded that labels are nothing but, that tags are just that, that names are…well, names. Once time resists being marked, there’s no paradox.

But, there’s a feel of it.

How long is it advisable to remain in the state of mind that silences clanking tags, fluttering labels, naming of names? Sometimes, it continues long after packing time into measurement boxes is resumed. Like a guerilla fighter in the service of silence, those patterns off pattern are infiltrated into the dominant code.

Everything is quantified—except for quantification itself. And the silent subversive threads woven in the torrential clutches of the molds that press, squeeze, crunch, crumble, scatter, disperse…dissolve. Like noise.

And the sense of it remains.

 

How long does it take to know how to look from that paradox free island at the stirring flows of steps, fluffing of sleeves, legs, collars, as suits keep carrying themselves through the shadow of the distant constellations…how long to distill the rain from the fantasy of their blending with strings of figures…to cry raindrops into the river…to have them dried by the kiss of its moonoiled crest…to flash a sparkle to the silver spillage covering the dreams of sunshowered smiles?

Clouds parted. The sun poured silver rain over the cobweb of desire. It’s still dripping, as the yarns are lingering heavily on the wings of the wind. As the river dries them…as one looks at the mirror. Reflection.

Like phunk.