Saturday, March 04, 2006
Not (confession of an empty mind)
Not much happening around. I take it as a syntactic device. Do not think you are making sense any more. Making sense is not a matter of device. Devices have nothing to do with sense. Sense is not a syntactic thing. Things do not make sense, either by themselves or right next to you. They still do not. And still I am here, trying to do it, trying to get it, trying to give it, trying to try to offer to account to explain to order to keep to see to feel no commas in between. That spleen is back again between my fingers. Fingers can only be followed up by fingers. And that is still just another syntactic device.
There is nothing into it but the denial of the assumption. No, one thing that is rejected, or the mere rejection of something. Every action has its omision, and so all that can very easily turn out to be nothing. No mistery to be solved. No sense to be made. No order.
Misterious, if at all, is the fact that we need the order. Who is we here? Whoever counts as counting, whoever thinks the thinking and spits the spitting. Whoever, whatever, whenever. This is just the repetition of a disorder, with its own sequence, its own collection. One's man order is anothr man's disorder. And beyond that there is nothing more. As nothing should there be, for what, why and when could it be.
I'm fading away. I've lost my faith. I've lost the taste, the palate. There is just NOT. The syntactic device to deal with something which is already lost. Having the device is just a matter of fortune, and nothing much. Just a toy, and nothing else. Keep looking, this is the confession of an empty mind.
The question is not why, but why bother in asking why? Why?