Which Ends In a Sort of Idealistic Subjectivism

09/27/2007 8:15 AM – 8:45 AM

There’s still 10,000 things ahead, that’s the thing to get. At every point, there’s still stuff to do. It’s still 1981, somewhere, and there’s still things that have to be tried. It’s not much of a thing, maybe, but it’s something. And it counts if it works.

What does it consist of? I suppose the physical necessity is money, but the primary is desire. There are still interesting things, and even on those mornings when your mind is slow and dull, that bug in your guts is still there, even if it twists only slowly. Bullocks and bedposts, get up then and do something. If you swallow the fly, swallow the spider. You’ll have a story in the thing and like the man said, you either need to write something worth reading or do something worth writing about.

In the meantime, you do whatever it is with plans for something else. Being here is being in your daydreams. Here is here. There is that problem of imbued verses inherent and I don’t know the resolution for that. I’m just here doing the thing that I’m doing. Arrgh. And the dullness of the whole is bothersome. No flickers. Wake up and wheel around awhile. There. You wake up and wheel around awhile. The clouds of leaves on the horizon sneak over months into the sky until they’ve found their footing in the unpredictable coloring. When the winter comes, their base material seems intransient and falls more vividly that that which they had aspired to attain, leaving behind the fractal skeletons to hold their place while they rest in preparation for their next assault on the clouds. Given time, and effort, all aspirations attain. The trick to being felled is to be so ensconced in pursuing desire that you do not notice and mistake the axe for the gentle breezes of an autumnal blanket pulled slowly over tired feet. And perhaps it will be. Percipi est esse. Willing it, it obtains, Berkelian, where it matters.