Friday, October 15, 2004

This lifestyle is not conducive to my mental health.

So I've spent the last four or five hours (I forget exactly) jumping from link to link like an ADHDer, just trying to stay awake until the sun comes up. Later tonight, I get to start on this new, mad schedule for two weeks, working 14 hour shifts from 5pm to 7am.

I am just not a night person.

And all I've got for company right now are words.

My fellow poets, weaving their incantations upon the bit-ether.

Derrida just died, how exactly do you deconstruct that?

Especially at this hour, I am apt to ask, "What is real?"

I don't believe in nothing no more.

I even doubt my faithlessness.

But reading all these words, tied skillfully together maybe with meter, or alliteration, or maybe not tied together. Made whole by its disjunctiveness. Adorned with verbal step-offs, like sharp, simple fractures, long bones snapped in two. Hesitant pauses, of trying to extract just the right word. Or those sudden silences, when destiny just sucker punched you in the gut. I start dreaming of all those wizards whom I don't really know. Derrida. Lacan. Heidegger. Nietschze. Foucault. I only understand that it is very similar to magic. Creating worlds out of puffs of air and the vibrations of thin strips of muscle and cartilage. The text can only float in that Godelian non-space of real irreality, irreal reality, whatever any of that means.

What I understand is that there are no hard and fast rules by which one can discern truth, not even in mathematics.

But that is beside the point.

I meditate upon the word—isn't it remarkable that a particular reading of one of the sacred scriptures leads to realizing that the creating force is the Word?

And the twisting definitions, chasing the etymologies to the beginning and back, the palimpest of meanings upon meanings, and there is nothing, nothing. The words are like sonar, pinging the depths of reality, but we will never see it directly, never sense it in any way directly.

And then I wonder about the observer's paradox, about Heisenberg's uncertainty principle. If you ping truth with a word, doesn't that change the meaning or displace the context?

You can know where, or you can know how, but never both.

It is 4am and I am officially insane. Sanity has left the building.


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