The fact that something to do or say feels impossible to imagine- to visualize- is a sure sign that some repression is connected to the act or words.
With a bit of security in my own machine I can let myself be loose, even careless, leave a little room for the blur even if I get lost in the blur, the fog, the lattice of connected fantasies, reveries, thoughts that connect and disconnect, blinking on and off like traffic lights. In the fog, the traffic lights are even a bit beckoning, or become like lighthouses guiding me from street to street. The past hovers on every street. Thousands of thoughts have probably taken place on every one of them, and maybe dozens of conversations through the years...still echoing somewhere. In this blur, there is noplace particular to turn. The best we can see, the boundaries to one side leave us firmly on the side of objects- where the fan's voice steadily sounds in the window and every few minutes the quiet whoosh of a car in the background. In this blur sounds are important because they are evidence of time passing- if you listen closely you can hear the clicking on and clicking off all through the night. The blur is no impediment to sight here, though. Here, where it is really impossible to see in the everyday sense of the term it is possible to feel the presence of the shadows of sound, to slightly make out the shrill, only barely audible screeching of light throught the centuries. And through all this, the utterances of thought are louder still, roaring certain words through time like echoes burrowing endlessly through a vast pattern of caves. The thoughts are heard as words and in this blur, words are also seen. They are seen as they are heard, traveling through solid objects simultaneously. In the still night this is imagined as a glistening, a pale twinkling. But in the center of meaning, words are in ferment, bursting their way through the seams of time, unravelling the spiral that leads, finally, to the vastness of future and past. This blur is deafened by words, is pierced by words, attacked by them, like a level in which the radiant, emitted particles breathe ever outwards through the surrounding solids. Here words permeate any move in any direction and there are more, by far, than the usual number of directions. This blur, in itself, is featureless. But its absence of features serves as a highly sensitive, highly resonant screen, pulling images of actualities into it like a plant drawing light from the sun. The deeper into it, the finer the slivers of color, the more evanescent the winking shapes, but here new classes of resemblance can be seen. Certain aspects of limit are here transcended, but others form basic boundaries. Here, fragments of words and ideas exist in their own right, gigantic, like Sequoias or Redwoods. Here, hearing becomes extremely sharp, sensitive to the mawkish attitudes, provoked by exhaustion, ruffled by the coarse cawing of a Bluejay.
A theory without unity- a unity of looser states of mind- may allow for an expansion of strength- perhaps at the cost of some centrality of focus.
One does not want to make it an accident- this representation.Once we wanted our stories to be direct. Now we are more private (the private people) and more public (the public people). But to represent is simply to ask, again and again. My "private" form of rebellion.