The sight, the roar, you can't understand what they say, but you knowit has all the meaning of the universe. Knowledge, it's in both listeningand talking. If you listen with the right ear, the flapping of the butterflywill tell you the secrets of Nuclear Physics.. And no, this is not a metaphor,for now. Understand encryption, understand patterns, understand compression..Dictionaries are the key to knowledge. With any conversation, with anylistening, you and the talker both are building the table. Define the wordsperversely, and that perversion will be the basis for everything. A crackle,and lucidity, always a brief interlude, or perhaps never, depending on whichwind you follow, is gone again. Your civilization, another path in theendless rooms in your mind, or in your land. Formal undecidability, oruntellability.. We play a game with probability, but how can we tell thatwe're not just measuring and defining our own sanity, slowly running afinger down the side of our body, until it touches our toes or we growtired of the act and stop. Oh, look, a point of interest, can philosophy abidean interruption? The smell of soap, not for the hands but for the dishes..How can you tell what is said, when the eyes are closed and the mind runswild.. Is the place between the words really worth a visit? A gap in thecloud.. "Are you an artist here? Or a Professor?" "I'm a Rabbi". A glassflies through the air, shatters, and then is whole. When did I tell youthat? How can you ever see what you claim to see? It seems impossible.Schau! Es gibt a circus version of a flower.. Complete with a dance troupe,each with a watering device. And again we turn away, our dreams are awhirlwind tour of places a little ways beyond the limits of sanity.Some of us need more help than others to get there, or to keep all of what wegot there.
And here's another take on Cyndi Lauper's cover of Hedwig.If you don't understand what I'm saying, sorry, you're on your own.I hope I understand, in retrospect. I suppose that's a risk I'll haveto accept when I BLOG half-asleep.
And the epilogue... I lay back, on my newly cleaned apartment floor, with thatvery song playing.. and feel the memories, of the two that I have loved, ofand hear her singing, and even note with humour the spam I recieve... It is akind of surgery, mental surgery... and you, my other half, offer to take itaway from me.. the memories, more of them.. two halves of me... I don't want tolose more to you, my golem, my symbol, bearer of my sigil, but I am so moved,so convinced by your voice, and I know that you really are me, and that you'llkeep it safe should I ever want it back.. a wall with hats, a time near the endtalking about proving statistical normality with computers, talks about familyrelations after a phone call from your mother, a joke about another run afterhaving run through the cemetary and a little ways around where you live. I offerthese moments to you, and when all three of us got our cat. Your self-hatredtakes a new look, chosen, when you see yourself in an unfamiliar light, yourhair both a sign of shame and a celebration. And in all honesty, your face,your faces, fade from my memory, the white-out has dried, and all that's leftis the photos kept in a box I never open. An irony then, that the lament, thecelebration, it's too thin, and can't brave the currents, it keeps on gettinglost, and so I walk across the room, letting its leek indeed become legs,hit that duck with the plant. Similie is indeed the ultimate prison.Something you do when you wake up every morning.