An Infinity of Imaginary Sand

What’s real consists in the instrumentation that’s designed to measure real.  The attitude indicator or the vertical velocity dial or the radar.  Like the eye seeing the instrument sees even in the midst of cloud.  But if what it sees is an infinity of imaginary sand?  But what matter if there is still an identifiable horizon?

Notes

There is a problem in talking about the commodification of objects in so far as this description, of ‘objects’, supposes we know what these things are … I mean not in commonsensical terms but their full blown metaphysical idea.

Imagine two people arguing about a ‘what’: “A what is what it is, obviously.”  ”But what if what you think the thing that it is isn’t what it is?”  ”But wait a minute, what I say is true: because it analyses how you regard this what!”  ”Certainly, what I think it is is what it is – however ….”

Evidence of the actually unreal

What kinds of items should be listed in this category?

It already changed its name back into the one it had

How else are we to understand transformation?

I watch the magician change the hazelnut into a light bulb.

Unenlightened Money

You arrive as money, carrying within your cold look the expectation of good scavenging – such as when seagulls land on top of the open garage door with a nail scrabble on painted metal: and there is cash in your pockets, I mean in the evidence of your coats and your bags, as you wander about -your nonchalance, your graven lack of committent may hide - something more - and this may bring a transformation with it, this arrival - or it may not, there is always a degree of freedom in these things – but nothing should be exaggerated; now that you are here there is no such story as unaltered or unenlightened … conveyed by means of good seagull cash.

Patience

I can never think about what I want to write directly.  (By far the greater part of my writing does not appear on this website but is something that I work privately on day to day: most of the material you see here amounts to a form of cooling down or warming up; just practice jumps or runs or what have you.)  I have to operate obliquely when I write; there are no straight lines at all.  Instead there is only radical, total uncertainty; chaos.  This makes me chronically insecure about my material and – in practice – embarassed about it too since most of it is rubbish and fails badly: little heaps of garbage surround my life space; tables littered with rejected try-outs.  Partly as a consequence I remain unsure about what to throw away and what to keep in the generation of a thinking that often I have only the faintest understanding of and that I view with distaste, but which another part of me seems to be certain is necessary … Even the prose style I should use remains an uncertainty.   What is best adopted for a given purpose?  … Besides that of course I am inept with words; this is the capstone of my private epic comedy, my clumsiness with phrases and repetitions.

A Mirror

A man, looking in the mirror, sees his face changing; the result: he doesn’t know who he is, who is the stranger with thick black hair when the day before his hair was ginger; he had a moustache; a scar on his right cheek.  Now that he looks at himself those things have disappeared; looking back at him, the lined, yellowed ancient: unchanged: no he remembers: it is the same face that he saw, the eyes unbroken grey blue.

Janus-faced I know from which direction the enemy will come.

The pinpoint attention that concentratedly wanders; that wonders by wandering … signs itself off with a flourish.

In the tank

This issue: the act of “Looking at an object in a tank full of black ink”: I have no idea what the object is.  Of what to measure it against.   Even if it is there at all.  The only thing I see is the reflection present in the black wafer of glass – the icy node of my looking face.  There it is, me, my face.  So, this thing, is that the object in the tank in its essence?  Only me. 

1,000,000

The revelation of train rails. 

From 0 to 1,000,000.  From.  One to the zero’s oubliette.  And back again.  Forwards we go; into the affront of nothing.  Out of the fright of some.  Two arrive.  Finally.   Nothing = Something.  Omega egg.  Crack of doom.  At first sight.

The Theme

Originality.  Talent.  Walk hand in hand.  ‘Talent’ meant originally ‘money’ .  And so originality, being its shadow: for money originates the actual: in which we duly live as dark animals, its very substance the minatory.  So ’something from nothing’ (that is, money).  Infinity.  The finite.  Sweeping the finite table clear of finite objects.  Nothing but infinity remains.  The tablecloth.  The granular striations shade into white.