I have lived to see the best minds of my generation destroyed by language. The linear flux of time, the total stream in which no one steps twice, yet without limits no difference. Events of historical spins, a repetition of forms of the book that contains. Yet language appears to give shapes to breathing. There are three dimensions of space and one of time, and somehow all the rules they fall away, along with the durations, and one encounters zero, the primordial sum sans probable series of cause and effect, this passage intransitive and I. Contingencies the signs reveal the structure of what produces them, and we deal with ephemeral events demonstrate traces, genetics determining sets of possibilities, yet the grid constantly changing, interfaces morphing realities. This is no dream. The trees they shush and indicate many directions, last daylight at last arriving from the sun arch many times ago. Through a field of attention, the rhythms of particles emerging from themselves, not seeing any end to themselves, refuting the myth of death with the selfsame stuff as love. Writing is what love is, yet to say so leaves more than a single reveal uncharted. Initiated into passages, had I known these signs were coming I would have said the fabric of Western conceptions the book contains. We are our passages, and the glass on this desk is not half anything. There is no glass in this field of attention, emerging through remarks, how observations commence it. I am not half empty, a dialectical cartoon of myself, cogito ergo sum, but the water rises, and earth moves to meet me, to introduce itself again. A form of repetition sans playback. A revisiting and adjustment. An attuning. Reason moot.
Strange to say I don't know what to say, as in the supposed what. Throw the pebble in a different direction, yet that arc has happened before? Now we deal with formulas, those for the emotions all bulwark and modish sass, bent on wringing lilies from the cultural tradition of haecceity and the individual genius of historical power. A tough nut. No acorn spots far from the branch, and no arc has happened before itself, yet at the same space a shifting space as the unfolding of durations are temperamental and psychotropic, all the turns of brain seasons distinguishing themselves. I feel my blood condense, in a pulse and the leaves spin steadily from their heights in grooves of breeze a story recurring but never quite. The moon, too, now, draws my constitution. Spacetime a consequence of gravity. There's something else that bugs me, listens in, but I don't know what it is. Perhaps some resemblance to art here, the ghost of Literature Past rattling chains of signifiers that the French say slide. Representation black magic, mediations mingling with bodies of labor. Just because you make a formal distinction, doesn't mean you have to. And no one leaves who allows the strange mess with which we are all too familiar.
Does writing lose information in the rhythm cuts? The problem not rules, but the generalization of rational form. My love like a red red rose, and all the particulars circumvented to crosshair metaphor, to make the box of historical stuff cohere. I does multiple places in spacetime, on the fleshy level, topological knotting a vast dynamic fabric weaving itself. Contexture. The world I carry on my head not a magnanimous machine, ruled by laws continuum establishes. At the atomic bottom of the barrel, neither space nor time but bits of primordial information emerging and dematerializing into zero. Classically yes or no. One or zero. Indications where science strays from magic. And the boundary of a boundary is zero, as Zeno never found out the hard way. Vectors arrive through points, despite intention, and I have no idea what I'm doing here. A physical quantity underwrites writing, this transference of information that loses something of itself in the step from here to here. To say more is different is to see billions of moments in a real fraction, the shebang from the big bang echoing this scripting echoing felt difference, this pain in my left eye, this rain that spatters in discrete packets of musical. Less is different, as there is always loss in movement. So there is always a zero, a limit, a threshold to goodbyes. Yes or no, not quite to be or not to be, and science strays from magic. Zero and one each one sign. Zero equals two. Every particle, every field, derives its meaning function from binary choices, from bits, events of asynchronic time each one. And irreversible, absolute, not simply the ideal signs. Can one determine meaning by immediate direction rather than general pattern? If experience is treated properly, usable energy taken into the body and returned to an environment through a variety of forms, making everything of experience count, matter, move, returning experience back into an environment for use, entangled with other processes also known as persons. My love of spacious moment not specious but nothing other than itself through passages of marks emerging. Writing is what love is, not a rose is a rose is a rose. If you know one, giving into the massive field of attention, you have never known any other.
There are three dimensions of space and one of time. Such the moving shape, and the rest never at rest. I could sleep for a circle of the Earth and continue leaping over oblivion, those gaps between events you feel through meaning with and of. At rest I still move, dreams of a vast orange field, gravitation slowing the time passage showing. And slow down or up, thus orientations and measures, they term dilation, say of the I in multiple places at once, all zones of current. The body electric, the body a data flow. How do you act on things from all points of view at once? The best of all possible worlds unfinished, and the generalization of rational form dangerous business, banked on by interests invested in political nonce. Your bread at risk. Where are we in relationship to one another when the mind is no longer turned against the body? The relationship itself an event creative love. So does the moving shapes, and rest never at rest. They say that something makes this work intelligible, this world I mean I meant take your illiteracy and run for your felicitous life. I would rather participation reportage, whatever past exists must exit through the present passage insisting balancing on the point of physical instance. Precarity. How to lose yourself in a pile of dark matter. Buttons, pins, stamps, checks, notes, indicating notes, stacks of open books and unopened mail, the digital screams they muffle through as signals of some virtual life, three hundred sixty four days in a minute. And counting.
The infinite hotel is always full, chimes Hilbert, but there's always room for one more. Where do these materials come from? As if asking the question of children. Certainly not written on wind, as a gust tingles remember. Retro. Now when time bends over itself, my memory of the future just passing through just. All I remember my feet emerging from my shadow, says Sam, one after another, as if asking the question of the past. I not contained by this room, but of its balm and cool and antemeridian particles, venting heat and actual geometry. And how to say no. The materials, they just so beam from the future and emerge as marks. How else know audition but of incomplete information? This drama continues. Stage, actors, lights, vision and audition play one instant, one lead mark, merging and emerging to direct itself. No two seasons of this body the same, and then a different difference. This is no dream, each moment I awake. Option, control, shift and return next elsewhere to here when a wave of attention attracts a sound. Nothing other than itself.
A center of gravity not a theory, just as you get out of bed to balance. This body that writes an organized system of knowledge, yet space entangles and impedes ubiquity. Statistical reality tells us we potential everywhere in space and time, abstract objects, stardust dispersed across the fields. Only until you feel, only until rhythm, only until a center of gravity establishes a stance does position obtain a measure. And when do you do not rhythm? Representations do not inhale. I have lived to see the best minds of my generation destroyed by language. Such a clinical sound, yet the lines, they are worth revolutions, of the planet and of political species, littoral rock faces groove with lines cannot belie. I leads this page with precise impressions, vanilla hair waft, bright slat strung to slat, hardwood echo and all as anything else here. I as much this mug as the doorframe shadows striate. I not divided from. Not description. Not document. An improbable set of circumstances, from which a signal of life emerges. Archaic yawns.