There is no true country on the map, there is no true map.
'A youth or maiden meeting by chance, or brought together by artifice, exchange glances, reciprocate civilities, go home, and dream of one another. Having little to divert attention, or diversify thought, they find themselves uneasy when they are apart, and therefore conclude they shall be happy together.'
~~~
There is some part of us that imagines happiness or truth or reality lies elsewhere;always one step around the corner, never here, a dim memory of the future. Would we still be recognizably human if there wasn't a sense that our lives are lived in shadows, and if something didn't snag at our hearts or touch us as from afar, as in a dream?
Of course, there is also something disturbing about capitalism's ability to tap into our restlessness, to hold up the promise of unending accumulation. As economists like Frank Knight clearly saw, the market isn't about just satisfying given desires; it's really also about innovation and the creation of the unlimited.
~~~
You have strayed for so long now that it may be hard to find your way back. The eyes and hands have made their deals, settlements; your voice strains to retain what notes of truth it knew. A life of wandering means that nothing that surrounds you is a reflection of you. You sometimes think to yourself that your thoughts are like an old, neglected radio station, the ghost songs whose outer shell is barely remembered...
Reading Burnside in the brilliant burning white light: the shadow of your hands cutting deeply into the words, the blank light against the individual patterns of loss...
the dwelling place inherent in the spine...
You have lost a book; in it was a poem you could never find. A poem about a deep ocean and a whale down in its cold murky depths; the whale knows a song, whose form is ancient, repeated from time out of mind, a song of being in the world and lost, this pattern that is like her breathing: the song, the moments, the stars, all carried along since before Adam. The Great Whale, who cannot find his name with God. John Riley, I think.
~~~
'A youth or maiden meeting by chance, or brought together by artifice, exchange glances, reciprocate civilities, go home, and dream of one another. Having little to divert attention, or diversify thought, they find themselves uneasy when they are apart, and therefore conclude they shall be happy together.'
~~~
There is some part of us that imagines happiness or truth or reality lies elsewhere;always one step around the corner, never here, a dim memory of the future. Would we still be recognizably human if there wasn't a sense that our lives are lived in shadows, and if something didn't snag at our hearts or touch us as from afar, as in a dream?
Of course, there is also something disturbing about capitalism's ability to tap into our restlessness, to hold up the promise of unending accumulation. As economists like Frank Knight clearly saw, the market isn't about just satisfying given desires; it's really also about innovation and the creation of the unlimited.
~~~
You have strayed for so long now that it may be hard to find your way back. The eyes and hands have made their deals, settlements; your voice strains to retain what notes of truth it knew. A life of wandering means that nothing that surrounds you is a reflection of you. You sometimes think to yourself that your thoughts are like an old, neglected radio station, the ghost songs whose outer shell is barely remembered...
Reading Burnside in the brilliant burning white light: the shadow of your hands cutting deeply into the words, the blank light against the individual patterns of loss...
the dwelling place inherent in the spine...
You have lost a book; in it was a poem you could never find. A poem about a deep ocean and a whale down in its cold murky depths; the whale knows a song, whose form is ancient, repeated from time out of mind, a song of being in the world and lost, this pattern that is like her breathing: the song, the moments, the stars, all carried along since before Adam. The Great Whale, who cannot find his name with God. John Riley, I think.
~~~
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