as per usual, i discover myself on the verge of a mistake
“he’ll hit the wall like gravy in a storm”
Imagine my mouthing something at you from across Oxford street while imitating the grace of lightning a match with my hands–but you’re not aware of the latter bit. Me? Yes-you. Really? Weird! Don’t understand, will probably ignore.
Now, imagine that the lady standing next to you has waltzed out of the parallel-reality of Fendi with a larger-than-ordinary pimped up canister for a handbag. I wouldn’t be acquainted with either one of you, but while my gesticulating would probably seem merely nutty to you, I may have only now insulted the lady next to you, regardless of my true intentions. I mime a lot, actually. Seriously.
Movement/action on its own does not seem intelligble (though it may be intellgible in itself) except with the movement’s further interaction with the context. In this instance, it also transgresses with the expectations of normality (though less so with the snugness of the streets). What’s the backdrop like, right?
So, contemplate notions like personal growth, and striving. To put pressure on the properly detached and self-assured You in order to make progress at a certain higher-than-random speed–well, on its own, the act does not make any sense. We require reference points, not to say we’re natural ferocious copycats as pertains to learning; can’t very well do it in isolation.
I find it fairly awkward, actually: to compete with myself over how fast I can pull myself up by my shoelaces. It’s not so much that these intentions won’t pan out, but that I’ll get a fairly skewered view of the results, provided that I will detect any narrative-breaking changes in my relation to the world at all–I have, after all, thought it perfectly doable to live on the sustenance of my character and imagination happily ever after in my back yard. One big urgency-free harmonious sandbox of wonder. Because, and especially nowadays, competition is bad, ugly, yuck in principle, right? Such a darling, this progressive populism…
Additionally, if growth in isolation would fail to make sense (the backdrop’s either too wide, or unimaginable)(provided that we would realise that on some level), I’m guessing it’d be rather difficult to siphon off that nourishing intensity and drive from the emotional commitment to an aim. Suspectibility to affect has its upsides.
I.e. do we not lose out on the potentially utilisable reservoir of capabilities by nobly refusing to be drawn into tiny personal races and almost adversarial bumping into each other’s sides?
We need someone to provide us with a playable context, to make the world small for us. In this sense, I think, we have no true adversaries. Just the people we play ourselves up against from time to time. Who provide the necessary tension and the constraints and the walls. Maybe we don’t do it intentionally, but most always self-forgetfully. We come into focus for ourselves through another, or in the worst case, through forgetting the existence of the walls-getting lost in the intensely sentimental miniature. You don’t adventure, nor learn, nor transform yourself much in a mellow vacuum or across the curvature of the Earth.
Where else could this mechanism apply? Innovation, R&D, business, biotech, affection? In the latter case, the ancient sentiment of our transforming our identities through loving and being loved yields something along the lines of:
’tis realising what we’re capable of becoming.
(it may be that the wall is there to keep the monsters in, the interesting things out. the other way around, maybe, or maybe we craved the walls into being in order to work on something: some fancy, or wound, or curiosity. in any case, the walls hold off nothing. eventually, they will crumble under our own exhaustion.)
I think this is fairly functional, especially if we consider what, aside from lust, draws us to certain people at certain times in the first place. Works on platonic scale as well, and not always in an overly desirable manner.
(in fact, to what extent are our perceived similarities to, and differences from our companions merely the recognised degrees by which we desire to learn and build ourselves further?)
magicians do not write about other magicians
(while learning how to do just that)
but i have lost my regard
it’s not that i don’t enjoy,
but i do not
a puzzle that wasn’t
it has become exhausting and a little sad
living with a parent minus the child
you hero. you big, happy heart. look at what you’ve done with me.
i learned myself from you, yet you called me a sage. i take a bow before the little comely hysteria–your heroism. goodness before brilliance. in the soggy back pocket under the purple eastern sky, you remind me of raisins: condensed sweetness all over the roaring floor of one wretched bus.
she’s a desolate sight, having been denied an arc by a bag of tricks left hanging.
barely able to tolerate myself, an auto-antonym,
i guess satisfaction is not in my nature.
“only the mistakes were mine.”
 In which, by the termination of the game, the sum total in terms of experienced novelty outweighs the playing costs, but doesn’t surpass the current imaginative capacities (the attributed actual probabilities to potential total outcomes, and sub-outcomes).
 Miguel de Unamuno – “Love is the child of illusion and the parent of disillusion.”