Tuesday, July 11, 2006

hard lust and wet wine 3: grapez especial

The holy spirit came to crazy William Blake and he wrote it down in poems. Thus began the age of romanticism. And so ended the rule of neo-classicism.

No ideas but in things is romanticism distilled. But maybe ideas can be just as much a thing. If everything’s a dream anyways.

Think about it. Science tells us there’s more space in that tabletop than particle board. We humans agree to the idea that a tabletop is a tabletop. Ask a dog what it is. Or what color!

We make such agreements every second of the day. But the worst kind of agreement is the one we make on ourselves. Tell the truth now. One thinks one sucks.

Inside, we can never measure up. So, in compensation, we tear others down. To our size. And we try to build ourselves up. To their size. Doomed to failure of course.

There is no size. We made it all up. Some imagination. Reminds me of what some character said about a cats cradle in Kurt Vonnegut's novel of the same name: no damned cat; no damned cradle.

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