The complexity of language is fascinating…but not sufficiently so to prompt me to delve deeply into learning multiple languages. I’ve discovered lethargy is an antidote to fascination. The reverse, unfortunately, does not seem to be the case.
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Something else I find fascinating is this: creating sophisticated shadow images through placement of lighting and using objects to block it. Again, though, the amount of both mental and physical energy required to create appealing shadow images is beyond my capabilities and/or willingness. People who are good at what I’ll improperly call “shadow-craft” have incredible powers of concentration, I think. And they understand (better than do I) how to practically apply at least a rudimentary knowledge of physics to the chaos of the real world in the process of artistic expression.
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Anonymity hides behind a nearly invisible window into an empty room. We can neither enter into—nor escape from—that hidden place because it exists only along the shredded edges of pretense. Reality reveals catastrophic breaks in the shields on which we rely to surround us with defensive obscurity. Phantom locations block paths between here and there and even beyond. Wearing cloaks or veils or capes or the garb the guards give to prison escapees, the inmates in those places struggle to find unique, nonreturnable identities. Nothing that could have been used in an uprising, though. Nothing that might ignite kindling or fuel flickering embers. None among us want to admit it, but privacy is surrendered at birth…or even before. Our names are cross-referenced with numbers and dates and the names of people we cannot remember from moments we did not experience. We want to believe in anonymity, but too many among us know too much. Our seclusion— guarded by an ancient, vaporous, corroded chain-link-fence—is just a series of readily-available-reruns. People we have never met, but who have heard all about us or, at least, about common friends and enemies. The only safe place, where your secrets are secure, is in your own mind, where even your sacred vows of silence cannot be trusted. Once your anonymity begins to crumble, it cannot be rebuilt.
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Rarity drives value. We know that by the value humans attach to diamonds, gold, platinum, rubies, and lots of other “stuff” that is rare. Commonality (e.g., paper, plain glass, rice, wheat, etc.) tends to depress value. Using just that bit of understanding of the world, I should be able to apply the concepts in such a way as to dramatically increase the value of commodities; like trash. Exactly how, though, remains outside my skillset. I know, though, the key is in radically decreasing the amount of trash; if we can do that, trash will become a precious “commodity.” You try, first.
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It’s just shy of 6:30. I’ve been awake for close to three hours. I feel a growing need for sleep again. And another nap, which might lead to brief interchangeable periods that resemble wakefulness, sleep, trance, catatonia, vibrant alertness, and various other states of being.
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Everything is out of sequence. First comes after fifty-seventh. The letter Q follows W. Brilliant sunlight follows a dark and rainy night. Gratitude slides in on the tail of expectation. Rage trickles in just before glee, when torn pieces of laughter stagger in from a drunken night of pomp and perseverance. But what of the circumstance?
