comfort of the elect, etc.

From the basement to the landing pad
in a first mate's minute
you must know a quick reactor from a slow lad
there's more than nitpicking in it

Is it worth a peach, one more cup of tea
to let the clouds blow by
say not me, stir the silt
think of the lilac tree
add sugar, add milk

oh, the darkness will arrive
and sunset shows not the effect
so leap and start while you're still alive
to the comfort of the elect.


The human is assumed to be simple, to want and to pursue simple, predictable things. I posit that what the human wants is various, ambiguous, eccentric, and often contradictory. What the human wants, and what it knows, cannot be assumed from outward traits such as biological sex, the color of it's skin, it's physical handicaps. the only way to learn what a human wants is not to ask it and listen to it's answer, but to observe it as it navigates situations, confrontations, obstacles, and meetings with the other, with phenomena, with itself, with nothing.

The stories in a life are made as an individual acts, often discreetly- within that narrow margin some of us may be fortunate enough to be afforded- that quiet, often undetected margin between Necessity and Chance-


In the park, one man sits down next to another, unshaven, in a crusty blazer, filthy cargo pants and boots, stinking like liquor, sweat and piss, dozing. One minute later he's awake and stumbling out the gate
"fuck you
get away from me
you're not a real man"

and gives a sideways glare of disdain to a yuppie, driving, talking on her cellphone, who almost runs him over as he stumbles out into the street.


Translating the old codes of arche-types into new canons of experience

"but the essay is far from the plains of Troy!"

here the mind is reduced to intellect which takes the empirical-sensuous only as pretext. the priority and self-sufficiency of an intellectual point of view has to be daringly asserted. the intellectual's fate, precariously balanced on the intensity of personal vision, is seen as coming to pass in the encounter with the forms themselves, latter day platonists, mystics of the mind, aloof from fumbling humanity.

"he had shown so convincingly in his essay on Kierkegaard that the mind's desperate gesture alone cannot solve the existential dilemma"- Musil, from The man without qualities