Memory of other words: "The readiness is all". Those words and their weight, close-linked-direct: "If it be not now" and close-linked-implied "We die eventually" or "seize that knowing and be fully".
The direct-linked-extended "To be or not to be" "Shall I compare thee to a" "Who's there (knock knock)". And ~implied "poetical; dramatical; old; respected; searching; universal; "tragical-historical, historical-pastoral"
Meaning folds and self-describes.
I sit. The seat is soft, the sitting comfortable, the will to move waxes and wanes, the moon waxes and wanes, the moon cyclical my rest cyclical.. Songs, poems, images of the moon, "I see the moon and the moon sees me/under the leaves of the old oak tree".
Concrete. I sit, I process. I process physical sense, and I process memory, and the memory informs the sense, and there's too much to it, but the words make it one thing. All one channel. Word-funneling. Homogenization. Which suggests without implying pasteurization, to most of my readers (plural, hah!). But not to some. Culture.
What's in the choice I've made, to usually disregard the distinctions?
This is as yet an unformed question, or a nebulous one, and answers are likely to be same if present.
But the question may yet be formed and asked.
Here's another attempt, or angle:
In living, I operate on one channel. One decision-set. Presented with endless decision-trees, my path can always be traced along one line.
But I'm not guided on that path by physical stimuli. Barely if at all. I've got story mucking it up. The story of who I've been in habit, and of who I should have been in regret, and of who I should yet be in hope, and of who I should perfectly be in story. Dennis Potter's Singing Detective narrates "never apologize, never explain" as some macho tag tossed off by a Titled European, and the narration's delivered bitter, but I took it somewhere as solid, and it echoes when I choose my way. Yoking the ox to my plow, I might at best avoid decisions requiring apology, knowing I'll hate the taste on delivery.
What is this ox? Paul Bunyan had Blue.
Davy Crocket knew every tree.
As a kid I heard the Davy Crocket song "Born on a mountaintop in Tennessee, raised in the woods so he knew every tree".
And then "Killed in a bar when he was only three".
And I took the line at its face. The man was killed. In a BAR. At three years old.
And then he went on to do all the rest of his life's work.
Bad-ass beyond bad-ass.
Most people aren't killed in bars, you figure, till their teens or later.
And none of them, it occurs to me in hindsight, though not to my childhood ears, went on to do so much after.
Absurdity and misunderstanding lead new directions.
Spin round, till you fall.
Spin round till you come to the place just right.
Whirl.
The absurd has been a friend.
I read a bit on another site tonight. And was reminded that nonsense is in me.
The overlap I disdain to make coherent - I have another impulse than poetry, or transmission of single-channel reality made from multi-channel input.
I just like nonsense.
I like the garbling. There's value there.
Opening neglected channels. The captain can dream through the black.
I dreamt this morning. In a room in a wood cabin, I was told going to Warp (star trek style) was possible. But it would undo personal histories. Without the stability of a ship, no one going to warp would ever have had a childhood.
How perfect that Tibetan Buddhists have ancient scrolls wherein are laid designs for spaceships for fighting invaders.
Of course they didn't build them, if they couldn't solve the history problem.
Roaches stumble drunkenly when left alone, but dash straight-quick when prodded.
My meaning too will straighten if given the note.
Till then six legs take my waterbug words peregrinating in an inebriated spiral.
When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.
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