Tuesday, May 30, 2017
Personal Darkness in G-Minor
After all these years, I often feel like a particularly stubborn and finally well-trained dog. I take a certain stupid pride in being able to roll over, sit, and speak—like they all do, like they want me to—at last.
Would I tell a child: "you don't really want to be the weird little kid eating ants to gross out other kids and get attention. You will be unhappy when you are older." Because: am I certain the inverse is true? We learn our certainties on at least 7 billion different paths. And explaining the mathematics of probability is problematic.
Correlative of Kant: the only knowledge I have is personal. This is somewhat misleading though, because the tautology of Being Me renders anything else nonsensical. I could just as easily say "All of my knowledge is personal because it occurs within this framework I call myself." Where does that get me? Back to Ada. Or I.
I put on a coat with too many sleeves. Perhaps it was tailored for an Indian deity. It also has too many shoulder pads, and odd pockets for things like a Concise Oxford English Dictionary and a Goldfish Bowl (which is full of water and leased to a fantail). I then blunder around in a dark room that I have let myself into by checking into El Hotel de espíritus perdidos. I despise myself for doing this. For accepting the darkness and the goldfish bowl as somehow necessary. But worse, I hate myself for finding a chair of some sort and just sitting in it waiting for all this profound darkness to go away when I know it won't because the darkness never goes away. It just waits with me.
Knowledge is a key. No, not that kind. The kind that describes the scales of experience. Time results from this: with each performance, the notes are necessarily different, even if the song remains the same.
In the end there is only Chopin's Nocturne 11 in G minor. For now, it is the only refuge I have from being human. And therefore, the only one I need.