Accidental: Time Wars

I have written else where of the 'time wars' but in a slightly narrativized/genre induced setting. I don't know whether a small town is a good place to oversee the resulting carnage or not. No doubt a good place if one wants some distance from the embodiment of it. But lets face it, a great many folks like to rub elbows with it (i.e., catastrophe, overload, a generally super-heated environment)--otherwise there would be no cities. Perhaps in cities one has to obtain and retain a higher capacity for confusion, opacity, and the unreadable, all things which cause small towns to break out in night sweats maybe....or even better, just ignore it since it sometimes is hard to recognize.

I began to think along these lines after finding some notes I had left on the back pages of a book on Hegel (of course!) for  chapbook on unreadability:

There is no way to interrogate the unreadable even though it doesn't present a slippery surface; rather its jagged irregularity acts a catch to be pulled along the path of history. notoriously the apotheosis of sense making, and sealed off, for perhaps another time existing in a mode of opaque simultaneity, neither inside nor outside but in a state of suspension, resisting all appreciations, all aspects of forgiving, forgetting, guilt. longing, nostalghias, being neither beginning nor end yet somehow alwasy there. It is everything we wish it to be and nothing at all that we expect, know, or like (or unlike).  Unreadability shares with the disaster, the apocalpse, the catastrophe, the accidental slow grind of processes (once called gods) that we can only barely make out in the fall of dice, away from the hidden, and directly back into the hidden.
 

...in plain sight

Gradually. the yard is being covered with small whte flowers, all on stems about 3 inches tall. Their reach is all the way from Cedar lawn cemetery (which came first, their residence in the graveyard or from the front yards?) where they are packed in drifts of solid white, flecked with occasional pink to purple-ish outliers. It betokens a secondary fairy-like continuum, hidden and waiting beneath the more boisterous grasses and weeds that will follow soon. And frankly many folks would consider this elfin realm to be one of the weed family: only that it has found a way to stay, and seduce its human overseers with beauty. And the shear wonderment o it (I have momentarily stumbled over the word sheer/shear, bespeaks the constant hidden resources of language: diaphanous but leaning against a cut--which follows shortly, the blooming beauty and mystery of it notwithstanding). But for now they have escaped from their subterranean holding tank, their temporal strictures.  How much of human life has such hidden-ness but may never find its time to bloom?. Or the time scale either so narrow or so vast we can't really determine when it comes of time.

Something is always coming. And whether it can readily be seen may be immaterial front the vantage of the hidden.

'mine, all mine...but oddy yours too'

As we all grow more similar under the auspices/terror/trauma/transfigurations/the confessings  of the modern machine teleology, the differences have to be kept more undercover, unlike, say flowers, which boldly display their sameness within generic, species differences. It's hard to say whether small towns hold their differences closer, like dreams untold or whether it is something else. ...flying, transforming, fucking (depends on whether you are a Freudian at heart or a Jungian) It has been thought to be the case since industrialism and the first tinges of modern modernism flushed the country side into the great density gradients of the cities, flattening out; it has been the dogma, the country in favor of the great differences which those same cities espouse,e.g., the old saying 'you can breathe more freely in the city, that is , one can display one's differences, one's dream private dream state more boldly; I guess the differences between 'flowers' and 'weeds' become simply adventitious and hence less important it would seem.

Anyway, questions regarding the Universal vs. the Particular---

O: "I knew it, I knew it! You just can't keep away can you?" huffing indignantly he began to pace...

Well, are conclusions reached in the city different from that reached in the village? it would seem---

O : "yeah yeah I know--the conclusions are present even before the question has formally been raised ...the flower is recognized for what it is even before it blooms.."

Let me finish please. As I was saying, or about to say, there is a whole boat load of questions that arise regarding these hoary distinctions which never seem to go away but only are exacerbated. perhaps because we can't fully state them--

O: "--and once they get stated, a methodology, an epistemology, a language set, an approach, etc has already determined the answer. This is not new you know, hermeneutic circle, blah blah; fly tapped in the fly bottle, prison house of language--ARE conclusions reached in the language different from those in the void? "

Please stop interrupting me your interruptions are all too known also. Let me finish just a bit here. Mostly, maybe the ONLY thing we can do is dance that mess around, writing writing and more writing... And it would be a mistake not to realize that writing, part of the material instantiation of thought, a deep relationship to the tool, and as such it, language in a broad sense of signifying, is filled with voids, lacunae, abysses. In fact that may be it's main virtue, the differences it observes (creates?) creating a world which then forks into an almost-separate world...
See what you've done now??! you've got us off on a tangent...

O: "But here's the thing, we are NEVER off tangent since our purpose, assuming we have one, is always slippery and confounding... but as you were s[(pl)ay]ing ---"

*sign* anyway...next time maybe: the generic, genre, the particular, individuation,, the subsequen(alwaya a prequel too and the confounding of time lines, past present future) cut made in the world/law (the necessity of that fracture and the difference between 'made by hand' and the profundity of that, and that not made by human hand, the acheiropoietos, the astonishing fright we now have of that and doubt whether it can even exist (well the certainty that it can NOT exist for many.)