The realm of distinctions is not susceptible to imagination. Imagination does however attend distinctions, as like a musician hired to practice at a trade fair.
In our perceptions we are susceptible to the Thing and its Attendants. Imagination does not assist in reduction.
Poetry, if it is good, honest work, can attend or it can reduce. It does not produce.
My poetry is a poetry of reduction. I believe one starts with what is at one's fingertips then makes choices and is chosen, resulting then in a reduction, or poem. Imagination is not a means. It is the sound, sight, or sense created by means in friction.
Philosophy is the practice of working to producing an agreeable result from means in friction.
The imagination has no place in philosophy, and no place without it. Whereas poetry in form is the registered fact that one is the hunter, not the hunted.
Aphorisms are as funny as one is willing to enjoy keeping one's mouth shut.
If I wanted to be famous, nothing would be different from now, as I would very much like to be famous. But more than that, always more, I wish to be great.
May the means and their frictions grant you the pleasures that attend an imaginary end.
I know why I will never be known. Because I am not known now. Fifty-two year old people do not get known ever, not unless they appear, as if suddenly, smiling for the simple fact of being recognized.
I am entitled to recognize myself. All the other boys have left the room.
Perhaps you think I am content. Ha. I am not content. I am at mid-wrestle always always always. But, I hate the sound of me saying something of no use to anyone but myself. Curiously, my comments on others are more about myself than those regarding myself, my practice. There is no paradox. Speaking of myself I form a secondary content, which is at some lengths more interesting than the tertiary content of criticism and commentary.
Oh well then, fine, I want to unstick myself as I am too constantly stuck, wondering how to get back to fluidity.
I love blogging, where there is every opportunity to do nothing at all.
I am in a peculiar place and have been for weeks, as if caught just inches or minutes from an understanding that would free me, that would grant me a clear, abiding, conscionable self-awareness. Always I am just this close. I do not mean to eliminate self-doubt - or do I? How much can I know writing about what I can understand?
It occurs to me that crossing into self-understanding of the sort I wrestle toward would be an insanity. True or false, determined and determining, I wander, I dare, I tempt, and yet always, always I wake in my own skin.
It also occurs to me that a window opens then shuts. I will never put myself into words I understand.
The realm of distinctions is only seemingly available to the imagination.
In our perceptions we seduced by wakefulness and cause. Imagination does not permit exclusion.
Poetry, when we work at it, trails at a distance the thing it must have for its master. Or perhaps I am in front of myself.
I have seen too much at arm's length to trust my mind by itself.