Muse.

An extremely dull ramble, of the ilk you would never

Again, life interrupts the world I would have, that creation that is mine and so mine to share. The little haven, inviolate, where I would give free passage to those I deem worthy of the same. Although I would hope some might stay. Of their own accord they may rest, build, create their own world or worlds, even. Not permanent, just a place to stay a while. Should they subsume my own it will matter not. Mine was the creator. They just carry on my work, though they think it is their own. Perhaps it is and it is I who have the order of things wrong, but I know them and they do not know me. Does that tell me something? Or do I lie to myself, too readily, too easily? As is the way with what you do not know, having taken it for granted for so long that it ceases to exist, save in a shadow world.

Noise can be such a delicate thing, a soft, sonorous flutter of wings, a soothing sigh of early morning relief, a susurrus of a day greeting leaf. But it is a fine precision tool. It must be used in the right way, in the right context or its clashing, strident tones will deafen and make your instincts wince with unhappy complaint. People, men, never take sound into consideration. Despite their acuity, their gift.
I look for ways back into that spirit (if you will) world and they seem to all lead some way there. Some way is still there, but perhaps not the where I think I look for. “You never step into the same stream twice.” No.

Men can hear 5 tones but produce only 3. Why can we not produce all we want, all there is? Women have the full range of production, but not of listening, I think. A design flaw, or a cosmic joke? An easter egg that you don’t have to go looking for.

Psychology. Of passing interest, until you realise what fools they are. So they examine and observe and calculate and come up with the answers that are there in front of them, in front of us. New Age, scientific, astrology.

After all, it’s there for anyone to see if they’ve a mind to look. The idiots can coin their phrases, create their jargon and the specific space that only “they” and those so anointed can really understand, really utilise, but so what? That’s their ‘tribe’ vs the accountants (hated bean-counters), the tecchies (when will you be as good as we want you to be?), the…, the…. The best people are the elders of a village. Pretty much anywhere. Male and female; both have different things to add. They’ve seen life, a microcosm of humanity in their village, their world. Just because the numbers are greater outside doesn’t mean it’s different. Human to human interaction will be, is, very limited, notwithstanding any supposed sophistication of the externalities of society. An apparent non-sequitur: “She (hello, you!) can sing like Sheryl Crow.” Train of thought: never really heard much of SC, didn’t think much of what I did hear.
Divergence of thought: a) Should listen to more, assuming that that initial statement equals approbation equals familiarity equals considered thought. Sub-divergence: i) I might be wrong about what I’d thought. Try and see. ii) Opinion. We base so much of our identity on our opinions and often they do not encompass wrong and right within themselves. Perhaps a view of that: wrong and right, but an opinion may be a feeling. It can be wrong and still have a small degree of validity if it encroaches upon a(n agreed) moral standard that has a fixed position of rightness on the right/wrong axis, at least insofar as these times go. This leads to much bigger divergences and arguments elsewhere and I am no doctor of philosophy. So I just settle for an opinion does not necessarily fall within the strictures of the rights and obligations argument that some make. This prompts a memory within me of another thing that I’ll not consider here, save the second allowed it constitutes a full consideration of the same. Quick, because it is not in words. Reconverge to divergence b) Corollary. Presupposition. You must have a good ear and thus musical talent to be able to do that. Divergence: how much is nature/nurture? Reconverge and continue, added to.
Did that come about through some (putative, stereotypical, initial to be challenged imposition) facet of a middle-class background? What constitutes such a background in whatever environment? Side thought: do we carry environments round with us as part of our schemata? Final thought: isn’t it interesting how humanity seeks to impose differing forms of hierarchy on/in our social structures? Order in Chaos: a race’s society reflecting nature (elements of chaos theory). So to go from the single to the combined and then to go back down again. A mental ladder in the exploration of this dungeon (D and D influence).

Reason for apparent non-sequitur. Retro-analysis. The brain functions and then the mind provides reasoning thereafter. Cook it up, boil it down; it’s not so different. The same, even.

And the end conclusion: a wise man/woman and your eyes and ears are all you need if you want to know people.

Though later I think of anthro and auto morphism and the concept of perfect knowledge. I concede a point and fail my own test.

I reflect on the criss-crossing of the mental paths we tread and how interesting (in part) that can be, then leave the thoughts to mature in my unconscious mind and move on to other things. I flit back for a second because of a memory of someone’s words, and savour the contrasting flavours.

Switch state to a parallel thought train.

I wonder if I should rip the skin from my face. It would be easier. And people wouldn’t stare, because they’d be scared to. And my eyeless sockets would see all; looking inside as they do now: visioning. It’s not for them, it’s not for you. It’s an experiment for me. Just an experiment. But one I’d rather forget thinking about, knowing I know I’d always wish never to undertake it, think about it even. That’s a step too far for me. Recognition makes me glad and sad. Boundaries are …ultimately to be respected and understood. And pushed and perhaps shown disdain, but you will only often do that if you have some idea of what lies (what you want to lie) beyond. If you see the reflection and it is terror, I think but a handful would walk beyond, cognisant of the outcome.

I move away from the unprofitable. I move to the oppressive streets of red and grey which are built too well. In terms of their looks. They have not height, nor stature to impose upon me, but their all-too familiarity reflects the half-death that I endured back into me. There should be so much here. Now, especially. But the pastime has changed and it is I who struggle, shoulder the fiction of freedom. For freedom is only a concept, never an actuality. Never to be. Just an aspiration for an idle mind. A phrase “Die, and be done with it” is too easy, too quick to enter, too lazy and just completely wrong. Completely wrong. I find the digging in my ribs a little too strong now – how do you kill memory other than to overload it or wait for a hurried, pressured moment to enforce its truculent will upon your own?

Are words important? Do they have any value? Do they? I think of a pre-millenium paper. The people asked for their “favourite word”, if such existed. One came oh-so close among the “serendipity’s” and “chicken korma’s” when he explained what the word was. The word itself I cannot recollect, but I remember it was his wife’s name and I remember the man explaining how it was that this meant everything to him. Experiences, memories, Life and Death and . 1 word. And it meant so much: Everything.

I think of something else I’ve read recently and which repeated things said before: to say so much with so little.

Indeed.