Wednesday, August 12, 2015

A Shadow Climbing a Cornstalk

Sense experience has once again become an adventure for me. A bell, a syntax, a grandeur. Empiricism emptied it of mystery, but then I saw a sentence have sex with a predicate, and the world dilated. I won’t say language is necessarily implicit in sense experience, but I will say that a bazaar is full of people and objects, and many amphibians have a mucus layer covering their skin. Touching things is one way to progress and discover the texture of a pathos or bubble in terms of how it is connected to the raw material from which it is made without focusing on the surface. This is called conceptual analysis and is a form of listening and glistening when the object in question howls its symptoms up and down a spinal cord.
Between touching and feeling experience establishes a difference which is sensible and hypnotic. It attracts the attention to a supermarket where one’s reflections sway with contrary perspectives. A sharp cry is no more no less than a green thumb. Neither is a body in repose the same thing as a body in which opposing forces are in equilibrium. Faith fulfills the destiny of hair and gravity provides a tire.
Reality is already inhabited by signification which gives it humidity and skin. Sense experience invests the quality of this word with enough thunder to power a forklift. If I can feel it, I can condemn it. The problem is to understand the strange relationships between things and make something of them, a moral or a pair of moccasins. Sense experience is, essentially, a vital communication with the world which renders it present and immediate and dripping with medication. One must be supple and full of the steam of capacity to play with the many parts that comprise the machinery of marriage. It cannot be said that a reality is analogical when it spouts fresh cream. It only dribbles. It does not moan.
The first philosophical act appears to be to return to the world of actual experience a little of the enamel which is anterior to the objective world, and endure the ensuing calypso. The drill is only as good as its bit. It is by way of experience that we can restore to subjectivity its inherence in stucco. The phenomenal field is not an inner world. Nothing is more difficult than to know precisely what we see. Cotton turns Technicolor when it crawls toward its realization in shirts and towels.
The tacit thesis of perception is that at each instant one can feel the exultation of existence. There is something brass about it, and wire and bonbons. One must learn how to kill time. Get a facelift. Leak information. Fulminate. Garden the mind. Existence is creative, and intersubjective. What we see is not always what we get. That which is indeterminate can become a wrinkle, a carp, a handful of coals softly glowing in a hibachi on a balcony in Alabama. Definition is assembled by mimicry and hardware. Knowledge is realized in the thing itself when perception bumps against the brain, and a thought pops out, a notion of wool, or a shadow climbing a cornstalk.

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