Wondering Again

It would seem that the most common activity for me to engage in—for what seems like the last umpteen years of my existence—is the simple act of wondering.

I’ve been trying desperately lately to come up with some kind of delineation between thinking and reasoning that will account for the difference between them.

Inconspicuously, it would seem, lines tend to draw themselves where they oughtn’t to be, and onlookers begin wondering where exactly these demarcations come from.

Style and content are constantly connected while simultaneously being creatures of difference: contain them and they escape, free them and they only coagulate.

It is convenient to think that everything in the world exists in only the three shades of non-color, but that’s to do a disservice to combination and absence, isn’t it?

Hippopotomonstrosesquipedalian is a funny word to me—sitting up in that auspicious space along side such words as: wobbly, uvula, bovicide, and guttersnipe.

In Korea, when you’re teaching phonics, as funny as it is, you’re supposed to correct the children who are mispronouncing the words six as sex and fox as fuc*$.

Have you ever notice that when you finish reading a book your life is somehow changed, your perception has someway been altered, and something is different.

Considered at a different level, any kind of reading is practice in an art that is distinctly human: deciphering the meaning of symbols plopped onto a field.

Considered even further, reading material of a challenging bent is a taxing task for human reason, and it could be said that exercising reason is exercising humanity.

Considerate people are becoming fewer and farther between for inexplicable reasons, although I would have to blame the Enlightenment and Adam Smith.

It is at this point that I should also very much like to thank the Enlightenment thinkers and Adam for their contribution to the world of letters and understanding.

It is at this point that I ought to make very clear that all good ideas can be morphed into bad ideas: religion, Marxism, democracy, monarchy, anarchy, wisdom.

Dash-adding is a common-place element-in-the-closet for philosophers, bakers, chefs, people-of-repute, people-of-disrepute, and all those ne’er-do-wells.

Extricate yourself, please, for the love of god, from excessive, some would say ridiculous, superfluous comma usage, and I, who care, will be happy.

Complaining has never made anything better, she said to me. I responded back quickly that it certainly made me FEEL better, and that’s anything isn’t it? She responded that she supposed she had been casting a rather wide net using a ridiculous word such as anything that can mean everything, nothing, a car, a word, a meaning, a place, a noun, a verb, a book, a drink, a person, a trash can, a phone, a key, and anything else that you can put an ‘a’ in front of, but it was up to me to not take her out of context and understand which—which she was sure I did. What was there to say except, I’m sorry you feel ways about stuff: it can be a real drag when you’ve been given only two lines to say something exceptional. Of course this lead to an even greater misunderstanding of what I was actually attempting to mean versus what was conveyed, and this conversation (if it could be called such at this point) was well on its way to the resolution that perhaps it’s impossible to ever convey precisely what you mean when language is your only mode of transportation. What’s with all the talk about boats, she said as a loud thump on the wall made both of us jump nearly out of our skin—me thinking about what a phrase like “out of our skin” actually means and she thinking that somebody had obviously been killed with a blow to the head from a blunt object. Did you hear that? Of course I heard it, I said, I have a BS degree in Hearing and Auditory Sciences from Castiglia University in Firshampton Bay, New Cataractistica, just south of Bis. What the hell are you ever talking about? she rightfully queried. I’m not sure your over-active intelligence could sink so low as to appropriately grasp the simplicity of what I’m attempting to accomplish. You see… she cut me off with a wide-eyed stare and a finger raised to her lips when another epic-sounding thump bounced through the wall from our neighbors in 12C.
Death is the specter haunting US this evening, she said, I’m absolutely certain of it. How like us all, I pensively offered, but weren’t we attempting to have a conversation about something of great import before these rascals next to us decided to go about thrashing each other about and committed crimes that will inevitably lead to a lousy night of sleep for everybody involved. Why is that all you ever think about is sleep? It’s important for invigorated cogitations. When was the last time you considered help? Well, to seriously consider help, one must consider all the ontological ramifications of the question: what is help? Help means different things to different people, and it is entirely possible that what is helpful to Peter—which might well be the return of some lost goods, is not what is helpful to Paul—who is perfectly content with his lot in the whole ordeal. Yes, she said, I can see how that is wise, but I can also see that your inability to see without using your eyes is hampered by the plank of incomprehensibility. Pray, do you know the plank of incomprehensibility? she asked. I have made a very intimate acquaintance on more than one occasion with the aforementioned plank, and I should like you to know that it, she, he, we, they, you, and I have come to an understanding? And what, if I might inquire, is that? It’s where two people, in dispute, discuss matters to such an extent that there is an agreement, or, at the very least, an accord between them. Extraordinarily helpful, but you know what I meant. Did I? Do I? Don’t you? Don’t you what? No… don’t you? Wait… don’t you? or don’t I? If I had said don’t I that wouldn’t have made any sense. It is a question direct to you. I thought you were being ironic. No, just a bit silly. Have you learned anything? When it comes to antagonistic thumping, let it be known that death is absolutely certain, and sometimes dying is the most succulent activity the brain can engage in—apart from leaving prepositions at the end of the sentences they’re in.