So, I followed Flickr Comments “amusing” journey into being “typealyzed” by algorithms,
and here were my results (thank you, Flickr for the prompt)
pretty much guilty as processed!
and yet….
We Are What We Write?
Tag: psychology
Today’s Nonlinear Equations
+ 
+ 
+ 
+ 
+ 
=
A trip to the library
– a sampling of the results…
“Communication”
“Communication”
We, in our world, have a theory, a process really, that we call “communication.” In various states of profundity it might also be referred to by “love.”
“Communication” is the process of signaling/decoding; saying/listening; writing/translating; touching/feeling by which we become aware of one another, about one another, of one another.
All things considered, “communication” is pretty important for us, though not necessarily to us. While appearing more complex and refined than single cells or parts of cells vibrating under a microscope; more elaborate and extensive than a swarm of birds or school of fish, it hardly works as well. As if certain sharp things and certain dull things cancel one another out.
Pitch, tone, palate and respiration. Vocabulary, grammar, syntax. Associations occurring in the brain, the glands, the organs, the body. I’ve always thought of our existence as “fraught” and it never ceases to amaze me!
Amaze and astound, in no particular order. As if “stound” were past-tense for “stand.” Stopped-in-tracks-reeling-backwards.
There’s nothing to it really, we all do it, all of the time, innately, it would seem, given we could not survive without it. And yet. “Innate” wouldn’t be the right word. Maybe “potential” as if capacities and possibilities surround every cell toward response. And then. What becomes. Responsibility. Of that interstellar stuff moving and extra-anatomical stuff too. Kind of equals.
So we’re not necessarily “good” at it, and hardly possess a measure, everyone on equal footing at some point, depending on the context, depending on construction (of the possibles) and so forth. It’s often accurately called “fuzzy” or “messy” – an entanglement of sorts in no sense negative.
I always liked William James – the jumble-up of him. “Rich thicket of reality” he called it, a passage to get caught up in, sometimes snared, sometimes struggling, but ever in its midst, I suppose.
Lyn Hejinian once pronounced it “inexhaustible.”
I just wanted to mention…
“The argument would go something like this: reality exists; it is independent of what we think though it is the only thing we can think; we are a part of reality but at the same time consciousness of this fact makes us separate from it; we have a point of reentry (a ‘centrique happinesse’), which is language, but our reentry is hesitant, provisional, and awkward”
-Lyn Hejinian-
I, in instances of jell-o
I, in instants, divested
Let me put it this way: I find mysterious pockets of habitual thinking functioning like cradles of jell-o.
Say couple’s therapy is called for: I consciously feel gung-ho, pro-choice, empowered by trust and intention and reciprocal hope. Our determination, our hope. But the rear half of my skull, the scape my subject lands in, I realize is slicky, silently and squishily snuggling into a jello-y bed of “there’s something wrong with me. I’ve got the problems. We’re really trying to figure out why I’m so hard to live with; how my moods impede relational success and happiness; my fears – intimacy. If the truth were told, my spouse is acting graciously and sacrificially in order to get me help.” It’s as natural as instinct for me to believe I’m a burden, a difficulty, a special case.
The endless desires of youth. Our adolescents seem never to be satisfied (perhaps aren’t even “meant” – biologically, psychologically, socially, developmentally – to be), rarely “up” for family events or participation in chores, games or outings. Seem preoccupied with themselves and their wants and preferences, shifts and swerves. Rationally – I sense the raging hormones; the violent ego-mania seeking a code, a reflection, its own DNA; the psychoses of self/other, boy/girl, love/lust and so forth – upheaval and growth! But my torso is wiggling and sliding itself into the slushy comfort of “I have no idea how to guide these kids! Who am I to parent and protect, encourage and inspire? I’m just as fragmented, uncertain, conflicted, aroused and cynical as these guys! No way I’m good enough, strong enough, wise enough, and so on… unqualified to father, even at directing myself!”
The list goes on – as reader, writer, artist. As male, friend, laborer. As handyman, citizen, spouse. As mind, as body, as conglomerate selves:
How does it come so natively to cuddle in, automatically, unself-consciously and familiarly into negative perceptions, fraught with inadequacy, victimhood and failure, with no perpetrator(s) to blame?
Ideologically, philosophically, linguistically, aesthetically, psychologically, and so on, I can adapt party lines and mottos of health, truth, justice, fallibility and courage; equality and imperfection; becoming and process,
but wherever this social solidarity is not called-for or aimed at, this prompting to blend toward community or “normalcy,” my actual mind-body-complex demonstrates an incredible proclivity to nestle and burrow into a gooey surround of personal suspicion and doubt, misgivings and cynicism…like a worm to mud, or a fossil its imprint.
What the I/eye prefers.
How we see what we see.
How something – something – (but what is it?!)
contradicts mind’s understanding and body’s sensation/perception/evidence and goes its own hellbent way in whatever direction it selects!?
I-cipher.
I-estrangement.
I-observer,
for instants,
for instance.
All my Words are Silent 