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Sunday Stories: Gravity’s Rainbow (3)

Waves are awesome (specifically, but not only, standing waves). It’s hard to resonate with particles. Maybe it is time for the invention of ondulism were it not for the fact that it sounds so very much like botulism. Luckily, it seems that the original Latin string came from undo (stress the last syllable) and that the French got it in their usual way backwards in inverting the vowels in the stem to onde. So, undolism it is (and we’ll regard it as a sign of the universe’s harmony that this word is close to the closely related ‘indolence’). It’s indolence that explains how the way I came to undolism is immaterial, as it is undolism making my indolence in all of this possible.

It is really hard, you know, the Gravity of this Rainbow is weighing heavily on me. Mostly I just read on as if I’m getting in shape for some literary event of Olympic proportions. “But the reality is not reversible. Each firebloom, followed by blast then by sound of arrival is a mockery (how can it not be deliberate?) of the reversible process: with each one the Lord further legitimates his State, (..)” Fuck reality. A wave can be traversed in either direction; it is not the time that counts, it is the wave that counts and how it can be regardless of time, of reversibility and irreversibility.

“Here’s an erection stirring, he’ll masturbate himself to sleep again tonight. A joyless constant, an institution in his life.” But what if even this institution perishes? What if masturbation’s no longer possible and you become dependent on others for the effect of it? Total annihilation of self-dependence, of autonomy and a reminder of the need to resonate with others; it was always that way but we deny it because our selves are our dearest possessions.

Hogwash! I don’t want to make this more difficult even. It’s just that the meaning of life is without subject if life has got no meaning and life is just an inert precondition of meaning like physical stimulation is a precondition of coming. I’m clueless and that’s not a good thing for a detective. Onwards and forwards though because there is the anticipation of a possibility to win. “(Quietly) It’s been a prevalent notion. Fallen sparks. Fragments of vessels broken at the Creation. And someday, somehow, before the end, a gathering back to home. A messenger from the Kingdom, arriving at the last moment. But I tell you there is no such message, no such home – only the millions of last moments … no more. Our history is a, aggregate of last moments.” The continuum, a continuity, neither beginning nor end; all of these are resisted because any well formed sentence needs a point, like this one:. There is the comfort, in what can neither be subdivided nor isolated. It is fluffy but it remains fluffy without trying to go beyond fluffy. Peace!

This: “(..)he’s been brought up a Christian, a Western European, believing in the primacy of the ‘conscious’ self and its memories, regarding all the rest as abnormal or trivial, and so he is troubled, deeply …” Neither Christian nor European have anything to do with it: with the self comes self-preservation, what you got you are scared to lose. There will be no going beyond for it is too risky. Every step is the step before the steps too many so you resist. “Destiny waits, a darkness latent in the texture of the summer wind? Destiny will betray you, crush your ideals, deliver you into the same detestable Bürgerlichkeit as your father, sucking his pipe on Sunday strolls after church past the row houses by the river – dress you in the gray uniform of another family man, and without a whimper you will serve out your time, fly from pain to duty, from joy to work, from commitment to neutrality. Destiny does all this to you.”

Depressing but the error lies in making things discrete: resistance, endurance and revolution. Differentiating rather than integrating is really the core of the problem; choosing the hardest way instead of delivering yourself into the indolence as will get you in tune with undolism. Even at the cheapest level: undo rather than do. Playing chicken in reverse, seeing who will be the last not to look back for fear of losing the anchor of the situation.

“If the rockets don’t get her there’s still her lieutenant. Damned Beaver/Jeremy is the War, he is every assertion the fucking War has ever made – that we are meant for work and government, for austerity: and those shall take priority over love, dreams, the spirit, the senses and the other second-class trivia that are found among the idle and mindless hours of the day. … Damn them, they are wrong. They are insane.”

And then there come 50 pages of nothing: an excellent book finding no middle ground between extremes. But the crime is clear now: the crime is not coping with time in trying to cope with time, hurrying in order to stop the hurry and becoming restless when there is a risk that the hurrying might actually succeed in stopping all of the hurry.

In other words: this.


September 4, 2011 - Posted by | Sunday Stories | ,

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