Sunday Stories: Gass if
Time for my story. It might very well be the last (I say, as if anybody cares). As if I care whether manybodies care. Faux is the pas of making an out-of-bracket comment on a between brackets comment. And that quite sums up my story. That and a rather improper use of the words ‘and’ and ‘that’ and that mainly at the start of sentences. And excessive self-commenting, I guess. That too.
As if I know the only one watching me am I; compelling me to do, comment on doing and reflect on the commenting – all at once. Not – also not a word to lead a sentence with, I might add (and just did: add that is) – particularly an attraction people will pay for. Not even an attraction people won’t pay for. Not even one to ignore. Just something not to notice. What if, then again, what if such and such?
What if somebody halted and stood watching there as if there was something to see? One begets none but two is the start of a great many. Mice maybe but why not also some awe. Ha-ha! The thing therefore is to do your tricks; get somebody to stand still. Over and over again until somebody cares enough to stand still. And that is not my story because if I do the same I am the one who will always be there to get bored and to state just how bored I get. Mighty bored.
“Middle C tells the story of this journey, an investigation into the nature of human identity and the ways in which each of us is several selves, and whether any one self is more genuine than another.” (Middle C, Alfred A. Knopf, New York, 2013, front flap of hard cover wrapper)
No more quoting, no more thoughting; so hurry along to your destiny whether it’s line T on the underground or a train to la-la land. Forget about me and my 20 to 40 years I still need to spend without finding the stamina to argue Pirandello is, and always will be, the one of the many selves. How this makes me my own observers, none of which will stand still either as none of me can be bothered. Not now and not in any of the next decades.
My story is a non-story that none of me is willing to write. Quote that.
I can find an ending though. And another. And another. Every ending creating a new me. For instance that ending that is ending in a me writing on ‘that’. How the that of pointing (Davidson requires at least one other to stand still for pointing to make sense but Pirandello makes it possible for that other to be one and the same one who is pointing) and the that of the sentence within the sentence starting with ‘I say that’ are in fact the same that. The same ‘that’ and the same pointing only to something in another world. One world this world where that dog licks his genitals and another world that world where this sentence licks her own meaning. Kripke made me see this: that ‘that’ is like the drawing of a rabbit and a duck. Escher but for real.
My brother-in-law wears a pony tail and pooped my party by saying that all that is co-incidental for in French one that is that and the other is ‘que’. And he is right albeit only on that. Not that any of me have the time or drive to argue for that, I guess you might think: “On what?” But let’s stick to that as it is the ending of the me I was in the process of creating. Truth – by the way – has no value in the other world where only consistency rules. It’s not like the me I am creating can ever exist as in this world I can only do this particular trick once. And in this world truth counts for everything.
Logic always holds but never applies. Some things are false but nothing is true. Meaning truth cannot be our compass but falsity is. I can create this ending but I know the conditions for achieving it are not met. Not. In this world of negatives we can only create positives (some of which will turn out to be false positives like the ones that assert undeniable truths).
And unfortunately – still – of all positives that are created most are false. Why? Because we want to stand still and admire a trick that always works and (false) consequently will always work. What we need is a repetition that is not.
Therefore our heroes are such that they are always one.
So that’s my story or at least one of them. Sorry there is so little his in it.
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