Metaphors played too slowly run the risk of becoming obvious and that smells of bad poetry, foul flowers feeding on falseness, enforced sensitivities manipulated by melodrama. Subject apprehends object. As simple as I can make it.
Definitions. We are taught language from the beginning, it is the human overlay. If you can pay for it you should, but if you are poor, and food and shelter consume all your resources, you take it where and how you can. There is no shame in this. Eternal struggle, those who have and those who lack.
Beginning with yes I love you I see you I want you, soon no don’t do that it’s dangerous it’s bad. Yin and yang, the positive and the negative, the light and the dark, the good and the bad, the right and the wrong. Plato showed us the extreme example of Socrates, assume that somewhere something has to be right, good, light, positive, yes yes yes. And somewhere something has to be wrong, bad, dark, negative, no no no.
Aristotle geometricized it and L Ron Hubbard filled a whole book with charts exploring the full range of human expression in a consideration of how one might better one’s self. Aleister Crowley tripped the light fantastic and like Dionysus in the myth led quite a few people into the woods of madness. But he knew the materials that he was working with and there was a method to his madness for above and beyond anything else, he wanted to be all that he could be.
Currently the trick I think is isolating and neutralizing the subject. A prose poem isn’t an O’Henry story, nor really a spectacle, although it sure can be sometimes, when the moon is full and we’ve had a little too much to drink. We meet at the river of our con-mingling, the us that we are together
For a while I got caught up in that text ideology that flourished at the end of the twentieth century but I think I agree with Badiou, if I understand him and if I don’t, well, this is what I think anyway. I, me, this awareness pecking away at a keyboard trying to keep up with the inspiration that feeds the flow of words that find their way onto the page, subject. Too blunt. Then we have to bring Lacan in and things get complexly perverse.
This body is object, the air around it object, the things and people and plants and animals that determine the limits to this body’s movement object. The social structures that allow me exist in peace with my fellows, object. The subject, the soul, thar part apart that is meaning.
Bizarro world fractured comprehension. Prose poems scratched on the backs of napkins stained by glasses set down perhaps too harshly, an imagined insult, a miscommunication. The message is clear, no matter how hard you focus, there’s no way you can know what someone else is thinking, nor they, you, just psycho mumbo-jumbo, mind games they trick you into, awareness is, subject continuously confronts object, life in its entirety, here now is awareness confronting all the data always and forever.
I feel Whitman-esque in my perversity. I celebrate and sing myself, subject considering object, an examination of the me-ness that makes me who I am.