Umberto Eco wrote a wonderful book called The Search for the Perfect Language. In it he recounts many bizarre systems created by eccentric, Don Quixotic thinkers purporting to have found perfect language. Well, I am one of them, but I really did find perfect language -- don't worry, the finding of the beloved is just the beginning of a much more interesting quest for her -- he didn't account for fully empowered woman's mind.
Only a woman would ascertain that the receptor is really the giver, and the key to perfect language is perfect reading. If you read perfectly, every text is perfect language, just as all the world turns lovable when you're in love. But first a discriminating person like you has to find the perfect text to turn on the switch of the perfect reader. And this is it.
True love is determined by the specific morphology of the beloved, the recognition of that morphology precedes the emotion. This is the prolonged (observed under a microscope) instant of recognition, when you see it coming, just before the arrow strikes.
True love is determined by the specific morphology of the beloved, the recognition of that morphology precedes the emotion. This is the prolonged (observed under a microscope) instant of recognition, when you see it coming, just before the arrow strikes.
If you immerse yourself in the mongrel discourse, you will -- in a moonlike revolution, as you approach slowly turn to face where you were, as you slip behind me, losing sight of where you were, to shadow my moves, as if learning a dance, and then as you become the dance, you are making this happen yourself, you are grinding the lens of perfect language --
a language in perfect consonance with the world without ever touching it -- the way the opposite sides of a Mobius Strip (see wiki) never touch each other, but the strip is one.
In perfect language, the grinding is the ground, the painting is the painting of it, but you don't see that at first, you have to paint a long time and try and try anything but that and finally give up.
Beware the pitfall of faking it by making a painting that illustrates the theory that the painting is the painting of it by, say, eliminating all other subject matter, et voila! -- you've arrived. You have illustrated the theory just by not illustrating any other, it's the easiest theory to illustrate in the world, but you had to find and now you did, a novel kind of pattern you and they can call yours. You ARE the greatest -- a single cell of the greatest kind of painter is as great as it is -- fifteen minutes of world wide fame is headed your way, the rest is marketing.
This might look presently like a such a purely theoretical theory, illustrated by the negation of all other theories to arrive at an incoherent potpourri of personally stylized smears and smudges at times almost as a beautiful, if I say so myself, as a painter's pallet or the drips on his wall. Mais ceci n'est pas cela. Like all so called abstract paintings that aren't that either, it is an anamorphic image, and what it is saying in plain language is perfectly clear when you step to the side and view it sidelong instead of frontally. I think you might need to be trying to do something else and stumble on it, and you did!
You are right now helping me grind this perfectly clear lens. I have reinvented the wheel, so people will recognize it and not fear to use it in the thousands of novel ways you discover through this lens, as well as fully appreciate the old ones, reviving and restoring the broken ones, however being bound to the wheel is a form of torture. To which one who gazes like this on the face of truth and sees what is right before her eyes can only cry -- turn me over, I'm still not roasted on the other side. OMG please, please, stay and help me grind this lens that divides language from life while illuminating it wholly before they bind me to a literal wheel.
I will adjust the dials here, and soon you will hear this kind of sound for the very first time, and when you do I assure you, you won't be able to stifle your sobs of joy. Then the arduous task ahead -- to learn how the sounds relate to the meaning, will be for you as hard to resist as it is for me to resist that keyboard over there calling me to learn the next measure of Les Barricades Mysterieuses. Because though an elder, I am just a beginning student, it is a total waste of time, it will never touch the world, it will only open up my own eyes, show me another use of the wheel, and though that might help me touch the world, in the vestibule between those two doors, I can wipe the mud off my feet. Once inside, all work is play, and life is perfect.
