the missing thing that is completely different from everything else, but everything has a stake in it.

introduction with synopsis

pages missing here...

synopsis: it's a material world, but the word makes matters of matter. Language evolves to survive and sticks us to its terms. We must unplug the machine, wend our way back, and restore the word thing to a lucid ping of music. By the river flow and oceanic undertow of a fresco by Giotto, I backed into this restoration or apocotastasis. You, an elegantly evolved cyber-scanner sniffed your way over here, where, should something in the air induce you to regress into a plodding, daydreaming, infinitely patient human reader whose brain has evolved to unprecedented disinterest, might shockingly notice you're positioned for the pass.
We must, but can't just, travel back on the linear path (found on theUlterior Portal Page), but tap into the source as it survives in the now. That surviving source assumes, here and now, the form of a Proteus, a madly metamorphosing metaphor that you must yourself play various characters to wrestle down to the stable form of the gnarly old, barnacle infested fresco finally willing to surrender the information necessary to find your way home, though in no way mitigating the trials up ahead. work in progress

...so I will repeat it again -- stock your ship well, and carefully choose your crew. After a harrowing, protracted, but lucrative (notwithstanding the raiding of your coffers at home) odyssey, at least you're slated to arrive before I complete the introductions. (I'm some clouds forming signs to point the way and then dispersing and a gadfly biting at your heels and a wind to cover your tracks; you blaze the trail.) Know your limits and pace yourself to arrive at an island on the way before you're spent on any day you set sail. May you steer clear of the dangerous ones, and no doubt by now weary of wonders, find your way to the green oasis.

note: when in doubt or confused, assume the metamorphic mongrel discourse has assumed the guise of, or just become, poetry, that is, writing that, drowning in its own substance, fosters doubt and confusion, breaking up the smooth, brittle surface, crumbling the suffocating mask...as the word world in blind faith struts forth monstrous beautiful ancient novel vulnerable invincible whole

however it's also poetry at odds with poetry, as all of the best things are at odds with themselves, aching and growing and becoming, and becoming, infant child youth elder corpse rose angel or devil, most lose the thread, such a thin thin thread, but however at odds with itself it's still itself, though we may never know what it is, it is something...



does the next come before??





slowwwwwwww..... stop. entering the realm of philosophy..


a hiatus, to recreate the world anew, opposed to all known worlds, yet made of the same elements, a new sentence made of the same old letters, including long defunct ones, while giving overused ones a rest. Each word will soon feel like a boulder you have to roll away to get the next word. You're not just chopping down a dead tree. You're uprooting it, so the ancient, still green one can spread its roots, bloom again, however the dead tree is so safely innocuous, elegantly minimal, poetic, timeless (so unlike crassly green, time bound life), all bone no fluff, and dripping with romantic vines. An unbearable lightness and flakiness falls blindingly on the surface glittering and softening all the edges as no doubt you're well enough wrapped and sheltered against it, then it melts into an unbearably heavy messy slushy muddiness, watering the seeds so far below and out of season you've forgotten they exist. If you're a philosopher, a lover of knowledge, this is the very prey you're after -- a description so accurate an image of the thing itself begins to undulate on the water of words. Philosopher or slave, it's either/or. Imagine letting somebody else do the loving of knowledge you're obliged to for you. A professional philosopher!? A teacher of the love of knowledge!? You can't teach the love of knowledge. You must be born with this birth defect. You must be some kind of angelic demon or demonic angel with teeth like those of rat that can gnaw through concrete and the wings of a dove. You have no time to plod through the works of other philosophers, but you must scan the introductions and take a few of the original paragraphs in your teeth with dogged determination to make that stuffed animal squeak, and after eliciting a few squeaks, enough to know the sound, you reduce that toy to a cloud of feathers, and it has nothing more to offer you. You dare to know yourself. You are an artist, a wild animal, you are real! You are a noble philosopher. You love all street knowledge, elite knowledge, all knowledge equally. You mix the low and high, you rub rub rub the flint to stone, you puzzle together, you project too far, you back up, you synthesize, you drink the vessel dry, you arrive and arrive...