the mongrel discourse is the holey babble of a novel paradigm of knowledge -- the visual order.
It organizes the world into an image that uses Christian symbols (though not necessarily Christian faith) organized for this purpose, returning verbal language to the sensory fold, which enlarges to embrace it, privileging sentences accruing meaning and conjuring up vivid, naturalistic images over words disconnected from their roots in degraded usages used as reductive, divisive labels conjuring up clumsily drawn caricatures -- by which mimesis fails, and we're left without a map, the blind leading the blind.
While the interest in what is whole or wholistic is widespread today, what's different here is that, in part or wholly awakened by matter elsewhere, mind awakens and, lighter than matter, flies to the fore,
this change to a visual order occurring quite suddenly before anybody, including the writer -- I can only stumble behind it and catch fleeting glimpses, taking frantic notes and blurry snapshots, as it disappears behind a building, tree, hill, mountain up ahead -- quite knows what hit us, is beginning to manifest at all levels, in the imminent flower, the imminent stem (felt in the seed just like an amputated, phantom limb after the phantom fingers were earlier amputated, in a rewind of last winter's reel now moving from death to life -- in this, April IS the cruelest month, so don't dwell too long on this metaphor; despair is very slimy armor -- but throw caution to the wind, drink up the sweet, intoxicating elixir in the audacity of hope, however ephemeral its fulfillment, the understudy waiting in the wings, the one who will open next season, will surely equal and might well surpass the star then being extinguished) and the root of language, an awakening, a springtime of language, a renaissance, appearing as all newborns do in an unprecedented form, with a genetic code unique to itself, however all newborns share many similar features.. First noticeable is the diaphanous emerald veil of taut tiny buds, and those who've never seen such a thing as a springtime of living language will, forgetting that the darkest hour is harbinger of the dawn, just think I've lost my mind or am just very dumb and enraptured with the philosophical equivalent of kitty cat puppy dog greeting cards accompanied by italicized poeticizing. Clearly there's a big bad wolf underneath that grandma get up.
