It’s disorienting when I try to describe how I think, never mind encoding it back into language. There is a clear disjunct somewhere, where language begins to deconstruct somewhere in my mind and the grammar becomes disjointed, totally losing its synchronicity somewhere. I read recently that dyslexics may have an issue with receiving certain frequencies of information, and no amount of amplitude will resolve this; their minds must find rhythm elsewhere than language; in music, in repetitive motions, in something more fluid than conversation. I am at a disjunct, the language that people speak is well behind the pace of thought, segmented and utilised, encoded through prior internal speech. For me, my language traces through old memory, pacing up and down through time. A clock reads 18:12 and I recall traces of Borodino, the pushing back of Napoleon; the frequency of information fluctuates and then becomes a fixed strain, buzzing and gradually absorbing new traces of information. Old and new flit closer together, the new with greater amplitude and significance, scented and tangible, and the old forming a kind of polyphony, filling in the hollowness and what lies between the spaces. I construct time this way, gradually forcing the old, lesser amplitudes with greater vibration, fixing them in the front of my mind, replacing current vision with the old, the traces now with solid, firm lines and relived through recent sensations. It does make life unusual, but recently I have been disoriented yet further, as I read the Rings of Saturn and I realise the depths, the real depths of these forgotten experiences. I realise something profound, that the massacres, the bloodshed, the near ruin of man, is occurring every day. Man, never equal, moves through time redefining himself, pressing forward by presenting a meaningful exterior, by fixing to ideologies, horizons that he will never reach. Those buildings that were constructed centuries ago, stone built and made for monophonic chants, deep and resonant but only able to carry sound very delicately. One must practice ones craft. Entire generations pass for this meaningful gesture, a practice to make contact and sound out the depths and what might lie beyond language. Utterances made together sound disembodied, chaotic, makeshift, forcing a kind of interiority which materialises monasticism, the reclusive life. And all to cultivate something that goes somewhat further, somewhat beyond; but it is of importance to get the initial sound right. Is the past really gone? Is there little left to be said for memory, for depth of understanding? Or is this the fundamental reason why we keep slipping and falling into shallower times, times epitomised by dislocation, disruption, and forceful change. The world itself silently hums, lost frequencies sound in the depths, in the different materials that speak silently, without intelligibility. And yet, for man who does not know the reason for his own intelligence, for man who cannot subtly pick out the threads of meaning in his fellow man, but run very far from that point… is there not a profound lack of reason in our own system? Disembodied reason. Reason cultivated from the objects that surround us, rather than the impetus that has made these objects. And perhaps one day we shall disinter this, and a flood of meaningful information will appear; we will either learn that everything is meaningful, or that nothing is.
