on lies in groups
There is a certain amount of bullshit that goes into any private institution. The name, for one.
The idea that anything that is an institution: that some abstract thing created, held in common, cherished and maintained by the work of souls and hands and minds can be a thing to be held in pure secrecy is idiotic. Anything that has been created by that many people has been sighted by those around them ages ago. If only the act and shape of work is glimpsed, an observer may guess at its shape and form, no matter how carefully concealed.
(You would, perhaps, be surprised at the amount of correct answers there are from those guessing. It is a fine art, this inferring of purposes from the misty vapors of facts obscured, perfected by many years of playground intrigue and classroom dramatics that all children dabble in. An tour de force that can leave lasting enmity, impressions and scars of an emotional nature so habit forming, that the slightest memory of the time before draws one into a vague nostalgia that leaves one in a kind of wistful limbo of that-which-was-me. )
(Such thoughts should be warded off with a brisk walk and a nice cup of chamomile tea with an acquaintance.)
Wrote this last night during the wind and the rain and the isolation. Now sitting in living room contemplating the two that broke up mooncalfing at each other. Will not stand to be finished, at least now.
The idea that anything that is an institution: that some abstract thing created, held in common, cherished and maintained by the work of souls and hands and minds can be a thing to be held in pure secrecy is idiotic. Anything that has been created by that many people has been sighted by those around them ages ago. If only the act and shape of work is glimpsed, an observer may guess at its shape and form, no matter how carefully concealed.
(You would, perhaps, be surprised at the amount of correct answers there are from those guessing. It is a fine art, this inferring of purposes from the misty vapors of facts obscured, perfected by many years of playground intrigue and classroom dramatics that all children dabble in. An tour de force that can leave lasting enmity, impressions and scars of an emotional nature so habit forming, that the slightest memory of the time before draws one into a vague nostalgia that leaves one in a kind of wistful limbo of that-which-was-me. )
(Such thoughts should be warded off with a brisk walk and a nice cup of chamomile tea with an acquaintance.)
Wrote this last night during the wind and the rain and the isolation. Now sitting in living room contemplating the two that broke up mooncalfing at each other. Will not stand to be finished, at least now.