For Uhungus...Sensuous Pleasure and Linguistic Satisfaction NOT Guaranteed
For the past several weeks I have not written in prose form because that which is worthwhile to write is ever-evolving and too complex for me to communicate, either because I cannot think properly, or because of sheer abstrusity, and that which is not worthwhile is, well, not worthwhile, and, of course, not readily convertible by my mindfingers anyway--All is staggering and exhausting oppressive woolly convolution--I am currently floating in the cold misting liminal spaces between land and sea, the same spaces where Keats probably discovered his concept gravis of "Negative Capability", which, both paraphrasing and quoting here, is a person's ability to subsist, despite the full weight of an "earthly freight", in 'Mysteries, Doubts, Uncertainties without any irritable reaching after fact and reason.'
As you can see, better-equipped writers have already labored, sweated, and explained with magnificent lucid fluency the concepts of This/That beyond the potentialities of my powers of formulation--at least in prose/critical writing form. I fear I may be attracted to poetic expression because my conceptualizing powers are weaker than most, or perhaps, somehow both weaker and stronger simultaneously making expression in syntactical prisons difficult--Nescio--These vague mind-forms elude and fatigue my faculties even before I endeavor to render into words a sense of thought.
My apologies to the few readers I have for the rather dispirited self-indulgent plunge--but I indeed was prodded to write something, and when Something does not congenially manifest itself, the only reflexive thing for me to do is, again, recognize and painfully describe the only things, which exist in infinite number, I can express demi-well:
What I don't Know (quid nescio).
As you can see, better-equipped writers have already labored, sweated, and explained with magnificent lucid fluency the concepts of This/That beyond the potentialities of my powers of formulation--at least in prose/critical writing form. I fear I may be attracted to poetic expression because my conceptualizing powers are weaker than most, or perhaps, somehow both weaker and stronger simultaneously making expression in syntactical prisons difficult--Nescio--These vague mind-forms elude and fatigue my faculties even before I endeavor to render into words a sense of thought.
My apologies to the few readers I have for the rather dispirited self-indulgent plunge--but I indeed was prodded to write something, and when Something does not congenially manifest itself, the only reflexive thing for me to do is, again, recognize and painfully describe the only things, which exist in infinite number, I can express demi-well:
What I don't Know (quid nescio).