schemata substrata mutilata
the last dispatch
for each message there are a hundred interpretations.
some well-reasoned, others well-felt, and others quite loopy.
my own categorical rhetoric stops there. for each line there are a hundred interpretations.
no further message. that always draws a crowd. what else is there but time and attention? the stuff of ecstasy, free of crisis -it's own antithesis even perhaps...
over a period of some time we gathered yonder and so it was curious when it somehow became apparent we were all there. curious too in that that was the same notion to each, but there it was.
to be sure, we'd all had enough of fish by then, no matter how good, but still...
wind blew, waves echoed, water sheen glinted sunlight. each day, the birth of earth itself seemed as virgin as ever. a tall woman among us obliquely said, "i know nothing of such things." that caught my mind's attention and sent it to musing upon the difficulty of any real objectivity, of refusing to interpret. it's hard. takes strong spirit.
we are curious beings. being curious beings we accumulate our answers, and being never satisfied, analyze them. endless curiosity has it's life, and it's own fractal arc, curious about even itself. it becomes a knotty situation. reference points become arcane, mystical. like seeks out like, ever looking. given a good trail, we'll go it. to come around full circle is the only regret...