Motion for action.

If people bring so much courage to this world the world has to kill them to break them, so of course it kills them. The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it kills you too but there will be no special hurry.

Wister left and vanished, so I have enough glasses again.

I have been writing today about a nothingness that exists between the two poles of an intersubjective relationship, and that this nothingness is everything. The space between two ends is that meaning, that the truth of everything is always unsaid.

Right on.

--

I have these Christmas albums waiting to be listened to, but Dustin and Frank need to wait. For now, it's a Wister/Iser/Foucault/Husserl party, and I'm the host. And I'm out of glasses.

I just woke to eat some chocolate.

Fragments.

I might consider including my Winner, Grade 5 Spelling Bee recognition in my PhD application. The winning word was "banana."

Dusk is a perfect time for music listening.

Flipping through my yearbook, I noted that a number of my high school classmates wrote about their brilliant athletic achievements as a favourite memory. I wonder if they still hold that same importance. If they do, I wonder if they feel good about that.

I might also consider including my Winner, Grade 3 Speech Contest in my PhD application. My topic was Alexander Graham Bell.

To have things like "Favourite Memory" or "Nickname" added to your yearbook entry, you had to fill out a form and hand it in by some deadline, which I missed. Those that missed it had a stock movie quote under their picture. Mine said, "What if what you think is great, really is great, but not as great, as something greater." It's from The Wedding Planner. That is a good quote. I've never seen it.

I can not wait for the briskness of tomorrow's cold morning air and for the crunch of frosted grass. The rest is fine. But that--

Tea and toast, then coke and 'za, then coffee and cake.

I'm not really sure.

One does not have it but is in it.

It seems very easy for your self to become buried beneath what you feel. What is it that you feel, and what is it that makes you know what you are feeling? If something so terribly disappointing happens to you, perhaps you consider how to witheringly respond or perhaps that response just occurs, waiting in its ignition for you to then take it up. Where is the line between a framed, sophisticated melodrama and a realistic, callow loss of hope? Introspection, as an examination of the meaning behind the things you are and do, and whatever it is that happens to you, can turn all things into an artifice. And you can live forever wondering what your each subsequent sentence, movement, and emotion are, discerning them in a rationalizing manner before you even understand them through feeling. You can twist out your life wondering if they are really existent, or if they exist because you have concluded that is the proper posture to have. So what is.

For there is none in reality.

When do we start into the future? I mean, when do we start projecting ourselves beyond where we are right now? After being told and told, perhaps, about our own future and how we ought to be considering it. Sitting straight, brushing teeth, choosing careers. A pinpoint, though, has no consequence. Now, right now, we look deeply into the things existing which do not yet exist, and this is what makes and is made into the present. We look towards where our feet will be. Where does that infinite reach beyond ourselves begin? When can it stop?

In the widening gyre.

And we are all so fluid. We create a course, pushed by the movements of others, and pushing the movements of others, but with such a mindful kinesis. And discipline, as if wary of where our waves might be taken by the others' tide. But our fluidity continues a change that we have no control over, making the care we take something superfluous. In every movement we cannot help but make rapids of the air around us, casting others into new pools of being. Touches, looks, words, even if for a moment, even if unbeknownst, are infinite.

Ripe for fatal harvest.

Here we are. Spending Tuesday afternoons talking about structuralism, how everything means nothing, and how we only ever become ourselves because we agree to. Spending Tuesday evenings waiting for Wednesday evenings, for talk about phenomenology, that everything becomes on its own, and how everything contains an essence regardless of whether we perceive it or not. Spending Thursdays through Mondays wondering where my mind is going, and beginning to feel a little unsure about what I'm sure about.

Sure. Sure you're sure?