home conceptual adventuring

  in light of leading minds
gary e. davis
December 8, 2016

Suppose a gathering of favorite things on a shelf, or an array of books—sequenced, left to right. “That first, then...” There’s implied some principle of selectivity, arrangement, sequencing, living value—aesthetic? a story to tell.

Or a constellation of items, a landscape, draws one into its own (maybe unwitting) organizing of one’s attention, like a bricolagic thing proffering itself as Art.

One might photograph tens of “things” (views) on a walk. How do they fit together (other than being selective in the walk)? What’s the snapper’s implicit principle of selectivity—their interest? The interest is plural, but what’s the character of the plurality? Is the plurality (pluralism?) nomadic, too? The “eye” of the artist is manifold—how so?

I confess capture in recent weeks by autobiographical amusements, a seduction
of decades, intimations of an estate: being a life long enough now to insist itself
upon me as The Life, some kind of ultimate cohering—idiosyncratic, maybe (lacking potential for exemplarity?) or potentially memorable? for me, at least.

But I’m trying to move forward. Remembrance isn’t what I want.

Yet, you’d want to know, I guess, about the actual woman who inspired that As: a history decades ago, I mentioned last spring.

You, years back, were as if she was born again.

Sounds like a good beginning—someday.

Anyway, excuses for not writing online get easier with age, like an old cellist immersed in playing alone rather than performing what audiences expect: “no surprises calling for high concentration.” Little dissonance. No atonality.

Fine. I’ll just keep to myself, possessed by auras of memory mirrored in being
drawn on.

I wouldn’t gather butterflies, but letters are mine: emergent points for genesis
of glyphically-winged beings.

Yea!, tropogeny.

There’s an emergence for you.

How about flowering a constellation of master concepts that implicitly orient a cosmos?

For what Purpose, to what Point?

I ask. The bloom could be conceived to inversely encompass the so-called heavens (that domal folk womb), horizonally appealing down here to the pointillism of conceptual lives among high Earthlings, drawing each into cosmic explorations.

As if I could muster such pretense cogently, master some highland highly.

High road, low road, whatever. So goes “the life of writing.”

In the quote marks is the subtitle of some book I saw recently in a store window, whose title now escapes me—a biography of someone: “...: the life of writing.”

Google that; you get many things; but not the book I saw in the window, not that I care to recall now.

“The Writing Life.” a writing life. My thought at the store window was: the life of writing? the life that gained its ultimate coherence by biography?

A life may be so led by want of writing that its prospects and paths lead the writer into what life is to be, its having been, its still going on in almost helpless responding to horizons—rather than writing being led by one’s so-called life. An eros of auras draws the life, an aeros of writing life.

Humans create gods, and biographers make lives wholly cohering.

Our motley highness gives ultimate cohering to eras and epochs because we are.

Leading minds hope for contact with beings across Our galaxy to not only know them, but to tell Our Story: how we are going on, evolving, in light of which we create
how we came to so be.

Well, I’m not lost to such seduction, to possession. But I happlily go into It and out
of It, like time-space breathing: innerworldliness, outerworldliness—being a channel unto The Enowning, being wholly with you—back channeling while concealing that: being both with you and away.

Yet, if you’re there, you prevail here with me.


Next: mirrorplay -|- topic: autumn leaves

  Be fair. © 2017, gary e. davis