- a moment
- the car drives by this building and the light and the angle of my vision is just so that for an instant I see through the building, two corner windows pierced skewered through with the sharp endless ray of my vision, and either the building becomes this clear open thing that for a moment is readable/understandable, or it is this moment at which the building suddenly explodes apart into discrete pieces and is felt suddenly as a lightweight being. the moment passes and the car moves and the building is opaque again, different panes sliding past each other. that was that.
yet I am somewhere else, lurching around corners, the sense of inertia and thus centripetal force pressing me against the outer boundaries of this car. tangibly felt is movement.
when one is in the midst of it, I think, that is all that exists. there is always the battle between the conceptual and the visceral, does the mapped shoreline and an understanding of fluid dynamics, the 104.5 degree angle between hydrogen atoms in aich-two-oh, do these compare to the brute power and the immensity of a beach, of an ocean? or is there an intellectual/mental antidote to the immediacy of presence, of hurt, of delight? if you are in the midst of it then isn't it all there is? and to some extent, is this not true? these visions of the world aren't skewed versions of a better reality, but more like: viscerally felt existence is really all there is; of whether one is sick, or not sick, in pain, or not in pain, healthy, or not healthy, and so on. I guess this would be like saying: there are only beaches, long stretches of land, there are only these moments of visceral experience that may prove to ultimately be paramount over anything else
in the thick of it. and not in the best kinds of ways.