where are we? what is this? consistent to my new york world is the sensation of high windows, a grid of dark apertures, occasionally dotted by light, here and there. the casualness to which you understand that, on the other side of that yellow parallelogram, lies a rich, loamy, deep world with its intricate complexities and depth of discussion. this is all the more emphasized by the fact that, you yourself having just left one of those other parallelograms, feel the funny feeling up the spine of a simultaneous excitement and despair at being within a city in which these discussions are ongoing, raging, churning, and despair at the sheer breadth and the lack of connectedness and the non-totality of it all, as if we would be doomed to repeat the same conversation in the living rooms of apartments, over and over again.
perhaps I realize that my insistence on metaphors is founded out of a fundamental pessimism of sorts; a deep worry that, at the core of it, the possibility of myself communicating to other is really impossible, or at least deeply improbable or difficult. it's a question of commensurability, or ala ranciere, a question not of values but even of understanding and agreeing on what these values mean. is it ever possible, really, to communicate across skulls? what would that even mean? are we not a bundle of biases and references and masses of heuristics and patterns, narrowly forced through semantic and syntactical structures we call language, like pasta extruding itself out of the nozzle of a pasta machine? what does it even mean to communicate?
and is it necessary?
is it possible, desirable? the best computation machine for real life is real life itself. what if we did things in the world, and together looked at what we did? understanding would be formulated out of the world, together looking at the world. the world doesn't lie. or rather, the world is consistent, consistently lies, consistently shrouds.
what does it mean to use words at all? to modulate things like "intent", which are themselves funny words about the interiority of beings, as if the intent is the yolk of a brain, the golden nugget of a soul.