Introducing the Ruminator

     Older age welcomes me with open arms to a deathly silence. Probably since I’m ruminating so much. You are what you eat, after all. thus the Patchen. Too bad I can’t write short stories. Why not? Don’t know. Anyway, the ants are back, and etc. Everywhere, on my favorite chairs, the old man chairs. It never stops, in other words. Sell the house, get the money and it doesn’t stop. Room to breathe.

I should be glad, is the burden lifted a little bit, as compared to a few years ago? Or am I gloomier, less able to connect? Seems a worthy way to look at shit, everybody perhaps carrying a burden, the neurosis of Freud, not shame per se, but an inability to sync perfectly with the world, a maladjustment, a character flaw. Lacan’s language barrier hitting each person differently at the mirror stage and we’re all just trying to fit in, square pegs in the round hole of the Real.
This hits me pretty strongly. Regimes of language and silence. In which work, emo or otherwise, stands out in sharp relief, for those who are woke.



Such that our paths seem to go in and out of silence in rhythmic ways. Silence and Death go hand in hand. Speaking into the void can only go on for so long. Eventually it turns into an epic. A life story, even generational. The knowledge that it may be only one word or perhaps one sentence that changes the course of things. Which of course one may not notice because we wouldn’t know how things would have been. Which is all a realization some use to their vast advantage leaving ethics way behind. For most of us cooperation only makes sense in the smaller scale of things, in the short term. In the longer term, cooperation and the deeper communication required to overcome our natural secrecy that we hold out to the stranger like a talisman (a crucifix?), these two methodologies go hand in hand and one sparks the other. One tends to decide that one must find the magic words to commence the mutual sparking. A poetry must occur, if one can find the right moment or sentiment, or both perhaps most of all. One enters a timeless zone in this process. A smile-less zone. Continuous time drifts off in its own direction and dis-continuous time, of a lunar nature of course, sails in on a cross breeze. The weather becomes a looming element. The tides are certain we do know that. But the tides of what?