Sunday, August 20, 2006

mONADIC wINDOWS*

Much like Skinner’s daughter, I have been forced into a box without a monadic window or a door, a Kafkaesque warren hole from which I seldom retreat. I live here, amongst the scatter and debris of my thought, counting and recounting until the feeling is right. It never is right, never. No matter how much I count and recount, tabulate and correlate, reconstitute and reify, nothing seems right. For those of you who live as I do, in a Skinnerian box without a window or a door, there is hope, Joseph K found a way out, but into a Castel with neither or way back out or in.

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"Poetry is the short-circuiting of meaning between words, the impetuous regeneration of primordial myth". Bruno Schulz