So I wrote a tweet: 'The gloss of meaning has worn to it's undercoat of skittled protection for THAT substrate-can you see that? The ISH is no longer hidden'
True -ISH -like Carlos Castaneda's works, reviled and revered, (was it was fabricated?). That word has a whiff of pejorative, but is technically correct, a building is fabricated, built, constructed, so is a narrative. A narrative then stands in some court of dubious jurisprudence, a Kafkaesque movement of occasional witnesses, advocates, judges and jury, of peers and other misfits. A veritable moving feast for diners, starving of anchored meanings.
So what's to be done.
Nothing. As @NihildeNada says. No-thing. But in that nothing what something may arise, gives us some pause and makes hazardous of so long a twit longer that I retreat to the blog. From here psycho-babbles of great pitch and moment, in this consider, have their birth pangs.
Addiction to squat diddly writing?
Addiction is another topic. My theme this time is the region of truth that we can safely settle for. The ISH therefore is a moniker whose time has fished that notion from the pond, that we call, maybe, our collective unconsciousness, coma'd and dressed, like a sleeping log.
I ramble now, and revert to stream of mind fullness unconcerned of it's responsibilities to rational discourse. My theme, however, ravaged by distractions IRL, i.e. my daughter's babblings, belie the fragility of holding even an ISH.
'That is all'
