Words are coarse-grained, which I am only just learning, on account of a lifelong habit of not complaining about certain forms of discomfort. How poorly I express myself, how little you comprehend!
Dream Daniel Dennet's office was somewhere in Boston - and we were all dressed as if it were 1776 - but he lived in Pittsfield, or so he said after saying that I was welcome to study with him and offering to take me home. That which can be neither verified nor falsified should not be subject to speech later? It was oddly comforting but also not all about me. Later, a different teacher - a woman - eclipsed without asking my many physical boundaries, swept Dennett aside and demanded to know "how lonely it is inside you?"
One feels the burden of living a life in which they cannot effectively explain anything to anyone (despite knowing and having so much) and so constantly appear wounded, tormented, agonized, et cetera. As if always in residence at Golgotha? Our lives are pinned to the boards of others so our wings grow brittle and dull. We have to be liberated but how? One waits on Emily Dickinson to say something but she is brutally silent after last week's mistaken reference to her "littleness." Traffic streams irregularly up and down Main Street, the skies brighten and it's cold, it's damn cold. I sip a first cup of coffee, sad but alert, unmoving in the upstairs rocker. Working out the structure of an elaborate note that says both "thanks" and "no thanks" without hurting a single one of the recipients. I mean wallowing in yet another interregnum, alone.
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