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   An old word, and you in time...

It is amazing how much we outgrow ideas and the words or phrases that carry them. Even in that first sentence, the bucket metaphor of form/content, although still used for convenience, is necessarily placed in relief. Every moment we bask in metaphor, just like now. We move with a roomful of words whizzing about. We drop some, we pick some.

What happens when the dimension we carry in our pocket of words shrinks to an imperceptible point? What do we call this minuscule haze where the glossy metaphysics of our lives sinks to an unbreakable poverty? What verbal misery can voice its plight, if metaphor is suspect, if imagery is obscene, and rhetoric too flamboyant?

Beyond the dissolution of syntax and grammars, do we move on to illiterate glyphs, doodled scrawls, or graphic mosaics? Do we return to pure rhythms and noise, to kinetic objects and brute materials?

Or do we imagine completely a new matter or mass, airy notions and pure concepts without borders, or impenetrable private languages and codes?

Or do we just fold into silence, or structure everything around contradiction, oxymoron, or untenable imaginary solutions? Or do we fly into islands of instabilities, full of fairy-doings popping in and out, into a patchy quantum ride?

Or do we produce doubles of everything (the genius of simulacra, replica, and duplicates), repeating the current idea of the recession of the Real, celebrating the miraculous logic of pure quotation, surfing through models and paradigms without fidelity?

We must make our choice some time. Or it is made for us. If any of that makes sense, or if there is any difference. Or if we can hold on to our words.