Pure Meaning

——People are in different orbits, you can’t ask someone to pick up and leave their assignments, or what they hope are their correct destinations. I am saying that even if thought is a laboratory, preliminary to action, like we could have an expanded moment, alone in the car–still it happens, a narrative of events, as if coming from afar, directly catches us, plucks us out of what seems to be a only a momentous flow.  I mean where did these events, now coalesced and challenging me to keep on schedule, once reside? What are they made of? The person can vainly reside in thought. But the world is made of events, made out of nothing traceable. Sure, you can talk later, but an event that tags the person is intangible, nothing more than pure meaning.  Everything drops away but what is meaningful– unfinished, forward looking, primary even to airy contemplations.
——Now I am getting somewhere! The distinctive trait of the world is that it is an entrapment, a field of transactions, broadly based on meanings that got set up and are still in play. I like to reckon I landed in the arena, and have some control over the skirmishes, and much is produced in this vein –but eventually a greater realization takes over.  Sheer force of thought gives way to the marvel of anything happening at all. The arena, ten arenas, each and all are created in some virtual kingdom of the utterly abstract. How does a persons’ poor, immortal mind keep track of the complexity? What was I promised? Truth, I now realise, while stuck in traffic (so to speak), has some content!  I see it, the slightest thing, and I am thinking about it all the time, until it gets mixed into another thread of enticing, disappearing meanings.  Alot is yet to be quite fully established, you might say.
——Sitting around talking about meaningful things that are in various stages of being established or destroyed–that is what I like the most.  Often I am dimly cognizant in the back of my mind of how, in spite of temporary errands and obstacles, essentially I am getting back to that scene, anticipated, at the white kitchen table. A couple friends are coming over, and it is always a summit, a strategy session, a bolstering of shared attitudes. In these neighborly events people become so individualized . . . it is outrageous. One person is funnier and more profound than the next–better than any fiction.  And then suddenly there is a shuddering undercurrent, as if we were all stranded, with unfinished plans and unresolved in a world of utterly important, plural meanings.  We are unique to each other, and it is all refracted, so we all go home with pieces of each other, but where everything starts and ends of course is with a person.  Why do I say this?  Stalled in traffic, riding on a river of cars, one is buoyed up by the thought of the sheer ground of ones being. In spite of any laughing critics, who can be turned off as easily as a car radio. One exists this way . . .
——The person is the target of all events, and events, I keep saying it, are untraceable, without a clear source; and there is no such thing as an event in general.

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