——There is no neutral ground, no place for the surveyor to stand, and get a measurement, an initial assessment of this horribly incomplete terrain–so scathing, half in the mind.  His tripod is is the mud. But there is nevertheless the pretense of a disinterested search for meaning. That is a wonderful, suggestible mood. Real interest will begin only once the ambiguous data, all my archive of images, is rolled up, and banked. We are hardly human yet. We’ve got time aplenty, and antennae. The fun is that one immediately hedges, adopts a methodology that is the very enshrining of doubt, since it refuses and cannot think before collecting quite enough, staunch, evidence. Hear it!  How can you beat this picnic?  I am declaring myself as one free of prejudice, and then I am burying and busying myself in scouring the horizon, the floor, the air–I am not opposed to anything.
——Nor does it stick that ever more incoming streams of data mean, in fact, payback like for my inability to–say, establish a vocabulary.
——Establish a vocabulary? That can’t be any issue. Words are only currency, a type of money, a type of learning.  One cannot attempt to directly focus on a field of dandelions, so to speak, or a field wherein everything is still innocent, when gilded with the slightest taint, fever, breeze, sceptre of worry or idea of bravery. I am not yet quite alive, and never have been.  I have assumed the world is so bereft of meaning that it can wait for me to ascribe, describe, the effects of my fantastically delayed study, with all hands on, improving within my reach. Yes, by fiat I have made the skeptic in myself a citadel. While any gruelling, toiling person who pauses to consider a solid form, will appear to be naively clinging to one or another false tradition, half in the mind. What indicates a believer is one who pauses, like even in the grocery store, if you pause you are convicted of belief. But if you shuffle on, you are like me, I say.
——And I yell to them as they are going to their cars. We have achieved this freedom, by dint of a series of denials, or let’s say extended trips into available realms of the imagination, where–it scans–fear and guilt breed stories that never happen, but pierce to the core, make fiction of and for the renegade, like a series of glorious aftermaths, and unscheduled parties. Free of life, and whatever it was, or might have been.  Marrying innocence with faith in attempted comprehension, veiled, sliding into a ruined November, always haunting, no matter on how small a scale you tried to experience it, how personal with those few others, in the favored dialogues, that you once got and you still would get later,  except for this privileged freedom earned, tearing at you on the inside.
——But the sky is glibly scanning over all of us. Does it envelope all in the same mystery?  Probably not, there is a false universal that is a devilish invention, I think, of my own ambition. I keep trying to write this complaining monologue, but it always breaks down, and I have to go back to listing all my previous triumphs again. Waiter! Bring me the telephone. Where am I?