——The fact that there is a mystery, and the fact that that you live in it, are two different things. Unless they are married in thought and action. Your life is wasted, if you aren’t deep in this travail.  Maybe you think the universe just isn’t understood, because men are incapable of understanding it. And maybe you think where you live is around the corner from the mystery, in some self-sufficient neighborhood, that isn’t in itself affected by the universe at large. So by these two neat reflections you have removed both the general mystery of origins, and the particular mystery of your own existence.  To phrase it: how did you arrive, in a confusion?  Well, it still remains, no matter how anyone wrangles, that there are two situations any living person is confronted with, at least initially in their experience. First, that the origin of life is unknown to him, and second that he is alive. These are different things. The witness is convicted at least of noticing briefly a situation that has two elements. Comically put, life in general, and himself. To acknowledge them in the same breath, or two successive breaths, is to call in a debt to the creator of both. I say, because it isn’t simple, therefore a story is outstanding.  Some flicker, some discrepancy remains and insists that there is a background problem with life, and that you, you precisely, are in the center of it, like a hero, or a goat, summoned to solve it, or flub it. One way or another, sliding through on the basis that you are not equal to the task, won’t work. For you are the task, just standing there, looking at the world.  Life is high stakes drama, and also it is low down desperate maneuvering.  I could just be enthusiastic, one thinks, and that strangely satisfies . . .  two things at once. Don’t tell me you aren’t this subtle, and can’t acknowledge a basic complexity–one shoots this accusation to others. Do what you want, this is the prideful basis upon which I work–by pure enthusiasm, and it is calling down a debt, you might say cashing out a debt. This is ambiguously phrased, isn’t it? It is clear to me that I am doling out the goods, paying back library fines, so to speak, for always going on record, signing up, taking an interest, in the situation. The child starts up, he is deep in pure mystery before the challenge of assessment-minded thought clicks in, like an adult supervisor, and gives him pause. Don’t doubt life! Screams the person. You have nowhere else to go, with your plans.  I move towards it, the faraway solution, deep in neglect. I shall abandon my sinning ways, now that I understand what is really going on. This is the plot, the curve of the story. What is kept in mind is a potential heist, the central character of myself, he is the sidekick. Parts of this game that I am wagering are so profound, so funny that they just have to last beyond all reckoning.  I am not living around the corner, but I have built my house in the center of the mystery. Look at my porch, the floating chessboard, and snow-bound gardens. Seized by the cold, and twilight, the impossible street beyond.  Nobody has these images, nobody ever saw this before. I need to circulate my thoughts. Here, read these pages, look at these photographs. Everything is in process around here.

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