CosmiKnot

So I am aware that my position on life taking place in a materially vital cosmos is not necessarily the most popular way of regarding human relations. After all we are ultimately almost entirely mechanistic when it comes to the framework of understanding reality. I’ve been watching a program called stranger things and come to the conclusion that it is, like the narrative in the story itself, an opening into a visceral region of felt intensities. In the case of this supernatural thriller the felt intensity is of the hyperaesthetic kind or an excess one might consider non linguistic. The latest story focuses on the themes of death through memory and the stages of grief surrounding it. There seem to be threads and harmonies between the characters’ encounters with the monsters of the region known as the upside down world and their awareness of death itself as an event. Both of these themes are an opening onto the felt intensities of Cosmos as event. Stranger things comes closest of...

  Fiction and expressivity "Something within me or is it outside of me?" wrote James "compels me to put these words inside the haven of my morning pages notebook rather than into a laptop computer. To let my thoughts become themselves here on the paper where they are not attached to the Empire of the like. I am reminded time and time again of Winston Smith sitting round the corner from the TV screen in 1984. It is not paranoia of being observed that compels me to write on paper but a desire for the visceral truth of haptic resistance. Something like that anyway. It’s the pleasure of the feel of writing that helps my thoughts to become. Perhaps this is dangerous to ideas which demand a more direct route and digression, a consequence of writing on paper, will always favour expression. This is why we seek simplicity, as I do, but do not trust it. Throwing cake at the Mona Lisa was a seismic event but what did it mean what did it express? And so to the idea," James tri...

  Eye in the Sky   Kimey continues along the edge of the playing field and passes a swing wrapped around its own frame. How odd, he thinks, that the loan company had chosen to reply to him on paper. Weirder still that he had decided to open the envelope. No need to look at the screen. The drones are hovering close by. He catches the merest waft of the vestige of an idea of Sunday lunch from one of the nearby houses. All sealed up. The self-important wood pigeons patrol the air like Napoleonic survivors. Unable to find any statues they have decided to become them. That smell Kimey thinks, what is that? Then he’s remembering, it’s the inside of his grandfather’s suitcase. One of a pair his mother had presented him with. An empty suitcase. A mystery. Not because it led to an unknown life but because it led nowhere. Was this smell escaping from the black upended suitcase he had just passed? Left out by a bin standing on its side slightly ajar to deter any opportunist peddlers. Col...