Looking for Breakthroughs Across the Landscape of Uncertainty

Now that I have set a title to the post, I suddenly find myself faced with a challenge to accomplish a breakthrough into whatever this post was supposed to be in the first place. Basically I must be intending to convey that breakthroughs are right there where I need to define what a breakthrough is. Is uncertainty a part of any breakthrough? I assume it is. It especially is when something reaches an end and something else is imminent to commence in its place. Landscapes are about seeing where one goes. Uncertainty is about figuring out just that when their parameters are less than given. Narratives seem to stitch attempts at either attaining a breakthrough or at mapping out the criteria for doing so into what can be passed off for either or both of these. It is as if any narrative is an outcome of a narrative surgery upon an unyielding material of external circumstances of inner or outer space. Overhearing shards of stories and actions over the virtual airwaves of web streams creates interferences that transform what I probably am and how I must see what surrounds me. It is as if every piece of overheard and seemingly unimportant nonsense ends up being the foundation, a canvas on which I draw my maps, routes and itineraries. It is as if I were becoming different from what I have been had I been exposed to different information environment or not. Different either way. Breakthrough becomes then something that one, and in this case I, calls one.

Capturing the Present Moment Through the Lens of Words

Not sure what to attribute a slightly empty feeling that comes over me. It could be finishing writing a letter. It could be end of a long day. It could be something else. As echoes of other languages fade in my field of perception, just as waves from fruits a leaning tree may yield to a pond on an August evening would also weaken over time in their capacity to blur and disturb the surface of a mirror that a lake is when seen from a particular angle. If ourselves are such mirrors, than I am more like a pond that one would usually look into that in being what it is is just impenetrable so that one might need enough distance from it in order to enjoy the vaunted reflection effect. I am not sure if I suggest that to look into oneself and to see anything clearly there one needs the benefit of a distance, be it temporal, be it spatial, or be it psychological, which could mean a combination of the first two. Space could be key in its other, macro dimension in that not only how we are related to ourselves directly that makes perception and, probably self-perception, different but also where we are in terms of a system of independent coordinates that positions us, conditions what we feel and how we do that. Maybe languages are just such systems of coordinates that do their positioning work, each differently and each out of our control.

Between Memory, Geography and Geology

Working through as burrowing through layers that have lain fallow for too long, that have all kinds of outgrowth holding them together before going through them will turn a terrain become alien and unchanging into a rhizome of entries and exits through which flows might pass. To the archeology of culture or knowledge there must be a pendant of archeology of personal culturalization and knowledge. Maybe one should call it memory as a collection of impressions and facts that are outdated, dated and out of use, that only with effort let themselves be relevant to a wider range of concerns, let alone can be made public without the pangs of disclosure of something that causes one to feel awkwardness. Realizing that there are layers upon layers of historical experience that does not stop with its personal actuality but probably start from a here and now of its perception in the present moment that sees it as a part of an unfolding horizon, a veritable landscape of memory where personal merges, or morphs into collective. One might be gripped with an urge to seize a chalk and draw a line, or better, a circle between oneself and the world, to create a borderland between one's self and other selves in time or space. A second geography of affective, cognitive and whatever other kind of experience of one's past, one's memory and one's nostalgia may thus be charted.

Stream of Consciousness Account of What Lies Just Benieth Ones Consciousness

Groping for words out of the basin of silences that amount to unspoken configurations possibly waiting for being voiced and possibly not. Hurtling through days towards uncertain goals that quiver in the shifting perspective as if through a mass of hot summer air. Looking for what may offer a grounding touchstone in the flux of everyday life that get detached from any chance of visibility of its direction, flow or horizon. From I write therefore I am emerges an imperative to maintain willingness to compose another screenful of sentences that may or may not hold together into a whole. Plumbing the depths of my own linguistic alienation from languages I live in, into and through to find a sense of delicate or not so delicate balance of self presentation and representation at one and the same time. Speeding ones stream of consciousness beyond the swamps of what passes for a writer's block of people who do not feel themselves to be writers. The swelling wave of verbal inflation engulfing the information space of the internet searches and indexes that wash indexes of micro-relevance and -visibility ashore of our attention margins. Choosing sense of time by the books that lend its forms from different languages and periods to chart the ever changing present as if it were a landscape to reconnoiter. Willing to read Joyce's Ulysses in German.

Metamorphoses of Self

From wherever we find ourselves in our lives we still do want to find our way to what we define as a goal that one is justified in striving for. Call it what you will, it remains elusive. Writing as transition medium, as a vehicle of psychological transfer, and as a prompt for working through of what stands in our way in reaching that half-defined goal, can only serve this purpose in so far as one reaches the point of taking recourse to it. Inner ways stops being a metaphor in favor of becoming a means for reaching spots in our selves that otherwise remain out of reach, touch and transformation. Whether we conceive of it in a manner of Kafka's metamorphosis that happens overnight to an unawares individual, or in a manner of Borges' labyrinth that we may though enter but might not necessarily find out way back out of, or in a manner of Musil's recognition of being human beings without qualities driven by circumstances, reflections and sensations, the project of collecting not just one's thoughts but also the threads of one's everyday life into a semblance of a configuration one can find one's own place in remains open. Rather than waiting for happiness, one might more reasonably wait for a transformation coming forth in ways one might hardly be able to foresee.

The Other Side of the Moon of Our Own Minds

At this moment it is more about what lies beyond the scope of the visible, such as the other side of the moon, than coming to terms with what is. Taking metaphor at its word, one would need not only to get to the other side of the moon but also to be able to shine a light on what one cannot see otherwise. Beyond the technical impossibility of such undertaking lies the understanding that there are dark areas that have to be accepted as such and without possibility of bringing them to consciousness as a field of unimpeded perception. Not just a consequence of the play of light and shadow, the other side of the moon that is arguably always the other side of the satellite that turns in concert with the earth in a way that only one side is always visible from wherever one finds oneself at the moment is a spatial given that withdraws itself from an access through discursive means. For my purposes here, the unconsciousness or the areas of our consciousness that recede into the shadows of our reason and reasoning is the other side of the moon that one might as well come to terms with accepting the aporias and impossibilities of actually getting to know what it is like.

Dérive, Reflection, Blog Writing

Loosing a mood, looking for one's way to get back to it, analyzing affective transfers that web carries widely beyond their territorializations of origin, overcoming micro writing blocks that being free to write down the upswelling content of one's sub- or un- or pre-consciousness that lets itself be verbalized in the twilight zone between silence and speech, recollecting moments of literary sublime in terms that have long lost their personal currency, blazing trails of future self perception and experience, translating back and forth and probably sideways too between the target and source languages, adding landscapes of meaning where only white spots of knowledge to acquire still make up the perceptive map, wanting to keep epistolary promises and finding hard to deal with larger commitments that that might imply, sitting at a coffee shop and listening to a podcast, measuring up the time that has elapses from one visit to a coffeehouse to another, deciding to build one's competence level by level as if it were about learning how to exactly follow a complex sequence of movements in space, loosing connection to one's states of mind that only a moment ago were close at hand of one's inner eye as if one were walking across an inner terrain.