On Categories

April 24, 2010

Categories are dislikeable. For more reasons than a lingering adolescence. The contradiction of the statement puts one into something of a brain-rage, and liquid flows freely. The sensation is not unlike the burn from repeated exercise of a muscle. Still, it’s hardly fair to put this down to categories.

When you set yourself up to put your finger on a cause, or point it so as to better blame something, the finger almost takes on a life of it’s own. Let me have at this, and put it anywhere!

Such dangers of having divided our process up in such a way. We can feel we’ve done the necessary groundwork. Our analyst makes a poor judgement, and our seer a poor prescription. With all the weight of authority behind them.

There is merit in slower thinking.

The same applies to other intercourses, where some would burst during or right after the initial play of acquaintance. Lessons can be borrowed from this structure. We may reaccquaint ourself with the idea of the immature – so ripe to explode that it takes a mere thought or suggestion. Or with the mechanical and methodical, lasting inhumanely long. With whom all is painful.

Such facets are known implicitly, when we speak on such topics as politics, which to be represented truthfully would require some of the dullest prose. When we speak to those who forget as quickly as they anger. Or to those who would belabour a point, replete with statistics and resplendent in method. We truly believe neither of them anyway.

If my ship of words were to jump up into metaspace, that more frustratingly abstractive orbital trajectory, it might notice that re-applying the filter of “On Categories” places this in the antithetical category. It is anchored, thankfully, in our minds with the term “Irrelevance”.

To finally make the point:

This missive is a plea for traction.

A request for some categories to write about.

Biplane Extraordinaire!

April 24, 2010

“”The colourful machine makes a chugging, ponderous flight overhead, to land quaintly in a field nearby.

Pilot adds a swivel of the wings as he lands his bird.

He’s flown for some time, since early middle-age.

Upkeeps the plane beautifully. A degree from an internet-university in Aeronautical History. Very opinionated, and dismissive of the lesser amateur’s interest.

An overbearing expertise.

There’s something annoying about a man who takes his hobbies too seriously.

Particularly when that hobby is flying frivolous things about.””

–   –   –

“‘A man lies in a field with a pen and a notepad.

Attention focuses on planes making slow circles in the air above.

He notices the lazy displays of the red plane, and writes down something of an inference about the pilot’s nature.

There is a truth for him in his musing about taking hobbies too seriously.

Nevermind that he knows nothing of the pilot. The memory will always return when he thinks of the rule.

If questioned he’d admit that he knows nothing about the pilot, and make an analyst’s separation between theory and data.

If alone, this is so obvious it’s neglected. Forgotten.

A judgement cast outwards onto the world randomly, cast iron in mind.

Biplane pilot acquires something of a connotation.

Though our judge never claimed his opinion was truth, our connotation creeps into the same thing. For all intents and purposes.

We become foolish so easily.”‘

–   –   –

“The man sits. Not conscious of enjoying the sun but enjoying it nevertheless.

Writes lessons of learning, about events, knowledge, and people.

He wants to write that we seldom fully utilise the interpersonal importance of detachment, or social distance.

There’s an art in keeping something of a gap, or a silence, between people.

On occasion, this silence may give breath for a few considered words to ring true.

Unhindered by the games and histories of association. Of presumption,

that I ‘know’ you.

A friendly stranger. It’s not such a lonely place to be.

But the man realises he’s writing about himself. All of this is something drawn up from the well of his own world.

He pens something self-reflective, to iron away the offensive distraction of cheap psychoanalysis, so often employed to shut down argument.

Just because this came from his experience doesn’t mean the rules are not generaliseable.

Avoid fearful conversation about the author, laden with assumptions of his intent. This is the pragmatists warlike blindness. Of what utility in this situation?

There is something of value in considering a sentence in isolation. Unhindered by judgements and disentangled from the webs of other territories.

Such is to listen.

He imagines we often fail to. For fear of an easy persuasion.

Lest our thoughts be mere reflections of another’s.”

– – –

‘Pages spent setting the immediate scene is a strange reflection of interest.

Something of a trap, this path, if we were to stop ignoring it.

For it leads back into ourselves. Often so specific, what we see there, that there can be no enticing generalities to share with others.

But it’s written. In a shared and socially negotiated framework of meaning. In this instance, an English one.

Not that making a statement of English is relevant to everyone with that language.

We might get that from a stupid determinism. Thinking that because language imposes social bindings on thoughts that all language is socially relevant.

These deterministic things are like academic flies, lingering about a person when they stop. That is, when they take things as settled.

Nothing is settled. The forthright academic tounge is too sharp some times. Over-precise.

We have the concepts of settlement and permanence as demonstrations that a thing has more permanence than another. They are matters of degree, never absolute.

Too much weighting given to such summaries of things is blinkering. Is it prestige which does this?’

–   –   –

Not much happened today. Some scratchings were made on paper with a stick of retractable lead.

–   –   –

=Time to gather my senses. Time to move.=