"Is there no time to smell of the flowers?" writes technology pundit and philosopher Jean-Bn Sauter.
I tell him that without a smell of that beauty, then it is just window-dressing, that a smell makes them ever the more realistic according to the greater sensory, as of to pick up a lady of the night and place her next to one's ear, so one can listen to her scream in surprise and dismay.
He's at practice on building robots these days, his rooms filled with cigarette smoke, that hanging in the air as the vagueries of all his whimsical ideas. I say this of him from the bonds of friendship old and dear, noting also how I expressed the name "other such nonsense" for my own writings for quite a long run in digital publishing.
I have a notion that his robots will smoke cigarettes and talk about the blurring of cognitions and reality, how his own perceptions form his own reality. Maybe from that silliness, we could say all the layers of the universe and all eleven dimensions are spread across the collective thinkmeats of the populace.
That maybe nothing is real, and maybe he won't have to take his tax receipts to the accountant this year. Just tell the Revenue that none of his earnings are real, or better yet, they have the audacity to have a fill-in space labelled dubiously, "real income".
He says to get "in the rub for it" he has to, as he puts it, "get a smell of it". This is part of his mistrust of an external all-encompassing reality, which casts a dreamlike pallor on the rest of the universe, that which we are sure is out there, while solidifying his own stolid adventures at picking his toenails while watching SVU. So to Sauter, there is nothing noble, ignoble or true or firm about these floating bodies, only his own thoughts are real, that which regards the entirety of the dream, stuck between a state of surprise and fatigue.
No comments:
Post a Comment