The echo

I split the sides of the world laughing at it.

It all comes apart because I am an example.

Like a comedy of maps whose puzzle-piece first appearances dissolve in the yet much more puzzling ocean they spill into the gaps left unfilled by their drawing.

All that drawing drowns itself.

Very funny.

Cartography describes space at a distance, through the distance of abstraction; laughing is acknowledgement of things at a distance, through the distance of abstraction.

I laugh because tragedy is what will occupy the cannot-be-filled-up space

The one whose filling-up just retraces it

Repeats the distance

no cancellation

just more delays

Throws fresh water into the already very in-salted ocean))))>>/

De-lay: an impression of something is the renewal of something under the perforated umbrella of a part-hiding part-showing phenomenology; no stopping the rain; something shows up again meaning itself beyond an every-piece-of-the-puzzle collection entirety.

The shore never quite reached, despite however much mapped, hunted pen and paper, mast and sail, beneath near and distant suns, over shallower and deeper waters, with and against world-trapsing winds, current-sitting equators.

The share never quite breached.

The shadows never quite embeached.

The strip of possibility that narrows everything.

That makes it impossible.

and thus

interregnum meaning of this really

piece-by-piece-never-finished

gives it its possibility.

Here and, therefore, not-here, too.

Shown and, therefore, hidden, too.

Laughter speaks the impossible language of the impossible. Keeping the distance. Not overwriting it with a repetition that de-lays it with too much presence, all over again.

A meaningful voicelessness.

When saying anything is too much.

Laugh because it is the only way to resign without giving up.

Laugh

at the silliness of being involved

at the misery that involves us without a second’s notice

at the happiness that comes as a result of sadness managed in some bearable form.[1]

This and that

happiness and sadness

but never either totally

just both in differing degrees

winding each other up.

Family resemblances. Therefore, probably some sibling rivalry.

The puzzle is the puzzling.

That is,

even a full-on resignation has to do too much, make its own way to the grave, step-taking a many-ness that stands against its own reason

has to make a difference that does not absolve it of the world

but repeats the world under its own terms

which is a world-determining thing to do

world-changing

more tied down than ever before

so procreatively non-procrastinately involved…

I have to laugh at the nihilists

full of meaning

The shore they describe, the map they puzzle-piece into the ocean of puzzles,

sends them pen and sail into the very worldliness initially set out to be decried.

Boat-taking makes accomplices of us all

It is funny. Because the world is funny like that.

Just as I must laugh at the optimists

who think that the shore is really there, and that its correct writing shall tell us once and for all the procedure of being.

I laugh at myself for finding all of this funny

because it is not funny

nihilists retrieve examples ample from the wars that optimists – out of their unwavering correctness – repeatedly induce

there is nothing funny about this.

It is tragic.

And the only way to bring hope back from the des-pair of war and war-thought is to laugh –

in other words, speaking to the impossible in a careful manner. To regroup

to side-split a little

let out a little pressure

let air out

get inspired

a different air in

making the most of difference

of repetition

before setting out again

to speak once more with the nihilist

the optimist

the sure knowers of the shore

one tells me it is definitely not there

(burns it alive to my eye. Oh, the excitement of red vision)

the other that it definitely is

(which puts it out all over again. They say orange. I go limp)

The same story

They share so much without sharing anything

and repeat the distance without even realising it

as we all do

but they who are distance’s true lovers

possess the required indifference to make their own torch-light shaping of the invisible show up

fornicating and breeding endless difference

which

given what they believe

is funny

quite literally fucking funny

whilst I try to make them laugh at themselves before they make us all cry again

with their either-north-or-south-pole erections.

Laughter promises a spherical reach.

 

TL; DR: fill the gaps with a sense of the gap. Like laughter that really echoes.

[1] Thank you, Frank.