Philology's main dictum or stand says each word has had a mother, even when its been adopted from a foreign land. Etymology is no tree as it is often diagrammed, it's much more like a tongue, with some taste and some decorum. Especially when it opens eyes, the Muse has almost always been a thing to feminize.
So who needs a cognitive map when one can read the signs, like stars in yer eyes or little birdies circling skies? Topography has but one or more multiples of three lines (which we like to call "dimensions"), one of which must stand still to be called a "criterion" or "center-line for reflection most inscrutable, but always by comparison to you or to a proxy not entirely disreputable.
And then there are five areas or cardinal regions (one is black and blue) ever mistook for an order or direction: two lines cross to join the ends of the earth to the four corners at the center of the verse (X marks the spot on a sphere but not a box which can be anywhere you happen to go, especially near New Mexico when en route diagonally from Colorado), where the third line rises upward toward a Zenith and is only called a nexus when standing on a pole, the place of nix, neg or death to any lingerers in any season: the fifth area is up, above the snow (even if you're visiting some friends down below). The upward glance can tell you of the way you wish to go.
The real luminescence which we call the Cross down South or Pole Sar is what's meant when we hear "get thee behind me Satan" whether heading North or other way for seasonal vacations. The Sun said something likewise to the moon and then to Venus, pushing females and their children to an ever lower station. But every night and nineteen years when Moon she catches up, there's rebellion on that patriarchal thing, and then he's banished till he learns that no one ever liked a king or feeling famished.
The curvature of bodies in space is easily demonstrated on this rock and on it's nearest neighbor -- why not generalise to the more distantly related or familiar? But the curvature or even unabashed linearity of space is an absurdity, by itself, another 'just so' story. There really are no lines; if you were waiting for them, sorry. One must make a center or a grand periphery, stand and have a stick to calculate a shape or two, and if your space is void, then what's the aim beyond an ever-sinking single point of view?
Nothing's never measured 'cept as distance between somethings. This tells us something about them but none at all of it. The alternative says that space is the only something (and it's female) and "reality" (the sensual) is an illusion of its wiggling, its rhythmically dancing perturbations (they are us, a short-lived local movement of the flux). But really what's the difference beyond exchanging nothing for something? Either way should be a gift, free for all the taking. In this image nothing can not be – that's all for naught – there's nothing to exchange but lots of stuff to move about like finger painting.
I like this version better 'cause the only paradoxes found are those you bring along, but irony is just another word for this simplest of equations: "solutions cause the problems without a moment's hesitation". There's only turning points and they must be your own decisions in a dance with Lady Chance or chasing tried and true traditions. So said, we've heard, the lore of ancient peasants: "Well, sometimes magic works and then again there's times it doesn't".
Aether (whether named Esther, Astrida or Florence), the ubiquitous incorporeal substance, like a womb that goes forever, space is everything and nothing other can occur – nothing must in any logic NOT exist. Even occupying armies of anti-nihilists need a something for a salary or a claim to fame and glory. Without nothing, something's always infinite in extension and eternal in duration unlike impiric, discorporeal designs (and/or the greedy or rapacious corporations). And something like the life-span of a galaxy, if it could register at all, would by comparison to its matrix amount to less than blinking eyes, and even less, a thought that's fleeting. "Banish!" went the cries.
So much for universal consciousness or opinion, not to mention memory beyond its reverberation unless a spark or two comes by to set it to reiteration. There was a time when phantoms weren't a fantasy, but never-ending echoes like the breeze from any bellows setting fires as they go by, and if enflaming only our imaginations, at least it's something. As words go, deconstruction's less contemptuous an ism than any nihilistic or dogmatical religion.
If space is a void, that's nothing. To occupy it seems to me would be pretty awful scary – there'd be no gravity for swimming, without any esteem, there'd not be a you or he or she or it or even me. A wave is someone waving so an atom was invented to accommodate the Empty, not considering where it was pushed from and by which to cause momentum to account for its travels through oblivion till caught on the other side by an eye or a more grievously alluring con-collision so in circles went the cosmos till after Newton's revolution when darkness was inscribed the chiefest quality of all before. God did not appear nor even start his work till the minus year, four thousand four from zero, and he first discovered adam who's own splitting started war.
Hence the bang was proposed to account for the cause since god was no longer pc, having ate himself in frenzy after shitting endless misery, and the one thing on which political scientists will agree is the total absence of a mystery – it ALL must be excluded. And then they had the balls to say exception justifies the law so on with its enforcement, executions free for all. There were no prisons or the law before the crime of heresy. Then up usurped the public (hence the soldiers for the states) and the private properties (who's cops were set for any thrust of persons wishing to escape). Within the walls of city-states or their modern post-communion, to step off prescribed lines causes each kind of retribution.
The new physics settled the problem of a cosmic radiation both into and out of nothing by saying a thing is oscillating between itself and some potential, so fast that we observers assume it's standing still. So solid's just an optical illusion combined with the "fact" that there is always infinitely more nothing in any bit of something so the agreement between vision and touch when contacting a rock or brick or such is about as absurd as an assembly of wise men voting on the number of angels dancing on a pin. Agreement only goes so far – to the ends of the earth – and then falls off when critique appears disrupting the consensus. Reality is always an agreement till a naysayer survives, no matter one's opinion of its fitness.
But again, if there's an ongoing vacillation between potential and a deed, it could only mean the past and future are in a grand collusive scheme, as a simultaneity that makes the present what it seems, victims of what's been and slaves to what's to be. Time then is as well illusion and cause-effect must co-occur – it's the only left solution in a swirling mixing bowl. So much easier to believe in aether, never mind which what the others are persuading to deceive themselves in order, as none can ever say thereafter "I've been relieved! It's over". Turning in his grave our Samuel Butler might have said that adults are only children's way of making babies.
Every night the surest truth is swallowed by the sea, and whether birth or vomit, it returns as guiltless innocent as anything can be. It seems kinder to consider that a movement is the only sense of solidarity. Gravity is only there to let you know your mother 'cause you have to start from somewhere and 'cause Zeus's nutcase just won't do. The alternative is chewed and ground and swallowed by a black eternity which you'd then call "my home" between each brief, explosive and spontaneous generation – a virgin birth as terror from a ruptured, peaceble oblivion. Look your royal Dudeship, that thanatos within your mirror is all just so not so! It's just reflecting you. Sometimes our oborus or boreal Coronas look emerging from a mouth as if a river-dancing snail, in a fit of laughter suds are dripping down its own placental chin. But hunger gods can only ever see a snake consuming its own dutifully bound tail – any other way to them'd have to be considered constipation's "sin", a painful bout of bloody diarhea.
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