2.Hypothesis. Every hypothesis is ultimately not-quite-true and resides in this horrid liminal zone, caught between truth and untruth. That devastating word perhaps qualifies a hypothesis just as it colours every poem that a poet writes. This "perhaps"-the whiff of the counterfactual-is what makes life worth living, whether you choose a scientific method or a poetic path.
3.Poets are charming idiots. Every poet is a charming idiot, except Rabindranath, Shakespeare, Chaucer and I don't know enough about Milton. Eliot is an idiot because I think he should have written at least one novel. Don't ask me why, just. And don't call me presumptuous/audacious. I will give you a turd made from curdled uhhhh...curd?
4. And since we speak of Eliot, is it time to speak of time? Or do we not have time?
Q: Why are you reading this?
Likely A: To kill time.
So it is obvious that you have some time to spare if you are killing it so mercilessly in the first place. (This entire section is an allusion to our dear friend Alice who once dreamed an entire book and then her author turned it into a complex mathematical conundrum, but why do we digress? Suppose you ate her cat Dinah for dinner....actually let's not suppose this horrible pun. Let's not suppose anything at all...let's start tabula rasa...)
5. Memory. Which always succeeds time. And again. Our minds are never a clean slate. The earliest memory I have is jumbled up with a couple of other memories and any one might have preceded the other. This is where I return to the idea of hypothesis. ὑπόθεσις- an explanation that you may propose for a phenomenon you observe. You shriek in horror; do not get Socratic! You ask in curiosity; you have the semblance of a scientific method? And then you wonder; is she true?
And since your memory(memories) are entangled and enmeshed with mine until there is a complex web of truth untruth reality fiction freedom anarchy love hatred compassion cruelty revulsion attraction good evil relevant redundant anticipation certainty there can be nothing but a semblance and a mirror....each reflecting the other...why do you reduce? Why is the entire canon so reductive? Especially the Western world which divides and subdivides ideas ad infinitum. But what about our almost-ideas? What happens to those? What are we going to do?
Tentative answer: Even an infinity mirror, a mirror that contains a strand of lights that appears to repeat forever, a mirror that has an apparent infinity of images, is nothing but an optical illusion.
~I rest my case~