09.15.19
today i feel the dissipating gloominess of yesterday recede into the background of memory, relenting a foreground for possibility. how easily the heart is happy after discussing with someone whose metaphysical model for themselves maps delicately and fittingly with your own. these are conversations of dance, much like how ones performance in tennis readily improves upon merely switching to a more artful competitor. i find that the more advanced players are less quick to capitalize on cheap and easy moves; such tactics are predictable and make little of the ritualistic art of volley, whereby one first breaks the court with an exchange of at least one or two sentences before advancing to strategy. such grace permits opportunity for players to size each other up, feel the reverberations of their receiving throws against their rackets, inviting strategy and idea to be transmitted through the neuromuscular system, affording a flow state of perceived ease and intuition.
conversations with R. are not so different, yet perhaps it is the neurocardiac system, a robust romancing cognition, which is at work as opposed to a more literal engagement of organic materials. admittedly, this aesthetic synthesis is an opt-in system. R. and I consciously construct, consciously choose to take part in the optimization of joint comforts, day after day.
my heart aches for my jaded, biodeterminist friends who may never be witness to the powers of their own hands, hearts, and minds, which they have so seemingly resigned. i wish i could relate the power of meta-poetics, of cultivating aesthetic objects and relationships, to them; and the responsibility they have for their own ambient comfort or discomfort for living in their own flesh –– why is this something they have conceived themselves as victims of? the world is harsh and i cannot criticize further without admitting that i, too, had and have been defeated. i have and continue to self-deny. but a marginal amount of doubt, of hope for control, can transform so much. these are the seeds i wish to press into the palms of my friends, from R.'s hand to mine, and mine to yours.