Having just witnessed "S," conceived by Mitchell Polin, I found myself waltzing over (like the good ol' days) to the Cave, armed with my gracious lover's student identification card, should I wish to gain access to some edification-for-cheap(free). Tragedy, oh tragedy, dear reader, that my somewhat-semi-ailing body should find revolt at nearly all the proposed selections--all except one--a cold 20fl. oz. bottle of Aquafina brand Purified Drinking Water. Not wanting to call attention to my false identification by making a $1.00 purchase with a "meal," I sucked it up, and pulled a rather crumpled, but still functional George W (Washington, not Bush) from my also-crumpled, if slightly less functional brown leather wallet.
Now, after having removed my shoes and given up my nose-hair-tweezers, I made it through airport security by flashing my old-school Trinity ID to gain access (albeit illicitly) to the Raether LITC, and sit in front of a lovely Gateway PC, wasting away the hours, and sipping on my Pure Water with its Perfect Taste. Every time.
In the long fight for a boring office job, there has emerged a glimmer of hope (as in the trailer for M. Night Shamamalamadingdong's
"The Lady In The Water," which if you haven't seen, you should--if you're the self-mutilation type); I have been called by one of the staffing agencies I've solicited (the "sketchy one" in my earlier post) having been granted an interview by his client at a Manhattan architectural firm. After lots of "Hey, I'm gonna recommend you for this job"'s followed by no call notifying me of its status--a phone message offering me an interview is a pretty awesome development. Now comes, however, the difficulty of fitting it in around my Coach schedule, and my appointment for a physical for the NY Psychiatric study in which I'm participating.
But, if all goes well, I'll have an interview, kick ass, and no longer be a slave to changing schedules weekly, and holiday/weekend work--freeing me to actually try to do some more of the things I love (like build kites, eat
Rhesus Peanut Butter Cups, and cry in slow motion).
I must find something to occupy more of my time right now--I have approximately three hours left before the evening performance of "S" will end (as it has just begun), and fear, in my boredom, that I may be drawn to taking awful online surveys and modifying profiles on any of close to half-a-dozen "friend network" websites I have, at one time or another, signed up for. In my quest for the perfect public persona, each of these sites represents a slightly different version of Kevin M. Keating--some sexier, some edgier, some artsier, some even more conservative than others (the latter to soften the impact of my radicalism on family members who may also utilize such sites). But which is me? Or which most closely represents the me which exists currently? Or the me that you, personally, might know? The fun in lying--or in bending the truth--comes not in deceiving, but in
creating a new truth--true to me at that moment, and true to the You that reads it. Or perhaps, sadly, now that the
truth has been revealed, you will take all my words with some salt (I recommend Kosher--big benefit of living with a semi-Jew). This, probably, is a good thing.
Words are incomplete signs, signifying, rather crudely, the most vivid and indescribable of thoughts. Valiantly we attempt (in writing) to more closely mirror what we want to say, what it is our minds--our imaginations--our senses are showing us in Technicolor. Try as we may to increase our vocabularies, learn other languages, express our thoughts with non-verbal codes of signs (art, photography, music, etc.), we are doomed to fall short of perfectly translating thought from one person to another. Some of you might argue that the nearer to perfect translation, the greater the action--the greater, if you will allow the jump, the artist, or the writer, or the orator. Problematically, this is contingent entirely upon the recipient of the translation, and upon a completely immeasurable quantity called "understanding." "Wow--I understand exactly what so-and-so is saying in such-and-such painting" is a statement rooted in subjectivity. How can one
ever know that they "get it"? But, what if the artist says, "Yes, Frank, you do get it!"? Again we have the confusion of language--only this time exponentially greater, since to arrive at this point we have had the following exchanges:
1. Artist has thought (I will not, for now, go into the problem of "selecting" or singling-out of a thought, but keep this in mind--are our thoughts ever pure even to ourselves, or might they be clouded, changed by the subjective organs we have for comprehending them?)
2. Artist translates thought into painting. Translation limited by skill with paint, and all manner of environmental/financial/etc. complications.
3. Artist thinks to himself, "This is what my finished painting is about" (even if he is of the school that refuses to attribute meaning to his own work--stating that the audience defines and creates it infinitely).
4. Person sees painting. Translation is here interrupted by various environmental conditions yet again, distorted by Person's perception of "past" events, and the setting in which the painting is viewed.
5. Person thinks that the artist is thinking one thing. Surprise of surprises!! It is what Person himself sees when he looks at it!! Wow!! (Even if it's not--who among you would ever admit otherwise? save for an occassion in which you are [feel] superior in some way to the artist).
6. Person translates thought into words, "Artist--I get it! You were going for this, this, and this!"
7. Artist hears this, translates it into ,
You know, this is getting exhaustive--I think the point may have been demonstrated in the sheer frivolity of these past seven conditions.
Naturally, each of these seven conditions may be broken down in to an infinite number of sub-conditions, wherein we examine (more precisely and exhaustively) each of the various subjectivities that come between one thought and its translation. Imagine an electrical current running through a series of resisters--emerging through each one the signal suffers, decays, and is no longer the same current we started with. Such is the way with communication.
What then, is the point? How are we to communicate? Why engage in such an ultimately fruitless endeavor as talking, or writing, or painting, or singing, or anything, if ultimately, it is not understood--if there is, after all, no hope of a true, complete connection between two bodies? Why? Why say, "I love you" if the other person will never know what you mean by it (and in this day in age, even be suspicious of your intentions)?
I will leave you, tonight, with these questions, dear readers, to ponder in your dreams, to respond--if you are so moved--with answers or questions of your own, or with the words "I get what you are saying, Kevin"--hoping that, with the spirit of the holiday among us, we might pause a moment and reflect on the things we find so necessary to our well-being, and wonder how we might show that, or say that, or be that.
Q: What does it all mean?
A: Yes. No. I don't know. I love you.
