Not thinking about Thinking
(April 24/06)
A moment ago I was thinking, or am I thinking now about thinking that I was thinking a moment ago. I thought I was thinking, thinking that I was thinking a moment ago, but could very well be mistake. I could, in fact, be thinking about thinking about thinking a moment ago, a past thought of thinking that I thought I was thinking. In this manner, I can only think, or know I am thinking in the present, thinking about thinking a moment ago in the past, a past moment of thinking. I think now, in the moment, not in a moment of thinking that has past, a moment ago. I think I thought, or thought I was thinking, but could be verily mistaken. But my mistake in thinking I was thinking a moment ago is predicated on thinking now, in the present moment, the thinking of thinking. Perhaps there is no such thing, no act, of thinking a moment ago, only thinking about thinking a moment ago while thinking in this moment, the present now moment. I am tired, more so exhausted, of thinking, so will stop. But can I, can I stop thinking? I think not, because were I to think I wasn’t thinking, I’d be thinking about not thinking which is thinking itself, thinking now in the present about not thinking, the cessation of thinking, which is absurd. In this manner, perhaps I can never think I am not thinking, because if I were, I’d be thinking, which negates the negation of thinking I am not thinking.
What, then, is time, this thing or activity or movement called time? Time is memory of something past, something ago. Time is rot and partition, thinking in the present about the past, a past event or memory of an event or feeling or thing that past, that is ago. Time moves through memory of what came before, the antedate of the present. In this manner, time is a misdate of the memory of an event or thing or feeling from the past, a reference or locator for the present from the past. Kierkegaard said, did he not, ‘we live our lives forward looking backwards.’ The past, the memory of the past, is the parturition hole that gives reference to the present, and a lucky guess about the future. I have no time for the past, present or future, or, for that matter, thinking about it. I am a parturition hole, the caulking in the seam of your chimney, the scullery whore with tiny misshapen feet and an overbite, the Heideggerian misstep that started it all.
(April 24/06)
A moment ago I was thinking, or am I thinking now about thinking that I was thinking a moment ago. I thought I was thinking, thinking that I was thinking a moment ago, but could very well be mistake. I could, in fact, be thinking about thinking about thinking a moment ago, a past thought of thinking that I thought I was thinking. In this manner, I can only think, or know I am thinking in the present, thinking about thinking a moment ago in the past, a past moment of thinking. I think now, in the moment, not in a moment of thinking that has past, a moment ago. I think I thought, or thought I was thinking, but could be verily mistaken. But my mistake in thinking I was thinking a moment ago is predicated on thinking now, in the present moment, the thinking of thinking. Perhaps there is no such thing, no act, of thinking a moment ago, only thinking about thinking a moment ago while thinking in this moment, the present now moment. I am tired, more so exhausted, of thinking, so will stop. But can I, can I stop thinking? I think not, because were I to think I wasn’t thinking, I’d be thinking about not thinking which is thinking itself, thinking now in the present about not thinking, the cessation of thinking, which is absurd. In this manner, perhaps I can never think I am not thinking, because if I were, I’d be thinking, which negates the negation of thinking I am not thinking.
What, then, is time, this thing or activity or movement called time? Time is memory of something past, something ago. Time is rot and partition, thinking in the present about the past, a past event or memory of an event or feeling or thing that past, that is ago. Time moves through memory of what came before, the antedate of the present. In this manner, time is a misdate of the memory of an event or thing or feeling from the past, a reference or locator for the present from the past. Kierkegaard said, did he not, ‘we live our lives forward looking backwards.’ The past, the memory of the past, is the parturition hole that gives reference to the present, and a lucky guess about the future. I have no time for the past, present or future, or, for that matter, thinking about it. I am a parturition hole, the caulking in the seam of your chimney, the scullery whore with tiny misshapen feet and an overbite, the Heideggerian misstep that started it all.
