A Companion in a Wood

Life begins, as its often conceived with quaint charm, in a "miracle." Life ends accidently...were it not so, were we not accidental, then we would be without dignity. Contingency is the price of our freedom, which is, in turn, the evidence of our significance. The in-between is spanned by a gathering mistake, evident in revelatory terms by the very degree of our "fallenness." We are born into a "falling over."

Consciousness is always false. Awareness of our imbalance, lack of equilibrium, disorientation, is met with bewilderment that covers itself instantly in a self. We ate once of knowledge, but only for a moment, and then out of our infinite shame we clothed "our" selves. Against the firm heavens of the I (eye, there is something to the homonym!) we have come to see that it is the world itself that spins and not our perspective. In some instances modern art has placed the spin back into the perspective, but it is met immediately with the frightful howels and accusations of the many..."Degradation! Falsity! Heresy!" The spinning artist is a madman, the only other possibility is that we are all madmen and that is semantically impossible.

Friendship in the 21st century sense is just making sure that a set of ears is around as your tree falls. This way the issue never comes up of whether or not we made noise. This is essential to our sense of personal security (a redundancy) because truth itself is the correspondence between our making a racket and someone else having to listen to it. I have made noise here, and you have heard it...therefore I exist.