I'm sure that this all makes very little sense. But sense making is a struggle doomed to failure, and that is the point of this whole endeavor anyway. I'm not trying to be arch-ironic or anything, rather, just the opposite. Perhaps it is OK to flail earnestly against the sublime of the material other?


Because all efforts miss their mark, fall short, fail—and still there must be something to do, which is to say, there is nothing better to do than this, than to try, than to try anyway. Not in spite of, but because of. I know I will never get it, do it, make it, finish it, be it. And fortuitously, not being it, is exactly the place of productivity. Filling the empty placeholder of the "it" provisionally with something—with anything, and then clearing it out, on finding it lacking, a bad fit, wrong, and preserving the motile vacuum of the empty square.

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