Long Illusions

The question when you meet a new land and a new people is, “what is this new false mystery, what is this unique regional diversion standing in for the arrival at an inevitable conclusion, a conclusion that might once have come in an instant if we had never in the days of some golden pre-Chinese dream become dishonest with ourselves?”

We trade the soul-mason’s handshakes and banter encrypted verbiage and this way we tell ourselves that we know each other; we tell ourselves that we know ourselves and we know this other, but it nags that we may never have found ourselves foundering, self-induglent even when truly suffering, shored up in ignorant pastimes and stand-ins for answers we found it natural to seek in youth, in futile and elaborate ruses built of matter, flesh, time, questions, and the endless streamers of thought and altered thought interrupted by misfiled memory and haphazardly administered medicines streaming out as in a strong wind in all directions from the point we seem to occupy. It nags that we must ask, “what is this new false mystery,” as these streamers stream out and we circle inward, not ever really posing the question, married instead to the Buddhist algebra of compromise from which we build our weird semiotics.