Word trauma. Print culture dead after all those years. True, nearly all web pages are mostly print, but talk, written or otherwise, is cheap. Everyone writes, though no one reads the everyones’ always writing, no one but themselves at any rate, adding more junk, more artifacts – albeit digital and easily erased – to the proverbial Pile. Screaming raging ranting raving blogging texting worse than television, shut it, shut it, shut, shut, shut the damn thing off.
Some, noticeably more than others, are sensitive to the pain of repetition. Honestly, Gertrude, I’ve known “more of the same” but no repetition in rhythm, song, poetry of talk rhythm, sound of life beating, people doing – and of course, talking – people doing Life, even those who deny what Life does to the living, but the dead, who once were living, stay dead and honestly it’s no one’s fault but their own: they got no rhythm.
Life abhors repetition without rhythm: pulse, pump, thrum, like when Injun scouts in movies listen to the ground maybe hear beating hooves of distant horses, or Hoover vacuum cleaners.
Movie rhythms of beating hooves, amplified by orders of magnitude (they’re not that loud in real Life actually, loud, but not that loud), beating, beating hooves absorbed by earth and amplified by electronic doohickeys (note: check spelling of “doohickeys;” this is not real talk, after all, it is “text”).
The dead underground seek rhythm, repetition of the source of the death instinct to be rid of repetition in the talk talk talk of speech (same old same old) return to rhythm of creation pounding beat toward pump motion, pounding toward no more repeating rhythm (it’s all just sex, really, to which most dead persons are indifferent ) just simple silence, peaceful, permanent. Oh Death! End of talky talk redundant a-rhythmic repetition and interruption, oh Death, silent as snow.