The suggestion, the concept, the notion even, that an IDEA can be easily bound within the confines of words is a result of either immense naiveté or gross egoism.
Naïveté if you believe that an IDEA is a single dimensioned sheet of cardboard paper that can be written upon, folded up, stuck inside a bottle, corked, and sent across the sea of the combined human psyche.
Egoism if you believe that you will be able to uncork that bottle, pull out that cardboard sheet, smooth it out, read the words and understand the full extent of the IDEA.
An IDEA is not a single cardboard sheet. It is layers and layers of fine delicate tissue paper. Meshed together to form not a weave, but a tangle. Each layer scribbled upon, crossed out, torn and re-tied to some other knot. It is scrunched up. It is messy. It is in MY handwriting. The one I reserve for when I’m writing to myself. The one worse than a doctor’s illegible scroll.
It is tied to my other ideas. Ideas formed when I lay alone within the confines of my being. The thoughts and impressions thrust upon me while I wait in line at the grocery store, waiting for the 16-year old temp to sort out whether those eggs are actually on sale for $1.99. The images that wind their way through the electrons of my brain as I type these words that magically appear on the light box in front of me.
The strands of those tissues are connected to my vast hoards of soft paper that I keep stored away in the warehouse I keep on retainer for a rainy day. They weave and wind through the winds that blow in from the future to perpetuate the words that flow out of my fingers today.
Even the manifestation of the word into a singular is a gross simplification. No IDEA is ever in the singular. No IDEA is ever alone living its life in a tiny black hole. It is energy. It is the wind, the water. It is any and every metaphor you can think of that negates the concept of isolated particles in space.
Oh sure, you can try to decipher the letters on those crumpled bits of soft tissue. You can attempt to make out what is there. And you may even form some sort of impression. But then your own tangles will blow in, with whispering tendrils flaying around them, ready to grasp at any edge, any thread, any fleeting strand, and bind them to the knots of your own IDEAS. Your attempts at deciphering my tangles will be overlaid with the translucent wisps of your own.
No.
The suggestion, the concept, the notion even, that an IDEA can be easily bound within the confines of words is the result of immense naiveté and gross egoism.
Disjoint Wisdom 