shy buds venture out

-- resuming main point again after parenthesis -- if main is the right -- hello -- done --

-- although (resuming) I'm guessing that when you read the sentence at the end of that post, the sentence that was written in a trance, then it doesn't look different from any of the other sentences, even though to me it's completely different and like a visitation, written (though I'm assuming this is not obvious, as I said) when I was in a different mood, and it can't be read now by me (but no one else) without a memory of that mood, tired, itchy, annoyed, my lips peeling in this weather, my mind looking for a sentence and hoping that something would occur to me, because "it's a useful invention, very Victorian," wasn't an ending, I thought, and what more, what more, something needs to come I felt, but whether it was destined to come, or whether it would have come in that form even if I hadn't wished -- one last sentence, one ending, was what I wanted -- whether it would have formed itself like that, or whether I might have gone away on a longer speculation I don't know.

Ruskin as he looked at tree leaves wanted to write about the intricacy he saw, these things constructed in their complicated way, and in his writing he congratulated God on this effort, which he believed was obviously His, but as for these inner trees, I'm not even sure that I make them, or where the praise should be aimed, if anyone wanted to aim praise and say, "O Pykk, I have read many thirteen-word sentences recently and yours at the end of that post was the nicest" -- which possibly it was because anything might be possible, and if you happen to look at the world like that, says Browning's Middle Eastern sage Ferishtah in the poem Mihrab Shah from Ferishtah s Fancies (1885), then it should be a constant source of wonder to me that my head doesn't fall off for if anything is possible then why not that, additionally hands, knees, and other parts, a rain of pieces, immediately all at once, or one by one; or complete instant disintegration and back to molecules, whose ambidextrous capabilities and other talents, if possessed, go unloved?

There are forests of these inner trees, perishing from view, these shapes and networks with their roots running wherever and their branches ending wherever, impossible to see, coming and going, time passing faster than dog years in this atmosphere of the brain, or wherever thought takes place, not a place but the idea of a place (which I invent now specifically for this post: an area with shapes representing trees, therefore something like a countryside with an open sky), inventing it with what of course but more ideas: the thoughts building houses for themselves, and proposing a vision, saying, "I picture myself like a tree in a piece of nice scenery, say I'm near a mountain, because you have mentioned Ruskin, who walked in the Alps. He described their geography in Modern Painters and stood on the heaves of their rocks looking at the clouds, beauty, he said: science. 'I have often seen the white, thin, morning cloud, edged with the seven colours of the prism.'"

The only conclusion I want to extract from this windering-wandering, is that the immaterial thoughts do take their apparent substance from the district of actual substances outside the body, since every place I can picture exists as places exist in the solid world: even an imaginary space with no walls, walls or ceiling or boundaries is still discernible as though existent and hard, having a colour, texture and a temperature, myself not alone in this inescapable mental habit I see when I read one of the last poems Browning wrote, Reverie (1889), in which he wonders if godly "Power" will "come about" "amid whirl and roar / Of the elemental flame / Which star-flecks heaven's dark floor" or whether it will happen in some other location, with flowers and grass. "Is it here, with grass about, / Under befriending trees, / When shy buds venture out."

The denseness or false denseness or temporary clotted bit of the medium of language (which is killing the imaginations of readers, say the characters in one book by Sigizmund Krzhizhanovsky, which, fair enough, you can't die if you don't have a body, and what else is a word to a thought but a body or maybe just a suit) brings the hard world to immaterial soft thought -- example -- room, floor, ceiling, and so on; no space can fail to have these items or else not have them. and one word is added or another substituted, the space has grass but no floor, it has no walls, it has mountains, it has the sky and the sun but no moon or moon but no sun or else heavy cloud cover hanging mattress-like over the whole environment -- the different parts, like head and hands and knees; removable it's possible, but if some other body part, ie sentence-part, is not substituted then the paragraph dies into the Invisible, poor thing.