Dear child, we cleft fast to our grounds and figured nothing

Dear Galatea,

while science has taken up the error rate of our worlding as a virtue, that the noise is the signal, the information is an emotion, in a practice of charms, the categorical error of our making all thought an ontology gives us a method showing less favour on the missteps and trials of life long learning.

The boxed-in mistake is the truth of our efforts to set things as they are. This mistake is only a learning in the hindsight of history if we take no note of the personalities of power and we fail to speak truth to stupidity.

As if grammar was the message.

Some mistakes stop us from learning, at least in the same lifetime or generation. Society is a arguably a machine for making ontologies real, cutting up experience into the world.

Policing the sets of our distinction is an error we indulge more than correct. We make mistakes in not correcting how we fix or fail to take missteps in our stride.

Too often we stop walking to avoid the missteps of construction, and as culture warriors standing firm we say god is also a statue, just like me, that we walk in their image, as fear spins in our minds more and more as our momentum internalises. The mind wheels while we shuffle grandly as we spit truth into the world. It just dribbles it down our chins. "A libation!" we shriek through lips that have stopped kissing.

Mindless in our spinning ecstasy the error becomes an epiphany in a swamp of our tears, and transported into movement to not even nowhere, we thrashly should the world with our inclinations, a magick of last resort, we have nothing else in our solitudes, nought in these migraines or metaphors of stability towering over the order of our alienation now labelled with the category of sin, the shame of all guilt. In this wrongness we set us against all as we norm the meeting into a dispute fighting words, and call it a virtue to pick on the mistakes of others, to denigrate all others like Narcissus in a sudden drought. Wrongness unconfessed is still just a mistake, however darkly it guides the being that is our stupidity.

We step forth into error and then refuse to learn from the fall and ignore the stumble. Some double-down and call this valour and try try try again to make the self-made stepless stone god your grave, and your life a tombstone from the glorious past when we cleft fast to our grounds and figured nothing?

Pygmalion

Crossposted at substack.com