Language: Portuguese
Bought a plant yesterday. Actually it was two plants, but now, because I potted two plants into the same pot, most people would call it one plant. So in some ways you could say that I made a plant disappear yesterday, by buying it.
I've also recently read Wittgenstein's Mistress, by David Markson, which may show up in the style of this entry.
Although in some ways Wittgenstein's Mistress is "by" its narrator, Kate.
It occurs to me that Kate, despite being fictional, is now known to quite a few people, probably more people than I, Jessi, am known to, and is therefore, overall, more "real" than I am. If by "real" one means things that can be talked about among people.
Certainly one made two plants disappear, from the perspective of the other plants in the greenhouse, who would not be aware of places outside the greenhouse. And from the perspective of my other plants, I made either one or two plants appear, in my home.
Metallica, of course, is known to even more people than Kate or myself, and would be even more "real" by the definition that things are real when people know about them.
But maybe this is not the definition one should be using, then.
Certainly a thing could be real even if it were never discussed at all. A particular cloud, perhaps, could go completely unremarked from the time of its formation until the time of its dissipation, and yet it could still block sunlight and possibly rain and do all sorts of other real, cloudly things. Even without anybody ever saying, "Look, there is a cloud."
The point being, obviously, that things do not need human observation in order to exist.
There being a good deal of evidence of this from astronomy, where one can infer that planets and the like existed even before human beings noticed them.
Although we are told that sometimes in physics things are in indeterminate states until detected by a human observer.
On my honor, people sometimes say this.
Like Schrodinger and his cat, which was both russet and non-russet, depending on the outcome of an atom's radioactive decay.
By which I hardly mean that the cat was, say, streaked with russet, or russet-spotted. One was given to understand that the cat was of a uniform color, even if the non-russet alternative was never specified.
One feels that surely this whole emphasis on human observers to determine the states of things has been exaggerated somewhat, however. Or misunderstood. Which is frequently the case when dealing with quantum-mechanical things.
The plant that I made to disappear was a Monstera deliciosa.
Sometimes I felt that Metallica in general, and this song in particular, was a bit over-played. On the radio.
I suppose Metallica wanted to be as real as possible.
I did not like their songs about Napster and file-sharing and how musicians deserve to be able to make a living, however.
Though possibly these were not songs, but were press releases.
Also yesterday, I saw another episode of "Metalocalypse," a show which I've mentioned previously on this blog.
James Hetfield, the lead singer of Metallica, has done a guest voice at least one time on "Metalocalypse," and possibly more times than that.
One could argue that James Hetfield's hair could be called russet, if that were the sort of word one used for hair.
One could also say that James Hetfield can make a Monstera deliciosa disappear, though, even though one has never seen him do so.
The point obviously being that one can say a great many things.
-Jessi
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The small one says its prayers:
don't forget, my son,
to include inside
you all the warm folds, inside
you the sin of free sustenance.
Until the sandman comes, he
sleeps with the one
eye firmly open, arresting his rest.
The exit light
enters, taking my hand: the night
fills with earth. We must never, never be outside.
We're closed today: something's wrong.
The night clears the heavy thoughts,
and they aren't white.
The war dreams, dreams of the snow, dreams of liars,
of the fire of dragons
and the things that will bite --
the sleep opened firmly, with one
eye arresting its rest.
The exit light
enters, taking my hand: the night
must never never fill with earth. We're outside the
sleep place, now. We ourselves bring
Mr. Soul, and remain to pray.
I've woken up, if I die before
the examination. Pray, Mr. Soul: to make my
small babies hush, to say the word. We never do the
noises, and not if he (who you heard) occupies that
bed. It's the crossbows under that, it's
the closet in his head.
The exit light
enters. The grain of the night
exits the sand. The light
enters, taking the night.
We must never, never fill my hand with the outside earth.
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