This is what I call the mysterious, quarklike appearance of ideas. If I don’t grab a pen pronto they slip out. Gone. To flit into someone elseâ€™s brain or dream, someone whoâ€™ll write them down into something great, if theyâ€™re not lazy like me, or to tunnel straight through the universe on their own unmeasurable trajectory.
Thatâ€™s my fear if I donâ€™t nail these “thought quarks” down with language. Someone will get credit for something I forgot. I prefer to say, â€œDamn, I wish Iâ€™d thought of that!â€ Thatâ€™s when I know itâ€™s someone elseâ€™s thoughtquarks I relish.
To symbolize sudden brainwaves:
I like to transform thoughtquarks into words, into language. Musicians translate them into notes measures movements. Mathematicians use numbers–otherwise meaningless symbols, to construct a physical or imaginary yet logical to me illogical event. We all know numbers donâ€™t exist; theyâ€™re just a concept, a thought quark gone stable. Inventors give us things like better toilet seats and cool rockets. The first rocket was invented by a cartoonist.
Ah, to translate the thoughtquark into symbolsâ€”before the idea subsidesâ€”to pop up somewhere else, in and out of the universal mind, pop goes that weasel. Jacques Derrida says thereâ€™s no creativity or originality, all thoughts are derivative and come from a chain of something else along the long line of perceiving humans.
Thought quarks: Brain going on and offline, connecting. To? To nothing but our imaginary constructs and if French philosophers toil hard enough they can deconstruct these words, ideas, novelties into subparticles of rote chemical transmissions. Funsucker!
Cheers to the writers who translate epiphany (from the sacred to the profane to the preferably absurdly droll) into words, edification, entertainment, nonetheless.
I have zillions of tiny pieces of papers, receipts, napkins, notebooks, beer-stained dreams filled with these mental senses that pop in unawares and pop out just as quickly.
I thought these senses needed to be worked out in a novel, poem, or short-story; turfed onto some character, setting, plot situation, essay.
Now, I turf them to you. Pop goes the Blog! (how slow and unwieldy language is, and fun).
All art is an object you can toss into the air to admire and forget as it disappears before hitting the ground. Not before changing something else, though, before transmitting something.