When they spoke of gibberish, they concluded when it comes to literature, if it makes sense to one mind alone then it doesn't make sense. It is never too late to learn: knowledge can be like a mother's love.
On Sunday morning I took a walk with M and her two dogs: the large black dog and the small terrier. We went to the bird sanctuary although I didn't hear any more birds than I hear out my window, and I don't know any of their names. M mentioned the bluebirds. I kept hold of the terrier while she managed the larger dog. She told me her father and mother were from Burma and had attended the same school - or their cousins had - and that they were born in a time where years and days weren't so much noted although her father was ahead of her mother in school so he must be the older and they would never go back. Her father plays racket sports and has been playing tennis despite some trouble with he knee. She herself had been playing tennis but stopped. She asked if we could walk in the early morning while it was cool. We passed a young man with two female friends: one fat one thin. He, also, had two dogs: tethered with rainbow leashes. M's grandmother spent a couple months with each child before rotating to the next family. I have just begun to interact with my grandmother: I meet with her each saturday, when we can, and listen to her speak. I type everything she says. The story dwells in a vacuumed space: and then there are our physical bodies. She showed me the drying skin on her calf: will you go to the doctor, I asked? I was quite stricken as she cares deeply for her appearance. Had she shown her legs to others?
I have stopped looking at art and I have stopped reading books: as if these things (the accrual) are no longer available to me.
K has neat definitions on her walls. _ stores everything in his mind. I have simply touch: I must touch something to know what is to be done with it.
The beginning of Schopenhauer: (you see, though, I'm speaking of it without having passed through the proper permissions yet: but I can't put up the fight): 'all intuitive perception is intellectual.'
What was it _ said about the intellect earlier today? I no longer remember: and this stiffness of memory worries me but the only way to combat it is to allow myself to ignite and no longer require myself to remember. I'm not a symptom of cultural amnesia: it seems more something happening deep within me, the inability to recall. Certainly he was on the other end: that in order to converse, we must all have the same basic definitions of things, and if these definitions cease to commonly exists, then communication fails.