To render dub-sar-tur auteur

Introduction

A Sumer-reiterating poetic nonprofessional, versed in verse unrestrained by enterprise-ready training and poring over atypical inspiratory sources with the idea that something will provide a compositionally relevant deontic sense and a capacity within itself to be referenced, soon notices the Bronze Age poetics' worldliness despite having hitherto, for all intents and purposes, sought transcendentality within the compositions, such a material attachment's presence somehow contradicting a deep-seated root acting out a supposed spiritual connection in some supposed way characteristic of earlier human society alone, lost to time, princely office upon princely office having been brought out from the house, the repetitions describing predominantly measurements within the sections expressing a belief grounded in being on this god-departed earth opposite celestial onlooks carefully inclined in design to become unquestionable to apprehend suicidal maniac-philosophers through a system of asebeia, and this violent dissonance strikes a tritonal chord against a sacred modal harp tuned to the Mixolydian of Lesbian Sappho partly lost to time, a void in consonance's supposedly purposeful place (in one's head) suggesting to the inner eye untrained a lack of prosodic knowledge within the language itself, a grammar of literature insufficient to interface with the poorly-known structures of Emegir itself dwelling inside the long-died-out minds of a people having undergone mystery attrition to storange in loanword reliquaries in later tongues of the Near East, and such a conception may persist for an indefinite duration, even becoming regularly cited for the purposes of chiding those having seen more in the oppressive copying of morphosyntactic structures line-to-line and left-justified, but all is wrong already, for the only path approaching objective towards infinity is cherishing the long-lost intentions at the whims of which these documents came into existence, as sudden, immediate, and sporadic as the emergence of writing itself inside a society. Had the assumption of writing as a wholly subconscious progress connected intrinsically to the generatively-hypothesized instinct of the spoken tongue persisted in its entirety with X-bar subconstituents forming entire contrary countries resolving diplomatically through the transformation/Xn all potential conflict in arbitrary mechanisms with features which exist for reasons yet also on account of nothing in particular at all, there would be no author to self-reference, no necessity for criticism or any literary designations for the conscious patterns exercised from the orature era into "proper" oratory in turn bleeding out into transcriptions politically intended to form identities, only recorded on account of the ability of a new concept of Greekness to unite disparate city-states prone to civil war against an invasive Achaemenid enemy exemplified in its own ends by the Cyrus cylinder and pictured through Herodotian judgments despite the state's eventual consumption in Heraclitean fire so often disputed by post-Socratics, which is, of course, an intention twisted, an archaic story repeatedly rewritten through retellings received by recitation regeneratively and memorized through formulae which had to be conceptualized in at least one mind far prior to their realization in the manuscript tradition we cannot study on account of its disappearance, intents only available in reference with millennia having passed us by, yet lacking any regard for the march of time having made tomes fragmentary, we deduce elements and construct a sparse zuihitsu on each antiquarian author's behalf provided at least one quotation and biography back up such a figure, a conception from which we may derive our textual criticisms, our watchful gazes centered on the long-ago, the bygone, and that which perhaps continues to influence the present in ways we may or may not discern quick, but are nonetheless made apparent to the scholar who notices a symbolic gesture in Ovid's placements of chiasmus, often ultimately standing on the shoulders of antiquity's giants in the process, an unbroken tradition of intent layering into itself more and more intent even in interpolations, figures forming in the process. The erudite one having written over a whole lifetime under necessitatedly assumed authorial choice having been professionalized and thus methodically turned into a source of meager income reads in among prior legends' oeuvres details no matter their supposed insignificance and discovers a personal meaning to be communicated at least in part, be it the last thing they do or the first they do they believe matters, noting singular choices of one word as opposed to alternatives buried like hatchets in the perpetually reborn lexicon, a mental dictionary in a confused state between samsaric rebirth and mere eternal return, always changing in the same direction even if appearing the other per typological unidirectionality established in principle by linguists, this mental commentary defined by, despite the inherent shortcoming of the studied author's psychology's prenegotiated absence-inaccessibility, meticulous associations which may themselves be interpreted with the zeal by which Alexander Vovin died adapting the Man'yoshu into its most effective English representation to date, mayhaps taking into account Ezra Pound's abstractions in "his" Cathay whereby a new work emerged loosely knotted to the signals and signs differentiating brushstrokes initially calligraphic - but soon in woodblock - from one another, the annotations made to the Aeneid by Servius Grammaticus centuries after Vergil's death and ultimately preserving lifetimes' worth in commentaries for which it is impossible to determine an equivalent weight in gold, silver, bronze, or heroics, the mere concept of scholia, or any other lengthy tradition or pristine example having sporadically emerged just the same, yet even as I construe such a lofty association between the established past and the inglorious present, I must emphasize that even among the ones who refuse writing, those who abandon all fashion of reading to slice page in half with burning fasces, and those who believe creative professions carry an inherent degree of distrust about themselves in the same way actors were denied burial rites were they not to rescind their lives' works, interpretations always exist, and thus intentional detail must always exist to nurture hermeneutics and criticism, whatever they may be called, based in some regard or another on other interpretations in the process of composing.

The intentions having long lurked in my arteries and thus circulated throughout the landscape of my veins forming plaques which have bound me to record in documentation for the sake of my health and creating a lack of infamy's intense inflammation each and every thought I deem sufficiently impactful on the surrounding experiential reality to which I am bound even if failing necessarily to impact others' phenomenologies outright, I intend resolutely to intend as if tending to do so has since initial inception been replaced unceremoniously with the substitute of purposeful unknowing which permeates the wills that carry us most often to greener pastures and deeper waters of a greater residence time than should be licit in a world of rivers unstepped in twice, and thus seldom do great thinkers anymore exit their cramped dwellings, be they New York City apartments suffering from a rent ceiling blown off in a tornado or secluded in Wyomingite perma-sorrow living lives of prayer and penance for the quite conscious quotidian choice of resounding Americanness' worldly persistence, all wasting away in a tragedy of images, unpaid even in exposure or mere sub-scene suzerainty for their ostensibly Sisyphean efforts touring the world from the comfort of a room, which comes as an anecdotal recognition I mention on account of the lack of proper accounts thereof uncontaminated by other anecdotes and paucally numbering their distinctive details, influenced yet governed by purpose in their poverty of expressive description for strange predicaments predicated on loneliness and indeed belief in unintentionality, a total social determinism fatalist in determining a destiny in absolutes reduced to their most concentrated possible solutions - even though there is shame in none of it and none of them on their part are as deserving of superiority as Kesh, the frailty an imaginative product with domain and range, both supposed to be reckonable with ease - and such accounts inspire a greater floridness in this sub-pectore I submit to metaphorical competition as for the singing of arms and the man, a lengthy incipit in Kafkaesque Germanic "run-on" sentences, and thus I find it is due time for my exposure to increase in this common dark setting from a unique angle of the lens, and thus the dark appears more navigable following its development, an illusion of the eye.

Intentionality

Given that to intend with care is perceivable more readily than anything to be found within the inattentive hand with its verbal brushstrokes disorderly not paleographically, but on a much higher level interfacing with elusively underlying syntax of the phrase and sentence, ever-debated and ill-defined semantics, functional and appropriately fit-to-situation tailorable pragmatics, and rhetorically observable discourse, some may easily define unintentionality as a function of a pauper writer unversed in purpur or pretending to the Tyrian colors with disorderly, unrefined prose thought of as a usurper of a throne better spent on an author of the various canons, yet even though this instant razor of Occam's precedes sliced bread by centuries, both are but logical conveniences designed to deter indirect illogic from being applied amidst lies and claims that simplicity rules all - claims which perhaps always best fit a feed-aggregating link site where all metaphorical "graphic design pornography" exchanges among its myriad forums seem to value simple comic wit above abstracted technical skill, at least in my wearily isolated, quite unimpressed lumina - despite contradicting factors which allow the conscious application of illogic some space in the mind, anyone's mind at all, for indeed the surrealists consciously valued illogic and disconnection, even extensively philosophizing around its sensical periphery as justification for their work, but unintentionality predominantly functions as a rhetorical weapon against effective integrations of illogic into a body of work which argues points, conveys information, effects sensation, and so on. The illegible carries with it varying hues of intention the glyph-insertions bereft of discernible definition carefully or carelessly half-encode, but visible disorder nonetheless provides scholia and marginalia as corollaries and caveats to the more readily establishable search for objective truth among philosophers of yesteryear quickly abandoned by some means in this state of postmodernity proper, as with all or at least most things entirely impermanent or perceivable as such, and everything commentates, quotes, and decides what is worthwhile to record given that there always accompanies information deemed extraneous, the visual snow clouding the outlook of an author famed for abstract thought bleeding into their descriptive paucity and contributing to the mission to impress a fewness in detail instated on account of confidence in the true appearance of nothing subjective being known, Aristotle asserting a reality to influence generations of Christ-loving monastics philosophizing when or when not drunk on their own produce. Surmise that even automatic writing requires consciousness prior to its inception, the intention of reporting a contact to worlds beyond this mere semblance more authentically communicating as an oracular judgment kept only in Herodotus' near-complete earliest universal history, the ruiners of Troy, those who would call themselves Greeks, desperate to draw common truths in their quest to defeat would-be conquerors from a foreign land, an illusion of unity in war, an identity affirmed by destiners and soothsayers and soon enough a Roman Emperor's appointed haruspices, ready to beckon in the Odoaceric end already and the reinstatement of a king among those who clung so dearly to imperial power for many centuries revised to integrate interruptions into a story which never happened. Whatever benefit seamlessness may bring to those who justify tyranny transiently according to their unpredictable or even aleatoric whims, to presume its presence helps us in instances of texts intruded upon by interpolations made for the smoothing-out of inconvenient ill-fated gaps many centuries after the fact and, as one would expect, so readily identified centuries later still by trained classicists stylistically critiquing a text and piecing together its former structure to the best of their abilities, training agility in skipping between pieces of a disappeared world so clearly to create an apocalypse in the original sense of relevation for the true extent of uninhibited ancient knowledge and creativity, yet despite the exclusion of certain passages of Virgil from his corpus, interpolations remain transcluded bracketed inside classroom editions not unlike those I have used in my own studies both secondary and collegiate, commentated fully with perhaps motives in mind for later generations of scholars to consider why such a passage inhabits the domain of a set of words so carefully arranged on the manuscript page, ultimately without concern for exact truth, instead fully engrossed in learning the earliest picture of the work we may clearly see from codices recovered by Renaissance humanists whose names, too, will be lost to time given enough floating-into-space done by this heliocentrically oriented earth on which we live, though such pessimism is the bane of knowing the now and what came before, the means we use to counteract futures which may destroy us just as much as our creations, and thus intention is inescapable, constant, and widely acknowledged, at least among those who will to understand.

All literature, returning over time to noise so profoundly acidic in scientific measurement it dissolves semantic fields in its spilled reach from the vile vial of vitriolic fragmentation uncautiously released by a scribe whose chemically-derived black ink eats manuscriptural vellum antiphon-encapsulated on a per-word, per-page basis given enough time anyway, turning museum glass to shards unsafe to step in lest studying their refractions and nearby materials' elusive optic birefringence ultimately destroy them once and for all, yet such works are guessable and force observers into living with the knowledge that the knowledge within will be archaeological fodder and myth for forthcoming generations provided they arrive at the rate we're all going today, and intention even if no longer discernible will be imagined fancifully within the critical world on the basis of having been preserved only in titles tiled into palimpsests imperceptible until fully unrolled like Herculanean charred scrolls by means of technology modern and cautiously set aside by the papyrologists who wanted their hands not in the numbers of the Library of Alexandria's figurative burners disrespectful as ever of earnest learners from earlier in the collective process of human thinking, a mental grammar melted down as a colossal monument despite having been spoken only by a few speakers, as in manuscript traditions having perhaps disappeared in knowing or chance thereof forever with the forgetting of things from Linear A's inscription in the Aegean onward - even Michael Ventris died, surely for worse, knowing or more likely believing he would not be able to match his own codebreaking feat - and this is enough to presume that human beings with knowledge of a literary corpus, and any knowledge whatsoever at that, will presume meanings within it and the existence of another human being who wrought such poetic designs knowing that the wind carves no alphabets or logograms and the phenomenon of weathered rocks mistaken for Paleolithic industries has either dissipated from its former ingloriousness or become cliche in nature, and pareidolia occurring on the reader's part may as well have genuinely taken place on the part of the author as an addendum to any existing theoretical frameworks, done in many names for many personal purposes which remain enigmatic to onlookers.

In Closing

Crucial is faith in methodology, at present a waning presence ceasing with cycles, even if cycles also waxing given time aplenty, to illuminate the scribal hands who bind their intentions to meaning so carefully or carelessly to now often computationally assembled words contracted to binary representations themselves ever-unstable, their only constant the chance to be devoured by the disordered march of entropy, and ideas of "unintended" words only serve to torment the passive author not knowing how to realize an active construction as agent rather than patient or to distinguish the two, integrating them into a better system where all actions, even those deemed useless or odd, are deeply intentional, never excluded from processes ongoing in every moment of verbal thought classed not into categories of utility, but rather of intrigue, fielding complaints with illogic as opposed to a perfectly sound system's resonant mystique creeping slow towards a single compass point whereas omnidirectional efforts, no matter how stylistically bizarre, allow for a wider interpretative range and capture intentions just as well as cherished formal brevity as the stylistics of this document have sought to demonstrate by example, all or nothing despite the darkness of the uncapturability of not-everything's looming over the total of the literate or even just language-wielding population, therefore creating a world of valuing bathroom graffiti with its multi-composed woeful seeking-out on the same level as Joyce or his ilk, conceived to work reality itself as potently as possible, albeit unconcerned with what is possible, for anything might be if deontics are temporarily abandoned from time to time and the world just is for once, a fact which requires no verification, an axiom that writing will lead somewhere or another regardless of the finer points defining it, a sign which should bring us hope.