THE ART OF TOPOGRAPHY

When assessing the framework of how to spot evil or goodness in others, it is relative to our insight—of our expansiveness, or innocence. The ability we have for noticing this may hit an uncanny transcendence, beyond the limits of our willingness to accept these images in ourselves.

Tenderness towards qualities of good, and glaring criticisms toward evil, are common today, however yet both perhaps smack as irreverent, as without the mortar fully mapped in the building and perimeter lines of our personal blueprints.

We call out others, and within private reflection we can only hope—the interaction with this is us agog.

We stumble onto the next dilemma, complexity, or nuance. We are forgiving, and rational, we believe we have to be—it’s the others who are not—no?

Here we seek a place of our own, among transitory certainties of familiar life believed to be (again, we hope) good.

Our convictions, our competitions, our verve—assured objectively or universally in our communities and lives, proviso upon proviso, beneath the common skyline—find us beyond the atonement of being on our knees with such bravado before the needle—the perforations through the back of life—this map we must trace, a history we must call upon wiser methods for.

Here I say: there is art in topography itself.

This ought to be definitive, the very goodness and carbon matter and solid edging we have accepted manifold inside us—yet without conviction, choosing to do so from experienced and understood evils; we are left with the schism formulae of modern compulsions, ignoring the unconscious, from our blind spots in ourselves; unhappily, succumbing to these abstractions, refractions, prisms. Ripened out of these small othernesses (qualities we are perhaps shy of ourselves committing in various weights, flights or guilts and complexes) finds a straw man in various charades, experiences from the unconscious are left short the fully human ribbons at the finish line.

We are, after all is said and done, as we strive for experience, responsibility, and good, more susceptible to the ante and defilement and ad hoc buckle of ourselves among others in our blind spots.

Do we behold our sense of self crystalline and honestly? Our blood types we obtain from various stones bloody, running through our sinewy fibres and expressions? As we hyper focus: over our dietary needs to the poorly masked waiter in the trendy little cafe? At this hour of Wednesdays sunlit midline—Christ.

But maybe, it does so regardless, the best indication of a person with know-what-know-hows hard yards in earned love for others, perhaps moves with affinity for near every fragment of love for the stranger choice, in the zeitgeist, finding themselves softening to another, at the climax of an emerging outfit and personal wandering, finds mise en scene resplendent in their day to day.

~

Of course, society holds individuals and movements who tried to build an intrinsic umbrella in the system over the past 75 years, their consolidations were softer than logic, more porous than reason. They have been permeated into sense and lore.

Yet as of the latest geopolitical presidential election, the ensuing hardliner rationale coda, they are up for inquiry, as we wait for the mystic sages to reveal our Deus Ex Machina.

What we have choice for us only our attitude to our responsibilities, and our awareness of our follow-through is, hopefully, our ability to align our love for the skyline through this penultimate destination's knowing-of ourselves.

The ugliness of the real world—perhaps our great tragedy, the transparency of our individual sins, darkest aversions and digressions from our innocence—unearthed, is now stated as an honest mantra of our illegitimate human equations, it is our inability to tolerate any and all qualifier of others, aliens, humanities. Ad nauseum. What of compassionate solid wholeness, in the study of what we have not had the time to consider in private reconciliation.

In saying this, of course we are all choosing. Among these mercurial realities (these extremes, loose in precipitations varied in late civilisation's cul-de-sacs and vertices; the frenzied altered storm cloud formations in characters and inner passions), we further lay claim to land of our compassions and our enlightenments, towards ourselves and others, if we pause to see the whole sequence of society and our discontents in the artful transgressions from the safety of the equations black and white known.

Developing despite the goodness in appearance, despite the inalienable familiar of the modern contour lines.

And yet, we must pay homage to our private thoughts and wants and itches and doubts, with the implacable feeling, the lack of easy answers.

The ellipsis is no longer stoic textured in the classic medium. Palimpsest. As our technology and apathy finds indifference inside of transformed culture waves, as our thumbs epileptically spasm out our need to not delude ourselves in the womb like transmutations of embryos smacking of malformed posture.

When was the last time we paused to address our touchstones looking inside, outside looking inside?

~

Whichever path or abstraction it may be that is yours, as the heel digs to the light shining in the horizon, perhaps even gleaming bright yellow with DISCOUNTED ITEM! disorienting you, we occupy our mind with life's enthrallment, and we are entwined as brighter, inside ourselves. We can dully measure geometrical, emotional, elaborate detours, as closely with our kindness, among the inhuman outlines—the kicker, how to do so whilst preserving our softened irresolute humanity.

Here the Jungian perhaps is the blemish in the microcosm embodied by the supermarket trolley, trailing in the aisles of our personal responsibilities wan, of generic tinned tomatoes and packet pasta cornucopia. Branded Goods, from the very supermarkets Suda genera snarling business profiles we know defines them as predators themselves. And what of the effect to ourselves, we ask for the schools of thought to surmise, losing the softer pieces of pointlessness.

Considering ad nauseam ...

The messages broadcast in the culture malapropisms, which we all move with loyalty towards, blind from the coy wildlife, the beacon sanctimony in varying degrees of institutions and their critics approaching, impressed upon our deep-seated hearts’ tendernesses, varying shades of crimson blood flow ensuing its spilled torrents on the impossibly steel-like screeches bent from mics and pulpits and balconies and tellies. Here there is a call assembly of alternative-line’s objectives, a racially motivated march—or was it purely macroeconomics, schools of wisdom for either side fizzled in deluges flowing—with the violent ends of composed goodness that we find inside the technicolour society streams of political motives—framed in the supine viewing of such moments of pause, of our private reconciliations, if we have a moment to prepare responsibility with the palatable seasons. Even the summary of such nuance, in and of itself, as half-baked commentary, as the podcasts are peered through the vacuum of cannabis clouds on this Monday Sickie with my roommate. One can’t help noticing lines of logic in the fractured distaste getting comfy in home-truths stranger than fictions, the sophistry, jutted from the sense of clear narrative in quietness.

Taking a moment to expand there, the fundamentalism perhaps places semiotics, story, as a support system for a well-contained self—our stories we have to distil from the omniscience of facts everywhere, all the time. Too, philosophical disparities, and curmudgeon-like photo copies of the famed household characters that unify through routinely broadcasted messages of common ground in their varied medias, witch doctors, compared to the data analytics: permeated throughout the institutions, medias, officials and our rickety frames and systems, the sorted-to-type Wittgenstein Tractatus, their Simplified Chimeras a cohesive polymer, for things out of the ordinary lines of reason, entombed by the madness in our modern maps and unease.

Sour taste, a grimace by nature, to this absurd theatre and strange fiction, as is only the new normal to deep-seated blindness of ourselves, others—our kindness germinated through the sidewalk of the cold cadavers left over from such violence in todays á la cart offer.

If we succumb to rationale without the art in topography itself, we’d not have mention of new scions blossoming growths, surprisingly faint in hope—yearning for.

Maybe a small scale, private reconciliation of ourselves, our systems, imperfectly O.K., and largesse, by arms wider embrace, humanity is witnessed by shared transients, maybe we find equals threading the internal rhythms we have not accounted for.

Not as a war cry, so much as a maestro, in wait of the lesser assuredness towards—our temperance.

Too. Language singing vibrato its fragmentary myriad—its hate, its soured shit cowardly acts with political manifesto—when out of Spiritus Mundi’s broadcast messages. Our lousy lines, dated beneath our weighted bearing.

Perhaps need for connecting such abstractions across and the wisdoms, of the fondness in these minor expressions of thought, is how we find the ultimate truth: that Zen, goodness and evil, inside our place in the universe. That there is little care for the nuances we find inside ourselves.

A hebephrenia, a bullshit, in these wanted expressions.

2.

That abstracts we do not consider, in our current time and place.

Frank L Cale is an Australian writer exploring likeness, dissonance, and the ways language reconstitutes belief. Faith.