Litter Struggle (quickly, there I am in an adverb)

The literal quest for the real is subject to no mean difficulty. In language we are straining to convey the reality of our experiences and the world around us. We repeat, 'literally', that, 'basically', things appear to us 'blatantly'. Conversely though, affirmation comes not from individuation, but from a kind of wanton generalising - a fullness of reality is seen in things we judge to be 'totally', 'completely', 'wholly', or 'absolutely' something. We put great emphasis on the authenticity of experience, the first-hand sense of it, but have to resort to its quintessence as the symbol of wider field of meaning to give it value. It is the old catch 22, that I am meaningful only in so far as I mean the same as everyone else, and therefore struggle to mean anything distinct at all. There is also the denial of this danger of oblivion-through-commonality. Many things that happen that are deemed to be inexplicable are described as 'random'. "What a coincidence!" The very idea that there is some sort of recognition of an incidence of two disparate things coming together, negates their disparity. Coincidence is a nonsense. Or rather, coincidence is the problem of perfect sense. It is the way in which perfect sense must be denied, held at bay, the way we must expel it from our communal psyche into the realm of the random and haphazard, for fear that in recognising its wholly contiguous nature we would annihilate our individuality. We all have our own i-pod so that we can be identically individual in listening to our 'personal stereo'. The duality inherent in the notion of the singular. Singular from what? Many have sought the perfect minimum of meaningful reflection. Sancho Panza happiest in the company of only his ass. Don Quijote himself, best able to expound his individuality to Sancho Panza alone. Tristram Shandy's most singular autobiography, a self-referential chaos. The iconic cigarette, the smoke and mirror of the lonely mind. Consider the problem of 'celebrity', so often a condition in great conflict with 'personality'. A mob-rape of the locus of desirability. The superstars of the forever more infinite finite galaxy of our empty-me players! Infinity to the power of infinity. Nothing - you lose. Music to the tune of my choice.