The truer path is to understand that Answerlessness is the source code of life and of reality. I'll say it again : the verb is the slope we live on, the noun is the gravestone at the end of the slope. It's an unbalanced ledger, there is no profit or loss until nouns revert to an animal form, a verb with whiskers.
The Everywhen of the First Australians. Oh sure, go ahead call it a "cultural time concept" and damn your eyes if you really are that tired.
"Who is being liquidated to make this noun?" He ended up teaching Journalists. And while he most likely never asked Who is being liquidated to make this noun and while I might have once painted the corner of his roof where the paint on a soffit was flaking, it was his book Moral Panic that granted me an insight into his way of thinking. The question asked of journalists comes from Bobby not from the author of Moral Panic. And yes, it was Bobby put that question into Geoff Mungham's mouth.
As a species our problem is we have lost our whiskers and as a result our subconscious prevents our animal form from floating away into an answerless tangle that enables the cat to engage in verbing or catting. Instead, our species, we dwell in "The Demand for Answers," a moral panic, and proud we are of being human as a result. A curious boy, or Warren Zevron's Just an Excitable Boy who rubbed pot roast on his chest, desecrated the graves of his victims but was he just an excitable boy or as a boy had he been traumatized by a cruel aunt. Leave it to Hollywood or Journalist and television producers to find something to tickle us with.
Puts you right off suits, ties, blondes and haircuts. Finished nouns they are, with mirrors to stare into, wardrobes and plastic surgeons to keep them special and sweet. Kill me now, you charismatic archetype, the Angel of History sees the wreckage of your verbs, that frightened little person underneath and in you I see a servitude.
Mungham might have asked the question "Are you obeying or are you finished?" Are you a Managed Asset or a Byzantine General? Whose chain do you polish princess?
As Baxter and I rapidly deteriorate into the wastelands of old age and retardation we are very aware of an empty-mindedness that takes solace from staring at the ceiling and trying to remember what a word such as David Bohm's holoflux means. Holo comes from the Greek for Whole. Flux comes from the Latin for A Flow. The noun holoflux means an infinite moving and undivided whole. It should be easy! But it's not.
Another collection of thoughts that emerge from the demi-noun moving within an infinite and undivided whole, otherwise known as the slope of a Holoflux, there is another full-noun that could be built on the idea of "An Enclosure of Meaning." Lets put it this way, every static noun contains the wreckage of the verb it used to be. Or if you prefer, once in the cemetary of a dictionary, a noun, the husk of itself forgets the drops of conscious experience that created it, its meaning covered by moss it gets lost in wilderness, dried up and shrivelled.
Think of it as a demi-noun, half man and half god. Here, a set of meanings is approaching the Anvil. That anvil is going to beat that set of meanings into a demi-noun. When the set of meanings are hammered out those meanings are basically lost to an "Enclosure of Meaning." Meanwhile as a "Demi-Noun" on its way to the dictionary, it is verbing, or rolling,whistling cheerful and determined toward its fate as a static noun which in time will soon gather the moss of the enclosure where I would like to think as a noun it soon begins to suspect it's not fully understood, or it's being taken for granted by a heuristic short-cut that avoids the effort of fully understanding ir, in political speak our demi-noun becomes "a talking point" and as a short cut it doesn't mean anything this side of posture.
Here's a verb: "Inhabiting the Wreckage."
You can see it in the contrast between Leibniz's "best of all possible worlds" when put beside Voltaire's Candide. Leibniz was blind optimism, a reaffirmation of God's perfection along with his calculus, his binery mathematics and ever widening understandings of our world. Voltaire's Candide with its final reference to a philosophy of hope with its final passage "we must cultivate our garden," a reference to useful work and an examined life, which on first publication was banned by a Front Row who saw blasphemy in a ripping yarn that included rapes, disembowelments and the horrors of the Lisbon earthquake of 1755.
Mind you a language of verbs would require non-linear thought patterns, an embrace of answerlessness that revealed the empty spectacle of that Triad of Optimisim called The Trinity.
Voltaire didn't stop with the philosophers. He minutely observed the Grandeur of Kings and what he interpreted as the Heroic Butchery of war rather than the Utility of war. He saw the Inquisition as downright bungling. The Great Council of Geneva decided that Candide was contrary to "religion and good morals" and they ordered Candide burned. Soon enough the Parliament of Paris followed suit.
But Volataire knew he was a Back Row boy. He claimed he'd translated Candide from the German. The book had been written by a German called Dr. Ralph, that was all he knew, not his fault. As Samizdat - clandestine, self-published, and underground distribution of state banned literature - Candide sold 30,000 copies in its first year
