💾 Archived View for tilde.pink › ~imbrica › en › log › 2022-03-31-arithmetic.gmi captured on 2022-04-28 at 17:50:14. Gemini links have been rewritten to link to archived content
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Thu Mar 31 12:22:18 -03 2022
Arithmetic, one of the elementary fields in Mathematics, that's quite the kind of word that makes me think about how knowledge is held behind veils and veils.
I've been learning basic math things I ignored for long years. It's great, the feeling of overcoming old barriers.
Academic spaces are full of police figures, who talk about "separating the wheat from the chaff". It's a place where your body is managed, or at least one where it's presumed your body can be managed.
Regardless, at the end of the day, there's a sense of pleasant exhaustion. It's not a complaint about having your mind exploited, more than that, it's about having found gaps, paths where you can escape through.
I'm not afraid, at least I don't want to be afraid anymore, of the voice that always seeks the purest path to dissidence, the path that's strict, that doesn't touch anything the system has touched. There are too few resources to try that.
More than my own problematizing — which I mostly keep to myself —, it's quite a reactionary nerve.
As in many texts I've posted here, there's always this duplicity. And I think that to inhabit the web too much, to read too much, has that effect on you. Wanting to have a view that's so critical that any conformity makes you feel guilty and ashamed of yourself.
That's called an identity conflict, and to have identity conflicts you must either have an identity or have it denied.
And, to be fair, I'm so tired of that. I've already given my gender to charity.
Sometimes I don't want to talk like someone whose objective is being understood, getting the message across. Just express it, let the shapes, the images, be themselves the testimony of it all. At the edge of poetry.
But more and more it seems that an allergy to that spreads.
Words choose themselves. I have nothing to do with it. My hands want to dance, my tongue wants to stay still, my eyes don't want to explain anything.
I put aside all perfectionism, all desire to be radical or too different from the abject supremacist sitting to the side. My eyes don't meet his, my mystery is eternal, it's to decipher code, social code, algorithmic code, legacy code.
I'm still living poetry, crazy in the actual sense, meaningless, just as much semantic as nihil, trying to figure out what "us" means, what "you" means, what "I" means, without ever assenting to the first answer given.
I hear voices, those that were burnt in my memory. I take in judgments and they reverberate forever. Someone who's empowered in one frame looks admirable, a genius, a queen. In another they can be psychotic, sick, a megalomaniac.
And it's not just a matter of perspective. It's not only in the eye of the beholder, or in the catalog of psychopathologies.
I'll stop here because I have lots to understand yet. As always, thank you, thank you so much, for your visit. 🐈️