The Cat Is Un Gato - Poem by Rusty Gentry
In my asylum there are no words classified as of the lexical variety;
Neither words to give away nor any to steal from myself.
There is only the enigma of language disguised by the simulacrum of communication.
A Mobius strip infinitely folding & unfolding upon & into itself.
Understanding of miscomprehension constituting the sine qua non of (mis) understanding.
Méconnaissance on a macro scale.
For my Bedlam encompasses the world.
A world gone insane by virtue of linguistic ineptitude,
Or, language pushed beyond the pale of sanity, because of the world in which it is imprisoned?
Impossible to tell: for the tale is itself dependent upon the very language being interrogated.
Is it a situation where the fox is interrogating the hen, or an inverted world in which the hen interrogates the fox, who genuflects to a pond of catfish, as likely as anything else to be Holy?
Language is the house of Being, if we are to believe Heidegger.
Being is the house of insanity, if we are to believe Rusty.
Madness is the delimitation of the finitude into which we are infinitely enfolded.
Hence, we have the paradox of the Mobius strip, the solution to which would result in the proliferation of yet another infinite set of paradoxes.
Thus, if language is the house of Being,
Being is the house of Paradox. (But we always knew that to be so.)
Paradox is Being's ultimatum to itself as arbiter of knowledge through language, carrying within itself the perpetual risk of the madness, which lives in its heart.
Or, so it seems to me as if the argument is sufficiently clear to this point, something upon which I hope most of us can agree.
Alas, we encounter the brick wall of the metaphysical with a bone crushing smack just at that point at which we attempt to draw any type of conclusion for the guidance of human life from the relationship between language, existence, paradox, madness, and, yes, even death.
Above all, beware of he who exhibits just the slightest bit too much exigency over his claims to sanity.
For madness is, by definition, absolutely certain of the strength of its epistemological situation.
Anyone who is honest will acknowledge that they are either too ignorant, too confused, too tired, or a combination of all three to do much more than pretend with every bit of conviction at their disposal, that language is as perfectly transparent as 99% believe it to be.
And, who would be perfidious enough to insist that a cat is un gato?
Thus, disturbing the sleep of the other 1%
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