I spent an afternoon planning a winter 2016 motorcycle loop but thought better of it as I noticed the mud I’ve been pedaling through to work. So I made a word salad about mud.
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A quiet squeak reminds me I meant to oil the chain.
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Like faith or politics, winter fog appears profound to the extent it presents a blank canvas to reflect our own impressive predilections, our own ontological prejudices about what’s really there.
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From pulpit, podium or pundit, we acquiesce to meanings asserted precisely when clarity is absent, assuming sovereign regalia, though invisible, signifies superior insight. There’s a YouTube video, after all.
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Election season brings these thoughts to mind as I bike the now-empty path from home to downtown — so much fideistic energy spent defending synthetic propositions.
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Ironic claims of perspicuity supplant empiricism. Little evidence is so clear as our own ideas reflected back to us. Besides, anything else exceeds 140 characters.
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We move forward nonetheless knowing the ice and fog face the inexorable embers of rationality. They cannot last. The clock never ticks back.
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I stop to take a final picture along Warm Springs Avenue. I think I might have enough images to make a little set and bloviate with a couple beers later.
by Jason Abbott