Inchoate Praxis or Something like That

Inchoate Praxis or Something like That

Praxis, “the synthesis of theory and practice without presuming the primacy of either”. Waking from daydreams into related realities, without losing the memory of the former. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, the instant after the inchoate becomes choate again.

Neologism, ignis fatuus or will-o-the-wisp. Deuteronomy, devārīm, Moses or Josia, the “Lord is One” but why? Primordial loneliness leading to impaired judgment but if it’s the only judgment, who cares? Especially if there are no who’s to care. Or is that whom’s?

A white rabbit somewhere, at some point wondered whether Tallulah Alleluia Bankhead (perhaps Brockman is a better divisor) had ever really pondered the Alabama version of the Torah and whether that might explain how she’d eventually emerged from the other side of the looking glass.

“I’ll take a pass” said a tall, thin man, or was he a thin tall man, or did he say “I’ll take a piss”. He glanced at his watch, pausing to puff on his meerschaum pipe and adjusting his seemingly odd hat while, from a hidden alcove, a dangerous demoiselle murmured in a husky voice, “better luck next time”.

A misty fog with an odor of smog, in hues of purple and green phases to red white and blue and then fades from choate to inchoate, the streams of time reversing course, practitioners gathering to debate reality determine that it sucks and issue a call for better remedial theories.

Praxis looks on from a veiled alcove, disguised as an attractive young woman incongruously sitting in a lifeboat, either gloating or mourning or perhaps both, but very quietly (unusual). She slips from realities back into daydreams and from daydreams into visions and from visions into nightmares.

A moderator walks up to a heavy, very old-fashioned wooden podium, a sheaf of ancient papers in his even older hands. He clears his throat and looks around, a nervous frown on his face; he gazes towards the nonexistent audience seeking for someone he no longer remembers, then he walks away.

Praxis, the synthesis of theory and practice without presuming the primacy of either. Waking from daydreams into related realities, without losing the memory of the former. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, the instant after the inchoate becomes choate again.
_______

© Guillermo Calvo Mahé; Manizales, 2017; all rights reserved

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