The view from my front porch
I (yes, I!)† coined the viral neologism logorrhea several years ago because I'd gotten seriously depressed about never understanding books about Buddhism‡, despite a cornucopiastic cauldron of bulemic upchuck that accompanied my struggles to express what I'd learned, if only to my self. It wore my friends out very quickly, but the flow etched me to the bone before ever I saw any moon in my own skull bucket. It turned out I like art better than narrative. These days I don't understand art either, but I admire it greatly; while language has turned out to be the great linear narrative fallacy, an illusion, dream, map of maps, and a bit of foxy fun.
What's cancer, compared to that? Not much, I say. Not much.
†"Success has many fathers, failure is an orphan." — Anon.
‡D. T. Suzuki's translation (into English!) of The Lankavatara Sutra was one I read cover to cover in 1975, in Washington, D.C., in a sleeping bag on a bare parquet floor in a one-room efficiency on Massachussetts Ave. I was supposed to be working. Perhaps I was. The book is incomprehensible.
Labels: cold water Zen