What are the relational metaphysics of Tuesday compared to Monday?

What are the relational metaphysics of Tuesday compared to Monday?

Compared to the oppressive goals of an old essentialism? I cannot truly

know the essence of Tuesday or any other day, not through study

or precisely-wrought out regimens. The work week is cruelly made,

no doubt. Desmond calls it unfair. If reality exists as a surplus

even beyond the causal interactions of dust and raindrops,

then I will continue to wish for more sleep, regardless of how much

sleep I actually get, for sleep is never fully expressed. The cyclopes

were of three groups, according to ancient mythographers. Some were

Gods, some were shepherds, and some were wall-builders. This is

not an appeal to a sound, table-thumping materialism and I don’t not

concur with the mythographers. Once we speak of objects–of cyclopes–

in terms of surprise and opacity, we cannot reduce them to their actions

and relations any more than to their ultimate pieces. The atoms of

a cyclops are just as real as a cyclops, and the hours and minutes

as real as the days. I feel bent, I mean refracted, by the transition

from day to day, but there’s no hidden essential core to me or my

atoms, or to any mythological creature that might or might not

come along. I’d like to be a shepherd on an island, at least occasionally.

There is existential potential in being an isolated, monstrous

tender of sheep. No hidden materiality, just the simultaneous 

participation in all of the modes other than the one we happen 

to be considering at any given moment. The spontaneous appearance

of dumplings and the flattening of attention, the achromatin

un-coloring, maybe undistinguishing, continuum of experience. 

I have wanted to go to Iran my entire life, to eat the same food

that nourished me in my mother’s womb, see the birthplace

of the founder of a religion I no longer subscribe to but still think

of with fondness. Is it possible to be fond of a religion one has

rejected? No one has direct access to political truth, there is 

no unpopular thing-in-itself, as such. I can make a poem without

knowing what the poem is about. I’m better with sentences,

but knowing the content of a sentence is a tenuous endeavor,

too. The sentence is made of words. The sentence expresses

an idea. When Trump tweets that “a whole civilization will die

tonight,” he threatens genocide. What redress is there for such

a statement, as if a sentence is not both its words and its action.

There’s an obvious and permanent difference between a thing and 

knowledge of it. I expected to feel overwhelmed by parenting

without knowing what being overwhelmed would be like. Knowledge

of the Easter egg is not the egg. “It’s not even Easter,” Coco said

when they looked for eggs on Monday after school. “Yes,” I say,

“but yesterday was too rainy for the Easter Bunny.” In the house,

the light from all the lamps and windows unites into the light,

but each light source and its light are distinct, too. The undifferentiated

light and the undivided brightness. But what do we do about shadows,

which are also a part of the light in the house? If anything brings together

the poets and the philosophers, it is the claim to a non-knowledge

that is nonetheless not just negative. It’s not all or nothing.