love lace

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Emergences from woolly Logos can be finely designed, a lace of sorts, maybe beyond “poetic” when texted conceptuality eyes a muse
beyond tropical latticing.

Love of lace—of the lace, like authorial love of a story’s evolving,
the mystery drawing her on—would be a love of singularity, like any high poetry (or philosophy itself), though a narrated life (the lacing) evades narrative capture (some “definitive” biographical discourse),
for the sake of potential staying flourishive. Even a story about the dead may never really end, because how one lived is rewritten, as well as reincarnated, in new reading, forever waiting to be.

Thoughts of narrating as evolving needlepoint remind me of Miranda July at the 2009 Venice Biennale (mid-posting there). Ada Lovelace would have adored that—especially supposing the latticework to be
3-dimensional, a hyper-geometricized trope of mentality, anticipating
the Internet as innumerable architectures of technosociality.

I love to think of a designing life—authoriality, or just being well across decades—as “poetic science” (Ada’s conception). Weaves of conceptual adventuring can love well-formedness as truly as loving authorships sailing singular landscapes.

To wit: Does the woolly Logos of Nabokov’s novel Ada—that alleged philosophy of literary Time—proffer some ultimate tropology?
Does “Proust,” the authorship, conceal Marcel, the authoriality, waiting to be found? After Joyce stayed True to his schemas of genesis in the flesh of Ulysses, was Finnegan’s Wake his Ada: another climax of modernist intimations that artists bring all genesis into being with jubilation?

I wonder how luminous Ada would lace loves in our young century.
She might be a Katherine Hayles or Lisa Zunshine.

Anyway Ada, you’re alive! You’re a muse of longing for poetical science to further genesis.

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