Of course persimmons aren’t trying to taste like apples or pears or a strange mix of the two, or like either of them. Being, tasting like something else, and yet falling short of the margin is the severe condition I’ve put on it for the crime it’s committed of having a physical form, the crime it’s committed of happening to exist in a world where it can be consumed. She came in today, four of them bunched up in a very small plastic bag, so I cut one up and sat on the white-sun balcony and thought about… yeah.
There was as well a bug hovering above the balcony, I don’t know what it was and neither do I care to identify it; hovering flying alone, maybe seeing the fruit or maybe smelling the fruit, not knowing it was being observed by me or maybe knowing and choosing not to fly away. The bugs (I have been assuming) don’t have wings to hover, they have wings to fly in a direction, for food maybe, for the persimmons that they too want to perhaps taste and compare to better or worse things they have had — if I can be so dull as to just extend the senses of taste towards bug (as I have been assuming), if I can prescribe to bug what I have prescribed to persimmon, which is the relation to humans but only the relation. Wings not for hovering is only as such because I think through the cutthroat evolutionary lens rather than the absurd, in that every life has something to prove, that bug has a direction to go and persimmon has something to taste like, that ecology is directional instead of random…
but bug with wings doesn’t care, persimmon with taste doesn’t care, at least not in any sense of any English words I can comprehend because I can only comprehend English words, not the same system they perceive themselves, if they even do or if they even care.
Those are the judgements and intentions I project onto them because the only thing I can do is swim in my words, and even then that’s not true because the fact of the matter is I finished only half my persimmon and went inside. Where there was no bug. I think
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