"i cannot shake a wasting
feeling all our secrets meaning
when we come to kill, and find
a wasting feeling signal reeling
in our dreams four hundred longing
fish when all is said and done
and wasted, by the sea."
a poor reminder to myself that waste is as inevitable as the four hundred longing fish in the sea. the fish will die, the signal fades, what we kill we kill. waste, waste, waste.
p113 of The Impossible Reversal describes a certain perspective by Georges Bataille in which an ever-present "plenitude" always leads to the inevitability of waste, and that the only outcome for such plenitude is that it will "[be] squandered in useless pursuits of art and ritual, [or] build into the destructive force of murder and war". cast in this light, waste -- art -- is the only way to stave off the devastation of unavoidable plenty.