Corollary: abstraction is silence.
It’s odd: ideas keep coming in torrents. I could post 2-3 times a day when I’m not overly busy. But I have come to realize that all of this exists solely to keep me from traveling inside in the ways that actually matter. It is an elaborate, even if–I hope–a useful, subterfuge. I refuse to lie to myself any more.
I will add, since I have come this far: I was looking at a Picasso the other day, and he literally took a woman apart. His abstraction was violence, and this violence was manifested clearly both in his politics and his personal life. Everything you need to know, though, is right there on the canvas. It always has been. He is perhaps most famed because he offered a certain class of people relief from emotions they were then, and remain now, incapable of processing, of digesting.