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Sausage Theory


pagetheoracle

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I noticed recently that I couldn't seem to collate and finish notes to a book I was writing and then it hit me - I hadn't stopped adding notes to it as I was going along, so it was an infinite output like a blog, rather than a finite one like a book that has a beginning, middle and end.  It was processing without end (A Cumberland sausage, rather than a string of ordinary ones or Roald Dahl's 'Chicken Little').  It made me see (as did a further incident*) that confusion always exists, where definition is absent.  We fear death but without it our lives lack interest becoming just a continuation of endless repetition, a plethora of habits.

 

* Again I became confused about notes for a series of books, outside the one I mentioned.  I thought I'd finished parts of three of them but couldn't figure out how I was certain of the point I was at with two of them but not the third.  Then I finished the third one, realized the second one was ready to be typed up at that point but I hadn't the additional notes for the first one, which was therefore in limbo and outside the scope of my consciousness because it was in this unresolved state.

 

I hope this is clear 'now' to me at least - If not then you're probably watching 'Soap,' with Robert Guillaume and Katherine Helmond!

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