First off we have to recognize that discontinuity is a value judgment and carries with it a stigma connoting scattered, unfocused, pointless. But I have to insist that the notions of continuity that are behind that accusation of discontinuity are highly suspect and result not from any particularly keen or creative insight into either the nature of the world or art but are often the result of many rulers slapping many hands, the outcome of growing far too accustomed to being in harness. Continuity as usually represented is a bamboozle, consistency the triumph of insects. Everything we know about energy, about our thought and physiology, tells us we throb, our vision is a patchwork between the blackouts of blinks, our life and livelihood a pulse. It seems, according to physicists, that matter itself is either here or there, never in between, even the rock we smash against is an actuality composed of probabilities, everything is made of gaps and all our joys and injuries, all our philosophies and poems are synaptic. Jumps between here and there, metaphors afoot. A straight line, a linear progression, is a fiction and not even a very convincing one. There is no such thing as discontinuity because there is nothing that doesn’t belong, that doesn’t vibrate in this web of connection. Now is always unprecedented and sudden.