“Contrariwise,” continued Tweedlebee, “if it was so, it might be; and if it were so,
it would be; but as it isn’t, it ain’t. That’s logic.”
A sense of finality ironically looms over the postmodern suburban dwelling – the chaotic mélange of difference, paradox, ambiguity, irony, indeterminacy, instability and cynicism. In its irregular, episodic, haphazard habitat, the subject confronts the existential angst, the dilemma of choice. Amid this, the idea of breaking free is captivating indeed, as one conjures images of Jonathon Livingston Seagull soar higher, exploring the vast blue expanse – and its own consciousness. Is it possible to assume that the ultimate power lies within one’s own reach that is in consciousness; and the road to freedom waiting to be taken? Tweedlebee’s logic might refer to the mundane; and yet aren’t we free in postulating a ‘logic of the infinite’- invoking, in essence, Kierkegaard’s ‘passion for the possible’ as we imagine ourselves clung to a giant pendulum oscillating between what is given and what is possible, between the present and the absent (perhaps the future)?
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