Experience in so far as it is ordinarily lived, without the addition of a layer of reflection, consist of an interwoven series of themes, an overlapping succession of aboutnesses. Each succeeding moment is a movement or act in the project of some subject - some protagonist, some matter - and so is integrated with a narrative, even a sort of text. This gives experience a pre-understood quality, it is always within an already known frame which determines the way it should be taken and the context for its internal symbols and vanishing points. Life can seem like a series of genre paintings; this being an analogy more open to freedom of interpretation, to various kinds of pivotings, than the similar comparison with movie scenes, which already implies some degradation of value. We are in the paint in a way we could never be under a cameraman's eye. No demeaning of experience is implied, but for what might already be in experience. This mechanism is a desirable thing, not only because it seems an efficient organisation of mental forces, but because it retains the ability to be smoothly dialed up to the almost ecstatic. Against this there is the alternative of something genuinely original, original experience, not a picture of anything, and especially to be distinguished from a picture of original experience. How could such a possibility ever be realised, the notion is almost self-contradictory? There would be no categories subsuming the elements of the event and allowing for the connections between them, the conduits of sense moving energy from one to another. Each thing without an archetype, or resting as its own archetype. It's being here not via what it is but only that it is, an immediacy of being usually only conceded to the transcendental self. There is no witness to this, but for its necessity as implied by the somehow known secondariness of ordinary experience.