My idiocy is theological, W. says. It is vast, omnipresent; not simply a lack (of intelligence, say), though neither is it entirely tangible or real. We picture it as a vast, dense cloud, and then as a storm, flashing with lightning. It can be quite magnificent, he says. It can shock and awe, W. says. I am that I am, says W., that's all it says.
On the other hand, he says, sometimes my idiocy is only a simple absence, a pellucid sky. Not a thought crosses your mind for weeks does it?, says W. Nothing at all. You're untroubled by thought and untroubled by thinking.
His idiocy, says W. is more a kind of stubbornness or indolence. It's never thunderous as mine can be, and nor is his head ever really empty. It's only a niggling reminder of his own incapacity, against which he runs up freshly each day.
Lars Iyer's Blog 