quick start, roll up your sleeves



for latest rough draft of a book (or its skeleton) about the paradigm shifting footnote: https://themongreldiscourse.blogspot.com/p/kerystianity.html
world healing finding of the origin of perspective in a fresco by Giotto, click on



http://themindofbeauty.blogspot.com/

but first --

Caution --  as we are creatures of habit, first doses of something truly novel promise a host of negative side effects.  An ancient reborn idea, updated (there's nothing new under the sun) carries the seed of a novel world, a seed that cannot be activated without causing the novel world to sprout almost instantly into an enormous baobab that will tear up the planet of an old world view.  There's no polite way to do this.  Such ideas come with the unreasonably, impolitely unfitting context and language of experience that they alone can speak.  If the bearer is a reasonable, polite person, this is a horror to her.  She will do everything she can to try to the bridge the gap, and by this will probably just make things worse, if that were possible.   

Novel 
forms 
appear 
in rearrangements 
of the 
same old particles 
and parts 
that take on 
entirely new meanings 
in the novel rearrangement -- 
ALL difference 
lies only 
in different 
arrangements 
or relations --  
but 
in a 
false 
paradigm 
giving 
undo 
credit to 
disconnected 
clumps 
of recently 
gathered 
data 
as if 
the clumps 
were divine, 
immortal essences 

(not that these clumps of data
don't deserve respect under
a common agreement
to measure time and space
in relation to shared standards--
fake news is reprehensible
and sociopathic--
but they have 
no metaphysical
or even ontological status),

all that readers 
will tend 
to see 
in the novel 
arrangement 
are the remnants 
of old forms
that meant 
something
different
in the old 
order

and then 
they will judge 
the novel whole 
by their long
standing
judgement 
of the known
parts and particles.  The novel-ist and her work will be incomprehensible or misunderstood, but she must suffer it all, just to get it out there somehow and hope that someone somewhere will receive enough of it to sustain enough of it for it to survive and evolve into a fitting form in a fittingly evolving world that has caught wind of some fragment of it and any related ideas that could serve it.  Of course she could simply be crazy, but then again truly crazy people never say -- maybe I'm just crazy.


The Mongrel Discourse represents not just a personal but a collective epiphany, beginning here with your boost, I dare to hope, in a sub-microscopic, controlled fusion reaction -- not without risks, but once over the hump, the benefits can be used massively to diminish them.  It's a collective epiphany because it plumbs the substructure of all epiphanies and locates their source -- in a successful immune reaction -- a rush of antibodies to the site of a lesion in the linguistic/visual bones of being (see diagram below),  commencing a healing reparation.  continued here: https://themongreldiscourse.blogspot.com/p/its-collective-epiphany-because-it.html 

As a Muslim doctor in the detox unit at Brooklyn Hospital where I presided over arts, crafts, art history, philosophy, and poetry reading sessions put it,  "Oh no, don't defer to me.  Your needs and requirements come first.  I treat the body, you treat the soul."

the machine making and marrying 
space (image) and time (story):
 point>subject.
line>verb:
volume>object;
plane (picture)>sentence

In the class of radically novel objects referred to above, THE MONGREL DISCOURSE, embodying, demonstrating, and realizing, not just reiterating, an oldish idea, replaces a world where function and work are the primary necessities, to one in which beauty and play are primary and original, desire precedes need, there are no needs prior to desire, the desire of life to come to be and persist, even the desire of being to be -- the functional guts and intestines returned to their rightful servant roles hidden inside the smooth, skin, which does not dissimulate, but trans-simulates, plays at ways of seeming and being as freedom is the essence of the higher and truer being that lies between. 

So art precedes life, which appears to serve its need to be, potential breeds active energy, which whirls into mass, the word representing the conceivable precedes and breeds the perceptible world with no loss -- energy cannot be created or destroyed, it is there in the beginning.  It's only the world's pride and rebellion that reduces all the majestic anomalies, nothing anywhere like anything anywhere else, the word songs gathering and scattering each startling starling spectacle into greater ones that disperse with the wind that comes and goes to let them be or not be, hardly a question worth asking -- only the world's pride and rebellion reduces what's called truth to moribund repetitive probabilities, reduces language to still born categories, to a code that's become a creed, the creed of the prose of the world, a pure, malicious fabrication (to which you must pledge allegiance for a Phd in the humanities or the certificate of sanity that admits you to the ever more sorrowfully sane art world).  The world is poetry.  


The MONGREL DISCOURSE doesn't just like this idea; it believes in its truthfulness, embodies, inhabits, executes, and perhaps even verifies it.  Even as it brings to the fore just how threatening and incredible this objectively very reasonable and logical idea appears to the world as we know it and to any part of us invested in the status quo, even or especially those parts or wholes of us who overtly protest on its side.   


The working world that works in time, when once again obedient to the one that plays in space now and forever, is in perfect harmony with it.    So it is in THE MONGREL DISCOURSE whenever I dive into it and let it unfold here (and as it leaks into my world making people really think I'm crazy). To those outside, holding onto the old familiar planet (paradigm), and dutifully plucking up the baby sprouts from the baobab seeds flung around here, "you're not allowed to do that."  You're not allowed to flip the coin and land on heads (the working, thinking world) or tails (the playing knowing world) every other paragraph or so.  You'll never corral a reader that way.   Alas, the point of writing all this is to show and tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, about the whole coin, until you feel it in your hand, can flip it, make it disappear (and not down your sleeve; you are a real magus) and then pull it out of a child's ear, and if the need to corral a reader obviates that, I'll just play the fool on the hill, babbling incoherently so far as the reader knows.  That's a socially useful job in itself. 



Perhaps read a few times, take notes, try to keep all this in mind, then tie yourself to your chair to stick with it as you flop around on the deck gasping for breath like a fish out of water, until you suddenly remember that you're not a fish.  Or perhaps you prefer the metaphor of a fish tossed back in the water gasping for breath like a fish out of water until you suddenly remember that you ARE a fish.  Or maybe you prefer the middle way of a merperson metaphor.  In any case, please apply the advice laid out at the outset of this paragraph, as THE MONGREL DISCOURSE is a practice that only includes, but is not limited to, the practice of theorizing itself.   It would be best to understand, and in understanding, believe in the theory and let that belief inspire and initiate the wider practice, but it's hard if not impossible to believe what reason points to when all the evidence backing it up is hidden or heavily veiled by a global misconception that reads the whole world backwards and inside out -- in order to keep your babies safe while you test your mettle on reality tv, or some such thing.  In this case one must practice practice practice, perhaps read a few times, take notes, try to keep all this in mind, then tie yourself to a chair, etc.



THE MONGREL DISCOURSE. uses English words, but it begins very quietly and gingerly, so as not to rouse the enemy, but you'll soon bear witness to the phenomenon -- to strip them of their later connotations and reconnect them to their visible roots, a poetic and scientific (based on disinterested observation) endeavor, this process, quite surprising to me when it started happening, just one of the unusual flowers of this monster plant that blew in, it would seem from outer space were it not transparent to its own genome .(footnote: https://themongreldiscourse.blogspot.com/p/spawn-of-romeo-and-juliet-who-somehow.html) .   


The fact that there are many cognates and remnants of the old (new fangled) English makes this new (old-fashioned) one both easier and harder to learn, as many of these words are faux amis, or false friends of sorts.  As with any language,  at first it sounds like a kind of gibberish, wuh? huh? the words don't align with things you know, sort of, you see even this sentence means something elusive, not exactly what you might think it means.  You can't explain a language, you must immerse yourself in it and participate in it and be very patient, and after years of this, you might feel like you're getting somewhere.   THE MONGREL DISCOURSE is the opposite of a sound bite, and is also a very good antidote to living in a world of them.  But then again, at any moment you could suddenly understand it all perfectly, as on the miracle of Pentacost in the Christian Gospels, when the every member of the audience supposedly heard the apostle speak in the listener's native tongue.   (I'm not sure what this has to do with the incomprehensible gibberish that "fundamentalist", often professed literalist "Pentacostals" shout when angelically (or demonically, one never knows does one?) possessed; with all due respect, did they read the passage?)  Until you're fluent in MONGREL, the meaning will metamorphose, don't think you, or I, nailed it. 

THE MONGREL DISCOURSE is the answer to the long long long brief written by all of modern philosophy.   Alas, those who have read enough to understand philosophy are mainly, if not wholly too used to rationalizing things to recognize or tolerate the embodiment and crystallization of their own thought.  Such crystallization of the fathomable brings with it an unfathomable, uncontrollable, irrational surplus, the surplus that is existence itself, however transparent to the thought that produced it.  In fact the fact that it is transparent makes it all the more difficult to acknowledge, because, until you see it, and then recognize it everywhere in the world that its admittance decisively changes and evolves, it is like nothing in the world.  



(In case your mind is skipping ahead (am I reading it yet?)  please note that the opposition of circularity to progress, East to West, dissolves when the scales fall from your eyes, and you see the wheel turn circularly and the wagon advance linearly, but philosophers only (sometimes) say they appreciate eyes, not that they themselves would stoop to the use of such wet, slimy, corporeal entities when preaching from the podium drunk on the sound of their own words -- oh I know the feeling, this wine has been waiting for my tongue for centuries, but at least I'm careful to sip it slowly -- that's not their job, supposedly.)



That thought too is performance and made of physical stuff, that the subject and object are minimally and never clearly divided, etc. etc.  -- all this points to the existence of a unified field, a past present and future confluence of word and world, form and content transparent to and respectful of their differing in relations, though not in substance.  Such a field can only manifest truthfully in performances defiant of so-called objective proof (as none exists except contingently, that is non-objectively; however objective the method, it can only be applied to a mass of the ubiquitous mess), requiring educated judgment applied to calculated risk -- so crank up your sense and sensibility against pride and prejudice around here, and be ready for a riveting (in my opinion) melodrama before the former prevails in the end. 


Meanwhile, the testing of moral relativity in the twentieth-century verified the absolute existence of good and evil, but instead of assimilating and synthesizing this finding to arrive at a new paradigm,  it is merely applied like make up to the face of philosophy that defies it, the mouth behind crying for succor.  You should waste all your time calling the dog, and then ignore it when it bounds out of the woods??  Of course you should ignore it if it demands you toss out your curriculum to move on to the new one implied by the dog's arrival.  Of course you should keep waiting for the messiah, salvation could never be right before your eyes. Huffy puffy they're all -- and that probably includes you -- getting very huffy and puffy.   Give it a break.  Laugh at yourself.  Cast a cold eye on life, on death...   

THE MONGREL DISCOURSE ISN'T academic jargon, it's the poetry such jargon evolves into, as a larva into a butterfly.  The young butterfly hates the larva, but in its dawning old age, just about now, remembers it with fondness and gratitude.

THE MONGREL DISCOURSE* pours out of, and leads back to a source, a strange, scholarly finding described in detail in the link found in the list of pages to the right below. At the climax of a thorough and focused inquest into the origins of perspective,  I got sucked into the vortex at the crossing not only between the ancient sacred, and modern secular worlds, but also between time and space, seeming and being, specificity and universality -- to meet and melt into the zebra that bears these stripes in their place,

or, sent from the sea, into a barnacle encrusted Proteus able to change from form to form until you wear me out, wrestle me down, and I surrender the information you need to get home -- still by a harrowing route, as the sea itself is on your case, oh restlessly wandering, heroic modern world, like a dog who can't find its spot to settle down in a room, 

my arrival at the long sought spot verified by the shadow of my shadowy presence in the shadow of the vortex, that shadow being the image arising in a particular fresco surmounting a particular chapel in a particular church in Florence.  Of course there are many portals into the vortex, but none of the others are marked -- official, authorized portal, when you decode the hieroglyphic, which signifies and leads you back to the documented, immaculate conception of the modern paradigm of knowledge in a woundingly powerful mystical vision, 

coincidentally coinciding* with the solution to an ongoing logical inquest into the nature of language in order to optimize its function, 

coincidentally coinciding with love's scientifically theorized and active nature as the core substance of our actual experience,

coincidentally coinciding with the solution to the problem of the phenomenological origins of the phenomenon (versus the technique) of perspective,

the phenomenological approach privileging our immediately experienced world, our lived life, not the concepts that try in vain to fathom it, but only the ones that having helped form it, illuminate it and can restore and evolve it,

this modern discipline, phenomenology, not a style we're meant to "grow" out of or dispense with when we're bored with it just sitting on the edge of our seats waiting for the last tenured professors to die.  Nor is it the rigid set of precepts those smelly old professors distribute odor-free like shellacked food displays in the windows of Chinese restaurants.



When it's poisoning my food, I must bite the hand that feeds me and go try to find another feeder.  Who will feed this hungry stray?  Though some of my intellectual relatives have done so, I'm not about to scratch at the door of those who scorn elite education -- either because their parents taught them to do so, or because they didn't make the grade.  That's a match made in hell to expand its domain.   I could really help that crappy cause, but I'd rather die out here in the cold.  I can't help the fact that letting me do so, will help that cause too.  An inconvenient truth is crying on your doorstep.  Oh how megalomaniacal, she thinks she matters that much.  She just wants attention like everybody, but so much more so, but everybody must only ask for a tiny share if everybody is to have his or her share.  The only deities worthy of more attention are models and actors whose job is to play somebody, anybody, so long as it isn't themselves. Or maybe almost equally self-effacing talk show hosts.  A democrat should never stick out, twenty-five, essentially interchangeable -- they doth protest too much their differences -- candidates for the presidential nomination is appropriate.  Oh lord, oh lard, won't somebody feed the bearer of an alternative reality, even if it will take centuries to gestate, and you'll die never knowing whether you wasted your time (money) on nothing at all?    

*though that's redundant, as I've mentioned I'm a ghost buster of biased connotations that mask the original meaning of words, in this case, to deny the ghastly, uncanny synchronicity in certain coincidences that coincide with others that coincide with others, where "coincidence" transparently, originally and here again just means things that coincide, randomly or not.  Evolution of language or anything can be, but is not necessarily, a good thing.  Like when even very good things, such as ingested benign bacteria, can evolve into the bad kind once in the gut.  

By any evolution that distances the forms of things from their content, such things begin to disintegrate and die, language itself today having gone some distance in this process, to the point that it appears to be man's worst enemy intrinsically, the degraded forms around no longer distinguished from the thing itself, originally man's best friend, along with the dog who befriended man around the same time, teaching us over-evolved simulating simians to value loyalty and unconditional love, just as the cat, similarly not yet over-evolved, taught us autonomy and transcendence.   The Mongrel Discourse, one of the doggy cats -- like my friend Tetsuro, who named his forties swing band that -- bears comparison to  technology being developed to prevent benign bacteria from evolving into the bad type and even help the bad type to "regress" into the good. 





 
In the vortex, the opposition between ancient and modern, sacred and secular worlds is overcome by conscious, palpable being-in-language itself, the truest and most beautiful of both worlds, suddenly empowered to lucid self-explanation -- as no-one so far as I know had ever before simply trudged backwards step by step along the path of secular science itself to arrive at the unlocked back door,  and walk right into the kitchen, where being-in-language had been waiting patiently buried under cans of beans it has long desired to spill.  I had slipped through a crack in the fictive wall that divides the past from the future.  University is a mere attribute of the universal, but I got swept up by the thing itself, a wandering wind with nowhere in this world to lay its weary head, for when a wind stops, it ceases to be.  

I say fictive wall between past and future, because there's no time in the present for it to spread out from the point of the crossing between past and future without bleeding into either one, and neither past nor future presently exist either.  That, along with other scientific research, assures us that these words,"past", "present", and "future" represent fictional objects.  


We inhabit spacetime, not either one, but moderns, who verified this, seem generally incapable, without dizzying drugs, of experiencing it directly impinging and call anyone who does quite crazy, whereas ancients never thought to question it enough to have to verify it, as it simply is that it is, and so it infused their immediate experience.  

In the vortex, both all ancient and all modern, where the veil is lifted,  one beholds the goodness and transparency of the original annotations, when all objects remained transparent or translucent to their constructed nature, when objectivity and subjectivity -- had anybody thought to annotate them in those days -- would have represented two perfectly consistent, married attributes, like striped and four legged applied to a zebra.  

I call this original, pre-post-erous (though there's nothing "objectively" "preposterous" about it) order the visual order, the order once again visible when the scales fall from your eyes and the connotations falsifying the words evaporate from the surface, and the words and the world appear naked before us and innocent as a baby, which is not so innocent, don't get me wrong -- babies are little monsters imprisoned in bodies that prevent them from murderous deeds -- but a lot more innocent than a grown up.   

The original, functional/poetic annotations of language restrain the voracious, murderous world just as the baby's functional/poetic body restrains it. The macrocosm is a mirror of the microcosm, and we can see in that glass ever less darkly when we manage to windex the encrusted connotations and scrub scrub scrub at least a few hours a day for several decades, as our friends and family wring their hands crying -- what's the matter with you?  what the hell are you doing?

They have surrendered to post-modernity, crystallizing the cabal of connotations.  In this by now well instated paradigm we are surrounded by, and drawn into, a terrifyingly concerted, collective effort to erase all trace of original being-in-language, or reduce it to a putridly banal shadow of itself supported and upheld by putridly banal shadows of people parodied by those hellbent on wiping it out entirely.   There remains, however, in the post-modern age, a remnant with faith in, and devotion to, original being-in-language.   

Among us, there seem, for this diminishing remnant of late late moderns, as for the ancient Greeks from whom we descend, to be two main ways back to original being-in-language,  one an iliad and another an odyssey.  By the former way the heroic, late late modern non-objective, or abstract artists play Achilles, hacking down the connotation encrusted objects, no time or space to worry about the innocent annotations beneath them that get dragged through the dust in defiance of divine decree.  They briefly return us to pre-human sentience, to be swimmers in raw sensation or inchoate dreams, or return us even to pre-sentient being, mere material matters incapable of the meanness of meaning, or leave even being behind to vibrate expectantly in the ether of pre-existential geometries.  

The perpetrators of this prepossessing prettiness are the pre-humanists.  Theirs is a joyous rampage laying waste to the disenchanted, mechanized world of crystallized connotations turning everybody into its robotic servants.   Of course today, the diminishing ranks of these earnest iconoclasts grow more and more difficult to find and hard to hear in of the ever-augmenting agglomeration of voices all busily whispering a thunderous -- kill it kill it kill it kill it -- and growing more and more effective and efficient.  Especially as the post-humanist whisperers are very good at imitating and appropriating the more mysterious and moving, pre-humanist effects.  

Meanwhile I -- no doubt there are as many others like me out there as there are earth-like planets circling sun-like ones in the universe at large -- partake in an equally heroic (if I say so myself) endeavor.  I undertake an odyssey wherein I navigate, most gingerly and resourcefully, the roiling sea of language now teaming with monstrous connotations that, among other things, can cultivate and capacitate its murderous, infantile soul, and set it free it from constraint, to mirror so closely the sea itself, one is bound to suspect that these separate constructs, language and the sea. are, phenomenally speaking, more like components of one compound -- like hydrogen and oxygen forming water.  To re-fuse them requires too much energy and involves dangerously explosive chemical reactions, I must find a natural source on some remote place like the moon, perhaps I hail from there, the long lost home I seek is so alien to earth as we know it.  To cure the disease -- all this falsely autonomous space versus time, the feminine former enslaved to service to the murderously masculine latter -- not just the assuage the symptoms by, say, with all due respect to Achilles, goring the original annotations of female and male and then dragging them through the dust -- to find and unplug the source, I must resourcefully, cleverly, politely navigate the sea of language just as it is, the innocent annotations teaming with dangerous connotations making it seem just like the sea of language as it mirrors the sea itself is a being keen to thwart the passage of a seeker of Atlantis and bury her with it, though some agent of the innocent annotations protects me on my journey to the source, where all the connotations, those usurpers depleting original language, are gathering in hopes take over the palace and title and wipe out all memory of original-being-in language.   Oh when I arrive there, where all the connotations gather apart from the annotations and conspire one day sooner and sooner to dominate them all forever, all my pent up rage is released, and I fell them all, one and all, as simple, merely annotative, poetic, functional language rising up purified from the ritual blood bath, floods over the desert awakening all the seeds to engender a giant oasis. 



If you scientifically conjure up magic, is it still illicit?      



(Note: this might be the most important text we will ever read, though I feel that it matters not a whit to me or you or him or her or anybody particularly.  How strange though, and dangerous, that we members no longer identify with the body of which we are members, but really feel it more to be our enemy than anything else, if we even acknowledge that it exists.  This is obvious from the fact that we are more than willing to slice it in two and expect it to survive.  The mongrel discourse is not just the usual complaint about that.  The mongrel discourse is the solution, the deep solution of a paradigm shift, the death and rebirth of the world of known things into a world of entirely different things. The mongrel discourse is not a theory; it is a theorized action aware of itself and checking itself all along the way, but not oppressively. It's more like a mother who can watch the baby and cook dinner at the same time than a father likely to kill one or the other if he tries to do both, not that that's always how it works.  All my personal motherliness is swallowed up here, and in my everyday life it would be the baby or dinner, either/or. The motherliness of mongrel explains why it cannot find a home among authorized modes of discourse, including the so called feminist variety, which tries to criticize and oppose the masculinist; but criticism and opposition themselves are masculinist.  The problem isn't necessarily that men tend to be running and overrunning all the institutions, it's which men are running them.  Penelope is weaving and unweaving a shroud while an odyssey conjured up by the vengeful sea delays her mate, but when he returns, there will be hell to pay.  Then people will understand what I mean and that I mean what I mean, and why I speak in parables.)






day 2


Dear fellow political liberals and everybody else,

Our most respected, secular scientists have empirically verified that energy is just another face of mass, a fact to which I have just alluded, and it follows that so called spirit is just another form or state of matter, as vapor is to ice, and even the vapid word, a physical phenomenon like everything else in the physical world experienced by physical bodies, is just another form or state of the crystalline world.  The image, a sea of space with cross currents as turbulent as those of New York bay, but if you follow one thread it meanders like a river until you unravel its whole story, the story of the world as itself, and as it thus floods over its banks, all that's rusty and rotted is washed away, and the seeds of the green things awaken.  The image of images that I found, the crossing between the sacred and secular worlds, provides a highway that takes you there in less than a day if you only stop for gas and exhaust yourself, though I recommend taking it slow, getting utterly lost in some scenic side roads. Otherwise you won't know what hit you, and after you go there, you will leave and forget all about it.

We must ally with worshippers of data to defeat those who scorn it, fake the news, and call others the fakers, but this alliance, be well aware, is a devil's bargain, the devil by legend and a very apt metaphor, if not the thing itself, being a shining light, long the highest servant of truth, but he takes a great fall into the abyss by asserting that nothing will eventually be able to hide from his light, he the grandest and most relentless of all inquisitors, too perfect to inquire into himself and know himself (or herself if you prefer, though I doubt it).  That's called metaphysics, which scientists and scientifically minded today almost ubiquitously desist from trafficking in when they don't flatly scorn it.  How is knowing knowing if the knower refuses any earnest systematic attempt to know him or herself?  Such science scornful of self-knowing is rightly called pseudo-science. 

It doesn't take much thinking for science -- to pander to its blind spots is not the way to protect a being from attack by outsiders -- to know itself well enough to be quite alarmed, and that's the trouble.  It doesn't want to know the pretty obvious truth about itself, but the dear doggy has pooped on my floor one too many times, and now I'm sticking his dear nose there and saying -- no! no! no!  I'm not the first to diagnose the case, smell the foulness of it, and loudly protest,  but I'm the first to present a solution, so the doggy, science, human's best friend, won't have to stay outside in the doghouse, but can sleep on my feet, as we like it.  A solution is not a solutionistic, wholistic, alternative approach.  There are no alternative facts, and there is no alternative knowledge.  When the facts and insights are piling up against the present paradigm, there is no real alternative to a paradigm shift.  It's time for the old world to die, and a new world with a whole new set of objects to be born. 



As I doubt all that cracked it, to wack the pinata from another angle --


To rehearse a fairly well known argument, but this time take it seriously, we must first inquire -- what are the things that science names and studies?  They are all things defined by being the same thing as other things; we learn what all crocodiles mainly do as opposed to what all alligators mainly do.  Where art particularizes, science generalizes.  In a scientific paradigm, art must devolve into recreation, not a truly serious endeavor, any beauty it manages to conjure up has nothing to do with truth.  The exceptions are irrelevant to what science learns.  But there's no such thing, really, as the crocodile described by science.  Each real crocodile is, on a bit more inspection, a miserably failed facsimile of that ideal, perfectly knowable and comprehensible crocodile.   Plato's heroic scientist escapes from the dark cave into the light, but fails to escape Plato's mystical madness, his claiming celestial ideations are more real than physical phenomena, which would be okay if this heroic scientist striding proudly in the light of day didn't insist he was being so absolutely Aristotelian.  Those who understand the problem to a degree have created alternative, "wholistic" practices, but that's another problem.  What's wholistic is not whole.  To make us whole, to make us one, there really can be no alternative, seriously viable practices just as there's no such thing as an alternative fact.  The insight that leads to the alternative practice needs to be absorbed in the original practice.  

If science is able to limit one's immediate reality to the relatively pale ideations that it lumps all individual phenomena into, one's immediate reality grows more and more controllable and predictable, as what is most common, in more and more grotesque -- efficiency in record keeping choosing the shapes of these dis-integrated, artificial objects at every scale -- detail, more and more crowds out and claims the resources of what is uncommon, what can even spread out before the eye in a surprisingly tranquil, even classical order, which science calls pure delusion.  But what is out there, really, beating on the door, and squeezing under the cracks is a world of utterly improbable anomalies that can never be verified because they can never be repeated.  If you manage to keep the real world out, you can live a long, safe, hardly lived life surrounded by Plato's phantoms "verified" as real by science because the generality they represent is generally so, enough to force their rival, actual individuality into shame and hiding.  Have you noticed that flowers don't smell as strong as they used to?  Is what you're smelling still a rose at all, or it just a representation of what's alike about all roses, and you are to the rose like the man who quite literally forgot that his secretary was not his wife.  While copulating he was adding up numbers to verify the viability of his latest theory, sure to win him the Nobel prize.   These phantoms science deals in and deals us are neither beautiful, nor true, just fulfilling their own prophesies as things tend to do.  You can even keep a so called crocodile in your so called bathtub if you follow the instructions carefully, and if the real world beats down the door, maybe you'll survive the next world war, but it's unlikely.  At least between the leaked in whisper that topples the house of cards and the great explosion, you might get to dance with a real crocodile wearing a Walt Disney tutu.  

You can, and really must, choose whether to build your world on the truly deluded and/or madly mystical premise that the general ideas of things that science studies are the things themselves and these general ideas of things pretty much alone comprise the real palpable world, or on the premise that science is a mere, highly fallible technique for attempting to fathom the unfathomable and a dangerously deadening instrument of limiting the world to its own relatively pale, generic generalizations, with their weirdly drawn contours built for efficiency.  If you choose the latter, choose to acknowledge and inhabit the palpable, present, sacred world, you must fall on your knees before every sign of its stirring, even as it lifts you up, kicks you forward. to whistle while you work your way back to where it lies hidden again.  

Do political liberals respectful of statistical science really want to side with the simulacrum even in the depths of their souls?  Seemingly so, as most of them are now calling the soul non-existent.  Not this one.  The arguments against the worship of science are themselves consummately scientific. The scientific paradigm of knowledge requires a radical updating that changes the way we organize and read our own thoughts-- into a visual, versus linear order, an order that allows diverse ideations to weave across rather than oppose or steer clear of each other, such weaving engendering images and forms, the stuff of lived reality in which language is embedded, but now unable to authorize repression of what doesn't fit into its categories.  This order is not merely theoretically desirable, this order arises here and now.  It is a particular and particularizing creation, a very particular thing with all the pitfalls and problems that come with particulars, including the fact that they exclude the possibility of being other particulars, with which they vie for supremacy.  It is a thing to make and do with the novel materials here being presented.  It uses tropes to climb to the next plateau and then retracts them. It's a dealer shuffling the deck and playing the 27 letters like an accordion.  It claims language is for action not description.  Now you see what it has to say, now you don't.  It is a risk.  It challenges all theories and modalities of thinking and being that fail to rise to the challenge of being both and of reintegrating them, as such theories and modalities of thinking and being otherwise only further dis-integrate themselves and the world.  Much better to fail at a worthy endeavor than succeed at an unworthy one. 


There is nothing scientific about science's implicit insistence one call oneself a soulless secular thing because science relegates the sacred human being to the realm of alternative practices and beliefs that like alternative medicines have not generally not been studied and verified harmless.  Shame on science.  Clearly we need to put out the fire on the bridge back to whole being and restore it NOW.  Festina lente -- make haste slowly -- to get the job done.  Whistle and sing, play while you work to preserve, sustain, and multiply your energy.  We can't afford the luxury of self-gratifying, ego-boosting effort, no sighs, groans, or hang dog looks.  We just must let go and be as efficient in learning as children to whom it simply comes naturally.  As Saint Catherine of Siena says -- all the way to heaven is heaven. Even if the persecutors of truth loom up ahead in any direction we turn.  We do not choose the truth.  The truth is imposed.   Children often cry, because, among other things, love often hurts, and that's why truth does, but as Cousin Neil on his fortieth birthday toasted his then wife -- I'd like to thank Caroline for sticking with me through all the problems I never would have had if I hadn't married her in the first place.  Such is love, such is truth.  '




*so that, by the precept of Confucius, 

the names fit and serve the things themselves, 

that the fragrant purple percepts not suffocate 

under the bell jars of odorless tasteless concepts 

arbitrarily related to the names and therefore

to the original and ongoing evocations 

or invocations of replete, present phenomena,

each heard word a bridge to a bridge to a bridge,

the woven fabric of language a thousand kisses deep,

the network of subterranean roots as tall as the tree,

that network restored, redeemed (ohh I said a naughty word 

among intellectuals, mark me with the scarlet A

for such an abominable adultery of the established position)

that the word serve the world, in other words, 

that we can speak the truth.  Otherwise not.  Until the names fit and serve the things that transcend and even bely as they mingle in them amorously, we lie whenever we speak.   That is, what we call the truth is a lie.  In other words, we're not just lying, we're lying to ourselves, what could be worse than doing that?  To deny the mere suggestion of it, most will leave this site right now and never come back.  A few though are hard wired to sniff out truth like hounds at a fox hunt, and they're already wagging their tails and wild for the hunt to begin -- despite the distressing fact that some god in the already reborn sacred world has morphed them into hounds -- until they arrive at the fox, who, just before the god lifts the spell, and the dogs morph back into human hunters ready to do the deadly deed, will dive into its hole. A wicked and foolish generation seeks for proofs, but none shall be given.  This is a read marks-ist, roamin catholic (all inclusive) revelationnnnnnn (in slowwwwww motion), so just to warn you, I'm not allowed to exclude anything bearing a mustard seed of truth -- let the weeds grow among the tares, at harvest time the wheat will be separated from the chaff -- not even boring, plodding science or the cheap thrills horror story of screaming, writhing, histrionic, ghoulishly gory Christianity, world-hating, yet tweaked to tap into every audio olfactory tactile televisual trick in the book, scowling under a vow of silence, wimpily wimpering, or belting it out to a big band whose hand's in every every band on the radio to drown out everything else. "The last shall be first."  oh yeh, tell me about it.  After kissing everything else, I was paralyzed for years refusing to budge rather than crawl down there and kiss that last and lowest leper.  But "the only living thing is yes" (ee cummings)

*also called the gospel tooth or the holey babble -- May goes in with a revolution, and out with a revelation, the writer, being the astrological and fraternal twin of Walt Whitman, quadruplet if you include the cat-clawed roses and the shaggy doggy peonies born the same day, singing a song of herself as everybody.