book in progress

The rigorously constructed, then melting and evaporating, then recrystallizing molecules of


the scholarly finding of the ends and end of perspective in the 14th century,


in which together we carefully wend our way back to, and carefully untie, finally, the inmost inner loop of the modern, Gordian knot --


where moderns have learned that violence begets violence, and if violence is applied, the knot will only reconstitute itself.

it is open heart surgery applied to language and the collective body.

you've got to waste a lot of time to tame a fox.

  a telling of the finding accompanied by Carolyn Heitler (alto sax/flute)
 and Lucas McCrossen (bass) at Galerie Tanja Grunert in NYC
 in 2016, see parts one and two below. photo by jerid gooding.

free book available!!!

to pass onto your heirs


by printing up blog and/or files
linked here --
preferably on archival
cream colored paper
and installing in a cardboard folder.

radical shift of tone:  solemn meditative interlude or opening prayer

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1W62l21za5KPexrv0MS5XPmuyIqF6HaC2/view?usp=sharing

part 1:

analytical instruction manual

and tools for repair of the vehicle (language)

also eventually involving

intellectual foreplay

https://drive.google.com/open?id=13IQ6oQpCTp5hjelUr1LgYnTGU4erYpCr

 if file won't open directly, please download

gradually melting into 
part 2:

healing verified by test ride

or

spiritual passion

incomplete draft,

some notes out of order, 

different versions included:


https://drive.google.com/file/d/1nRamMVOGDjxSn-4bdZa1ABcHVvZUG0ui/view?usp=sharing

There is a rebirth and an image of rebirth. It is certainly necessary to be born again through the image of Resurrection. The image must rise again through the image. The bridal chamber and the image must enter through the image into the truth: this is the restoration. This power the apostles called "the right and the left." 

                        (Gnostic) Gospel of Philip, Codex II, 3

many more illustrations illuminations and elaborations forthcoming

You must, using your own, unfolding life story, flesh out the skeleton of the journey and bring it to life in order to negate the negation in practice, not just theory.  The finding of the bones and assembly of the skeleton is just the preface.  Unless you choose to cut the flowers, enjoy the scent, and toss them in the trash after the performance, as most now do with, say, a performance of a symphony by Beethoven.  As the flowers, at the very least, have botanical interest in being of a novel species, I trust someone will preserve a source of the seeds.   

*Use the right tool for the right job.  The tool of language is not a precision instrument, it's more like the mercuric metamorphosing monster sent to terminate Terminator 2, except, if you love it, the monster can be tamed,

and words can be very illuminating and life changing in sharing ways of thinking and seeing that offer freedom and choice, and in unlocking the shackles of sham philosophy that is crowned with laurels.  People, even otherwise very intelligent people, are attracted to whatever is crowned with laurels  as bees fly to pollen,  and those crowned with laurels crown with new laurels those who are mesmerized by the old laurels,  so it goes; but meanwhile among the frauds, including the frauds who say they feel like they're frauds, but keep at it, meaning they don't really think they're frauds, there are some worthily crowned that you loathe to lose, weakening your resolve to toss the whole lot overboard.

Also violence begets violence, and truly, these fragile, green tares would not survive a weeding.  Fortunately, doing nothing, just knowing, just basking in pure consciousness, is the mightiest power in the world.  It rises and rises slowly slowly and one day floods the banks and all the sleeping seeds awaken turning the desert into an oasis.


So know what you know, and spread the wealth, that is all you need to do.  To spread the wealth of knowing, language is a very effective tool, and you must know your tool too, in this case that it's capable of sorcery and other monstrosities.  Still, the monster of language once tamed is as independent, disinterested, yet surprisingly loving as a house cat, or a lion to the lion whisperer.  Awaken your inner word whisperer before you go rolling around in words.  Until then, just know what you know and let people read it in your eyes and indirectly, in everything you say and do.

These metaphors are quite reasonably applied to language, which can reason very well once recognized in this way, because the metaphors are true to life, the life of language -- as opposed to the error of assuming words have a consistent one to one correspondence with things (which assumption Wittgenstein quite logically discredited), and one can use them to prove or disprove anything. 

Sadly, I think the fact that my approach works so well is what mitigates against people being interested in it.  People are interested in cutting edge craziness that can spit venom at some other cutting edge craziness, then blaming language for it, until all the cat can do is hiss and scratch, and then regress into the arch-villain sent to terminate the kindly, reformed terminator, Terminator 2, who represents science, the revealer and healer, unless you program it to harm and kill.

Society is made of these human cat (humans are like cats too. click lick lick lick lick) fights at every level.  Many profess the need and desire to re-establish the continuity of nature and culture and all things animate and inanimate and fleetingly glimpse and represent it, but to dive in and live in that turbulent sea, few will go there.  After their poetic or philosophical flights, they rush back home to their protected enclave keen to solidify rather than erode the wall around it.  

I'd like to gather an enclave of eroders in truth not just in profession of a freedom of mind that is betrayed the instant there's any discomfort or threat to whatever solidarity has been achieved with a few or many others.  Where one does not ever say enough! 

but where there is no attachment to any ideology or ideological look at all,  and questioning themselves and everything is like water to a school of fish, where unfamiliarity and anomaly are as familiar and nominally present as crudely labeled categories that no longer apply to the present, 

such categories now confused with language itself -- such that if you refuse them, people can hardly understand a word you are saying.  Using such outdated categories to formulate ideas is like trying to build a house out of sludge and slurry, and the more it fails, the more stridently is it defended, this psychosis strangely mirrored by the Covid-19 virus that infects people without their showing symptoms until it finds and lays low as many elders, the last people with any wisdom, as it can get its teeth into. 


Are people really interested in peace?  Are they ready to pay the price for truth love peace?   Is poison waiting for the reigning Socrates unless you've just learned to ignore him her or it, that works even better? The answers, my friends, are hardly blowin in the wind...   The answers, as you know, are -- no no yes.  Hope is not what we need.  We need consciousness, we need knowledge, that which transcends and can never be accounted for in all that is known.  This alone can move the presently immovable mountain, never before moved.   But with only fake faith in the self and in everybody, and in the goodness and power of truth, fake faith covered up with sentimental sounds and hubris and bravado, nobody will make her way over there. We the people will just remain what we have always been, an immovable mountain range standing in our own way, nibbling the sweets of our self-satisfied efforts, calibrated, when not openly calculated, to be ineffective, so as to preserve what has always been so, where even those dying of it are too attached to let go.  

note re the method in the attachments above 

-- reasonable methods for gaining historical knowledge of whole, living beings and phenomena include acting and psychoanalysis. To understand a subject objectively one allows it inside and enters into it subjectively. Then one departs, changed by the experience, more transparent to oneself, as the subject is more transparent to itself, and no longer a cipher to the subject, who goes its own way. There are dangers, but when successful, you shall know the process by its fruits. Does the understanding accrued reveal a consistent, organic whole making sense of the subject's behavior?  

However imperfect, the process is rationally evolved, and notwithstanding many failures, results have been many times empirically verified — unlike the only philosophical method currently authorized — heading directly to a target, getting blinded by the light, and then running over it, or vice versa.  I'd rather be a friendly Freudly informed, method acting freight train, with the living truth -- just like R&B's kid, the maximum Max, Calliope's twin bro -- if I might happen to be going its way, hopping on and sliding inside of me for a while in order to hook up with its friends all over the country and make new ones, and then I'll be moving right along until the living truth might be going my way again.  My main job is to deliver roses from my Brooklyn backyard ex-trash dump rosary -- in full bloom as I write this!

my rosary, Callisto's Garden, May, 2019

followed by Italian tomatoes and cucumbers (I smuggled in the seeds), along with a breakthrough historical finding that should be of interest to scholars, and fresh, ripe questions for everybody -- come'n get em at this whistle stop! -- as all the questions out there seem to have hardened into the dried gourds of, to my mind, strictly ornamental, indigestible answers debated by the debaters.  Even when a rare event happens, and the debaters seem to be listening to each other and treating each other graciously, it's really mainly so they can shore up their answers and do better next time -- though they're converging on the future, perhaps soon they will arrive! So you see there's a great need for what I deliver, even if the Maximum or even minimum truth rarely, if ever, hops on for a ride.  

studio of the moi mole, 2016

The Mole had been working very hard all the morning, spring-cleaning his little home. First with brooms, then with dusters; then on ladders and steps and chairs, with a brush and a pail of whitewash; till he had dust in his throat and eyes, and splashes of whitewash all over his black fur, and an aching back and weary arms. Spring was moving in the air above and in the earth below and around him, penetrating even his dark and lowly little house with its spirit of divine discontent and longing. It was small wonder, then, that he suddenly flung down his brush on the floor, said, "Bother!" and "O blow!" and also "Hang spring-cleaning!" and bolted out of the house without even waiting to put on his coat. Something up above was calling him imperiously, and he made for the steep little tunnel which answered in his case to the graveled carriage-drive owned by animals whose residences are nearer to the sun and air. So he scraped and scratched and scrabbled and scrooged, and then he scrooged again and scrabbled and scratched and scraped, working busily with his little paws and muttering to himself, "Up we go! Up we go! 

FAST FORWARD TO THE AFTERWARD TO MEET THE ARTIST PRODUCED BY THE FEATURED EVENT

"my dear you've become an artist, and we're very proud to have produced you, but if you think you're going to get a doctorate for this project, you are truly not a socialized person."
   

  

The artist couldn't do another job, so art in its infinite mercy took her in. The artist must be art's worst employee, tossing off a sketch as if her own hand and any sign of it were God's gift to the world, or contrariwise, stymied by self-doubt, rewriting the proleptic introductory afterwords to her dissertation devolving into art for decades, and just generally shuffling and slacking off, slipping into daydreams and diversions, as the boss screams and yells and fires her every other day.

Still, the artist, however inefficiently, is doing the job, spinning straw into gold, art spinning even poorness of service to it into wealth, sometimes overshooting the mark, by which the worst becomes the best -- be careful frontrunners.

- PAGE 2 -

The artist replaces workaday objects with lively, loquacious ever-changing phenomena. Using subtle guerrilla warfare tactics, the artist counters demonic enchantments to defend, at a distance obscuring the source, widows and orphans. The artist absorbs light and processes it safely and quietly, even surreptitiously, multiplying it in a hall of mirrors that powers many carefully placed spinning wheels with well monitored, non-divertible plug ins, 

although language, in its present degraded usage, does not parce out the world in such a way as to make all this visible. 

- PAGE 3 -

The artist also serves as a safe fusion reactor that preserves and replenishes the elemental sources, and along with providing free energy, the artist serves as a complicated, challenging exercise machine that multiples the difficulty as you gain skill and strength. The artist can think rationally, while staying supremely sentient. The artist voraciously updates its own programs. 

The artist in question not only fulfills those generic criteria, but expands, toward perfecting, the brief. It loves and is loved by its dog and a few people. It grows flowers and vegetables, and on the keyboard plays Satie -- and Scarlatti almost as slowly, what matters is soul. 

- PAGE 4 -

Before being sent to the field, the example in question spent decades downloading massive data from diverse fields, earning three masters degrees.* When researching the origins of mathematical perspective, this Renaissance manly model uncovered this method and paradigm's earliest origins in illustrations in a prayer manual rationalizing procedures of imitation of saintly models by means of reproducible codified gestures. 

By this amazing software program, the simplest, most poorly built human hardware could be made to resemble the rare, expensive sentient variety and even arrive at sentience, and sometimes artificial intelligence itself.  The model model in question absorbed the program in discovering it, and this accounts for its ability to absorb and discover it. (If the reader has not yet achieved the level of post-temporal sentience and artificial intelligence required to understand how that works, stick around.)

- PAGE 5 -

In researching examples of the manual and tracing the evolution of the space depicted, the artist in question thus made contact with, and came to tame without breaking, sweet baby Frankenstein, or the geist of mathematical space. The mongrel art form in question involves translation of arcane messages into the vernacular tongue and vice versa increasing conscious intercourse among art, philosophy, and life, while protecting the pristine difference under a carefully engineered diaphanous Botticelli gauze — very difficult (I confess that for all my dogged determination, I've made very little progress).

The aforementioned artist at the moment writes on a Mac, shows in jumping, obstacle courses, and hurdles. Elsewhere it can be seen sauntering in the meadow with pen and ink, watercolor, and oil paint. When racing this artist rides a turtle.

this foreplay, you might or might not have yet noticed, is escalating to a frenzy soon to begin crossing into generative passion. 

(FOLD OUT)

- PAGE 7 -

*however, I doubt that the student has ever yet ascended to the status of a master upon the acquisition of a master's degree. If you pay them an enormous sum, you can get one in critical theory in a year, say, with pretty much no prior experience.  Just another example of the widespread misalignment of names and things in the contemporary world, that misalignment that Confucius warns is bound to break out in wars that result from the civic strife that results from words flying around spreading false rumors, fostering trust where none is warranted and mistrust where it is, among many other dangerous confusions.  Original language, human's best friend (right along side the dog who appeared at about the same time), genetically programmed to evolve into a hymn to universal brotherhood, gone rabid.  

I tried the mongrel discourse on myself, and it worked as an antidote, but my other subjects so far have proven too allergic to test the formula. Maybe you'll be the first not to knee jerk succumb to an over-reaction. My old companion at the Hungarian Pastry Shop on Amsterdam Avenue, the genius set designer Kristen Vallow, had plans to write a book called Allergy and Will in scorn of my weak willed allergic response to her cat, Cruella.  Strange that the latest, greatest art journal calls itself Hyper-allergenic, when art by nature is anti-reactionary and casts a cold eye on any kind of dander or dust, however thick, still breathing deeply, unperturbed by such and any false alarms.

PLEASE GO NEXT TO

https://themongreldiscourse.blogspot.com/p/ulterior.html