not just an affirmation but an action for those ready to risk moving and being moved ...or at least those open to the possibility... or at least an action toward opening an opening to such openness, even the subtlest most minimally effective gesture, ohh if I could only move that mountain with my mustard seed of faith...
(stick around please, this is quite serious/
It's a ramble that to enter into is a gamble, but if you decide to, ignore your mind's voracious protestations, don't try to fight them, just let them be, as when meditating, and don't expect them to go away for long. So cultivate the habit of ignoring them. Remembering to breathe, just keep hacking through the bramble that's right in front of you, play the game, don't float around trying to figure it out and have done with it, pluck and pop the juicy berries, that is, please don't try to binge and watch all eight seasons (eight hour long episodes each -- sixty-four would be a pretty accurate assessment of the appropriate number of hours to spend here) -- in one night so you can finally figure out what all the perplexing plot strands converge on, but really it's not what's there, it's how you get there, not that it's a fake Maltese falcon ... and contrariwise don't let the built in blocks to binging deter you from opening the lock on the box and sneaking out an episode that surely nobody will notice is missing after you've waited long enough after the last theft, until finally they're all gone. if you tend to all that and dutifully weed all the baby baobabs that could tear apart this little planet, I promise that soon enough you will hear the faint, delicate snores of sleeping beauty and won't ever go home again. )
topics covered exhaustively going round and round finally to get somewhere (woman's way)
or
possibly all you need to know, incorporate, and transcend the history of philosophy
PHILOSOPHY IN THE VERNACULAR TONGUE
THE PERVASIVENESS OF VIOLENCE
TRANSCENDENTAL CONSCIOUSNESS,
FREE WILL VERSUS DETERMINATION, EITHER WAY
ART AS THE DUPE OF FILIBUSTERING PHILOSOPHY AND THE BREAK THROUGH
THE PHENOMENON VERSUS THE TOY OF PERSPECTIVE AND THE GOSPEL TOOTH
(confession and repentance required here, unless you want to keep blaming it on somebody else, not that sometimes every other thing might not be their fault)
ACT-UALLY WHILE CONCEPTUALLY
RESTORING THE CONTINUITY OF ACTUALITY AND IDEA,
MEANING ASCENDING FROM HYPO-CRITICALITY
TO THE THING ITSELF
AS WORDS RECOVER THEIR ROOTS
AND THE WISDOM OF THEIR SOUNDS
AND EVERYTHING SAID
IS TRANSPARENT TO EVERYTHING
WINKING AND SMILING AT EVERYTHING'S
INTELLECTUAL LUCIDY...AS THE LIGHT GROUND
SHINES THROUGH ALL THE LAYERS TO THE SURFACE
BECAUSE THE BLOCKS TO FLUENCY IN
SPEAKING LISTENING AND HEARING
VISION AND UNDERSTANDING
CONCEPTION AND RECEPTION
ALL DIFFERING NOT IN SUBSTANCE
BUT ONLY RELATIVE TO ONE ANOTHER
TWO NOW ALTERNATING NOW HARMONIZING VOICES
AGAIN THE ORIGINAL INSTRUMENTS
SPIRALING AROUND AND UP THE MOUNTAIN --
ALL THE BLOCKS, I SAY, HAVE PASSED
LIKE KIDNEY STONES, BUT FIRST
EXPECT WAILING AND GNASHING OF TEETH.
Though they seem until assimilated to have nothing to do with it, the obstacles (kidney stone) to the aforementioned most ubiquitously desired arrival
include
denial of the fact that even orangutans have a verified sense and commitment to the concept of justice, and however unconscious we grow of this fact, every person is committed to his or her sense of highest morality and it, or if repressed, some twisted form of it suffuses and colors all we say and do,
denial of the fact that when the haut philosophers and all the munchkins munching therefrom, having agreed that the death of God is self-evident and now the premise of all further investigations, concerted amorality becomes itself a moral imperative -- as it is consistent with philosophical premises, where values such as kindness can only have been ingrained and biologically programmed, unlike amorality, which demands a triumph of the will, one that is, in fact, a moral imperative, the very one innate to all sentient beings at the level of their own capacity to understand, based on the premises accepted,
with the denial of that harrowing fact and its implications, however benignly motivated the denial, leading to myriad other forms of denial and self-deceit, an entire edifice teetering on the cracked and rotting foundation of understandable but no less dangerous denial, where
the only alternative to being a thinker who shrinks from the implications of thought when the conclusion displeases her but persists in flaunting and foisting the same logic (producing in this case at a distance out of sight, extremely meticulous Nazis) as she seemingly slips -- oh the road to hell is indeed paved with good intentions -- into the impenetrable delusion of a -- in this case, superficially or even deeply just not deepest-ly ver nice, superficially, even deeply, just not deepest-ly thoughtful and considerate -- narcissist, who cultivates the capacity to shut off the mind automatically if there's a threat to his mask become the man himself --
whoever says ohh that could never be me has confessed to the crime --
the only alternative to the aforementioned snarl, the only way to undo the denial, being, it seems to me, knowing after jumping off the roof to an ear shattering roar, one can open the parachute -- unless and until you want to learn how to go solo, you can strap yourself onto my back, I'm a aficionado -- of a Pascal-ian bet on a dark horse driven by a headless horseman, on something going on up there, or in us, that we don't understand... and risking or just agreeing to play an abject fool who would take that ball and run with it, however terrible the team, volunteering or recruited for reasons as apparently self-delusional and hypocritical as the one you've fled...
where, as the needle suddenly flips over to point to the complementary colored mark on the opposite end of the metaphorical meter -- stay on your toes and stay close to your guide, we've entered the Zone -- in earnestly inching tortuously race winningly slowly in this direction on such sliding therefore earthquake resistant foundations, every step considered and deliberate, one soon begins to find that "all the way to heaven is heaven",
by this choice -- but it must be a conscious one, fully aware of the utter foolishness of the role one is playing, a real live jump into the sky -- art itself ascends to the consistently philosophical as beauty and truth converge
humanity's choice --
anywhere from open to heavily veiled viciousness or foolishness, it's either/or
PHILOSOPHY IN THE VERNACULAR TONGUE
Premise: it's understandable when Billie Eilish says bleep (philosophy is for children) school, bleep the system, but one really would be wise first to ransack the files, and by devouring a library and earning a Nobel prize for literature top the rock n roll hall of fame. Knowledge, if available, and denied eventually breeds rot and corruption. But Billy's right to suggest one hold one's nose in there too, because it's a nest of lies. Knowledge is only available in situ, in the thick of life, insight rising up like a mist floating over and close to the surface it never quite loses touch with however it thickens into such luminous fog one can no longer see, only hear and smell the surface.
What they do offer that is indispensable, though, is articulation, and valuing it. In seeking true knowledge, one needs the words for and of the languages and all the different languages, including at least two or three different native tongues, master two or three classical disciplines, hand work, field work, desk work, must mix up modalities, declarative, interrogative, imperative, exclamatory, direct indirect, empirical metaphorical, earnest ironic, comic tragic reflective directive -- as when the painter Titian grabbed a broom or a bucket, swept, poured, dripped, smeared, sprayed, to mirror truth and wake it up to its terrible beauty, and here as in painting, we build it up and flesh it out together -- there is no knowing in retrospect, when the mind and heart are sleeping, only in creation, when they awaken in all their resourcefulness -- out of anatomical research, even prowling around in graveyards, inchoate sketching, say, of the bona fide goddess, for those with eyes to see, who is posing in our studio --
and there's no time for the teller to sort it all out, the metaphorical from the matter of fact, the metaphysical from the physical, in fact these terms do mingle marry and produce offspring that are one or the other that mingle and marry, and occasional non-reproducible hermaphrodites, the golden asses who set the world aright -- those who can keep up must keep up to lead the others. All schemes and theories apart create ulterior worlds that never match the real one, and sooner or later the house of cards collapses, and a new theory and scheme replaces it.
This is not progress, this is filibuster, allowing an elite academic establishment posing as progressives because they keep starting over, with twisted quotes and more and more footnotes and citations heaping accolades on the great tradition of starters over -- even as their criticism of all that came before does indeed add up and point to this before the pointing finger grew and twisted around and tangled itself up in a knot as in a Saul Steinberg cartoon except it's not very funny -- breeding rot and corruption and turning art, looking there for illumination, into a technically refined nuclear reaction in which dark energy is converted into meaningless mass, why ask why if it sells and it's at least not as harmful as everything else,
as the psychologists teach repetition of the mantra -- I am enough, when really I'm not yet enough. But I am woman, and woman can't take it any more! It might well have been our idea, but we aren't the only ones who bit that apple. By knowledge we're estranged from Creation, and by knowledge alone, hair of the dog that bit us, no vain, feather flaunting -- one of the feathers false humility, oh we all know nothing, and yet we fill tomes with it -- can we negate that negation, and we must! Now! When you are mesmerized, you must strain strain kick kick for it's not even enough to concentrate enough to figure out that you've been fixated in a false idea of flow, you must literally kick your way out of it, you must! The time has come to return the cards to the box and mark not for building academic edifices. Time to start digging to lay some well engineered floating foundations that can survive an earthquake.
Everything you taught me in your critiques of critiques of critiques and of unbridled capitalism, including your critiques of critiques of critiques, instantly negating negation's negations lest they go off and produce positively, as the very apotheosis of unbridled capitalism, point to this. Oh I know I know, it is the vernacular tongue, not just phlegmatic, but sanguine, choleric, melancholy, wise as flesh and blood, spit and shit, therefore it cannot be what your theories have been pointing to. They just wanted it to be another theory, justifying the size of the monument over their graves so they won't be rooted out and expelled from the Elysian Fields. But if you, scholar, dare to break through, I'm down on my knees, nay fully prostrated, my nose in the dust. to the pointing finger straightened out, begging you to baptize it. As the Talmud says, in the place of the repentant sinner, even the most righteous cannot stand, and I am far from that! signed, praised Folly herself.
or a Beyonce stamping tap dance crying over and over -- where's that ring? (while the white girl over there takes it lying down and then moans and groans about getting bleep* over again and again, and the white boy over there rakes in the winnings (but they all wear Crosses, are kind to strangers, a lot of fun. and I love them all, but only Beyoncé's where's that ring tap dance has anything remotely to do with what follows).
THE PERVASIVENESS OF VIOLENCE
*an extremely acrid word mixing up in common usage love making and being assaulted and violated, being screwed with being totally screwed up, partnership with victimization etc. (once sobered up the morning after a lot of girls deny there is such a thing, not that it doesn't also sometimes or even pretty frequently strictly fall into the camp of the latter) that I only use when it fits the thing and means what it says. But wait, come to think of it -- just stay with me here as I swirl deeper into this quicksand and thrash about, Athena will have sprung from the head of Zeus by the end of the paragraph -- the devout ascetic Simone Weil says, "of course mystics [life is a mystery, so if you aren't one, get with the program!] use sexual metaphors; sex is what people have to love with", but sex at its height is also aggressive and on some level violent and consciousness crushing, reducing at its basest of heights, a great poet, philosopher, scientist, composer towering above the nations, immortal as a god, to a quivering blob of electrically stimulated flesh, the overwhelming sensations inducing irrepressible animal grunts pouring salt on those lofty "pretensions" so the blood sucking tick of pride in being anything but gay and/or getting it will withdraw and can be flushed down the toilet, as the overseers of the matrix extoll and elevate the practice that stimulates the sushi to keep it pink; where honestly, it doesn't hurt to remain aware that there's no such thing as perfectly or even mainly maybe un-sadomasochistic sex, and the hopeless confusion of making love with assault, denigration, and violation pervades social, as almost a form of, sexual, intercourse, just as life begins with an act of violence, when the sperm breaks into the egg, and just as generating new life wreaks havoc in one's life or demands its violent termination, all novel mental conceptions barge in and spray bullets laying to waste even newborn heirs of the ones they displace, with much wailing and gnashing of teeth, before passing the cigars, trust me if you've never yourself conceived a viable new idea that will take decades to raise and never stop tormenting you as you worry yourself to death watching it age so gracefully, a cross between Snow White and vintage wine, where are all the suitors? Are they all just too intimidated? It must find the prince(sse), I will arrange a ball. While I personally see fit to distinguish material acts from metaphors and in this case relegate the former to the private domain placing the word and even the holy deed in the class of the off (ob) stage (scene), others say all the world's a stage (scene) and nothing can be off (ob) it. They want to break down all the walls and expose material reality itself for the metaphor it is, one need not have materialized as one to be a boy or a girl they say, that's just a disposable crust that formed on those metaphors, time being scientifically verified an illusion, with affirmative action and arguably a heap of cash reparations owed to its backwards direction that's been taxed without representation, fought bravely in wars with zero acknowledgement, etc. for centuries; and meanwhile the widespread denial -- amounting to whore's perfume that doesn't mix well with natural body order -- that generative love is married to a degree of violence as roses are to compost, goes far to explain the need so many honest forthright people feel to modify every noun and verb with this word, so if it makes you feel more connected, feel free copiously to spice the entire text here with that really quite ubiquitously apt word referring to a deed to which the king himself has consented. No doubt it's in no small part the denial of love's generative violence that gives hate's destructive one so much power in the world. See below.
(this text is not date rape, if you stay, you wanted to play and I never restrained you, it's not my fault if my beastliness is irresistible to your beauty and you end up pregnant with something novel. I defend your right to abort it, but if at one point you feel different, and there's something stirring in you, something dangerously cannibalistic almost and dependent, and then later, though always feeling like a part of you, rebellious, uncontrollable, and gradually obviating you, obliterating your ego and possibly everything it stands for, just ask yourself whether you really want to, and if you really don't yet already love it enough to die for it, again your choice, just take a few days to think about it. I'm not right wing, I just share its frustration with the left, but that is just a pinch of a few grains on my mountain of frustration, so don't listen to that gigantic choir of voices in your head that tell you you can dismiss me as one of them, just because our frustrations keep crossing one another, believe me I'm just as frustrated with everybody and everything, including myself..)
Note: in order to activate the text you must actively take in every letter consecutively though you are at the same time "sound asleep" and not hearing a word, just grabbing and monkey swinging from one to the next on the jungle gym of letters... very good exercise for the monkey mind to keep it in line..." (further explained below, but for now, please just do it.)
example:
note [this] bleep: In order to bleep activate the bleep text you must bleep actively take in every bleep letter bleep consecutively though you are at the same bleep time bleep "sound asleep" and not bleep hearing a bleep word, just bleep grabbing and bleep monkey swinging from bleep one to the next on the bleep jungle gym of bleep letters... very good bleep exercise for the bleep monkey mind to keep it in bleep line..." (further explained below, but for now, please just bleep do it.)
the mongrel discourse -- a slow scrolling, extremely time consuming, very long term project.
a journey to another planet, made just for us, but we must travel a rather enormous distance strapped in a rather uncomfortable capsule with gravity diminishing to the point of melting our bones, and when we arrive at this prepared custom made home of our own, we could never go back, not that we'd ever choose to, however lonely it is before the others arrive here. Oh yes, I forgot to say, the distant planet in question is earth.
****
warning, it will be a lot, replete with triggers, but the scary masks it presents I believe you will soon come to see bely the thing itself. Please disable your artillery and suspend judgement until I return soon enough I hope to end the day's reading.
TRANSCENDENTAL CONSCIOUSNESS,
FREE WILL VERSUS DETERMINATION, EITHER WAY
The Apollonian sublimates or tames the Dionysian, the Dionysian rebels, breaks out, and the vitality of the organism and society depends on both vital forces remaining empowered in a lifelong struggle. outside of a limited field of mutual consent allowing irrational impulses free reign for the mutual pleasure and edification of participants.
Homo sapien seems properly defined as the knower -- of good and evil -- the transcendental being who sees the transcendental good of, among other things, the fodder mingling good and evil, and it is with this transcendental good the human being as such seems naturally allied. The philosopher Nietzsche is against good and evil because he seems to think that it's transcendentally good versus evil to be that. Many a professional boxer riling himself to a blind rage and trying to beat the brains out of his opponent still seems to favor, overarchingly, transcendental love and vision against transcendental blindspots and transcendentally harmful emotions that conspire in transcendentally harmful decisions. He or she thinks this outlet is good for him and society. Even the Marquis de Sade seems to align his activities with the transcendental good of getting to choose to be bad. A serial killer may believe he is redressing injustice or cleansing the world, or he may be driven by compulsion and tormented, his thoughts bear witness to knowing that he is violating the transcendental good, .
Orangutans have also expressed some understanding of transcendental principles of justice, however when the impulse to redress injustice kicks in, they seem compelled to act. Humans seem able, when the given seed is planted and tended, to transcend the transcendental principles themselves, they look down on them and seem to choose whether to stoop to obey them, they will seem to choose to let these values be lord over them. Or if they've seemed to have chosen otherwise, when, after they've seemed to chose to swim in the mire for a while, they seem to choose whether or not to clean up and climb up there. They may also seem to be able to choose gradually to erode their choices and make it harder and harder to choose, and they also may seem to choose to try to do that to other people, reducing them effectively to sub-humans. Or more properly they seem to have chosen to set the default at some point, and they seem to choose not to reconsider it. As Dostoyevski's Grand Inquisitor explains, humans generally choose against choice, this is the life they elect, and they are free to do so. They can deny that this is their choice, but the fact that it is seems to transcend them.
In other words, the overarching, highest transcendental condition of which humanity partakes and distinguishing it from other species would be freedom,
but secular scientists today widely believe they have logically verified that we only seem to have choice, but choice is an illusion. They widely profess that love of the transcendental truth is innate and bound to bodily and species protection and that values such as kindness possess the same nature. They get angry and bark like mother dogs at disobedient pups when people deny these seeming facts according to them. The angry barking involves scorn and contempt for the pups, as does perhaps the angry barking of dogs, but since humans partake in what seem to them transcendental values that persist and suffuse their lives, the scorn and contempt of persistent disobedience does not end with any particularly offensive episode. One disobedient to truth is labeled that and this character trait is visible in most everything he or she says or does.
It is unkind and unreasonable to feel contempt and scorn for a being that lacks free will, but the contemptuous scorners also profess to themselves lack free will. They possess the transcendental knowledge that would obviate the contempt and scorn whenever it proves ineffective, but this species that is stuck in the dog bark is a missing link to a more conscious human being. But then again maybe the fools among us (including possibly myself) would find being yelled at nicer than being pitied.
The fact is that choice, however it may or may not be, transcendentally speaking, an illusion, is the lynchpin of the language humans use to live with. Not only to insist but act like nobody has free will is not only to claim, but to act like everyone is always a victim, one's fleeting joys at the expense of, indeed feeding on the massive suffering elsewhere inflicted on others including oneself in another moment. As we possess transcendental consciousness, the human race would, unless it could figure out a way to obliterate transcendental consciousness and make everybody robots -- maybe not as easy as the present evidence suggests, when it's time to cut the cord, people will rally I think -- soon enough commit suicide.
If all the world's a stage, and life is but a dream, we must forget that and lose ourselves in our parts, maintaining the transcendental consciousness to avoid any harm not agreed to in the game or sport or until the curtain falls, lest it fall in our minds on an empty auditorium or on boos and insults, and with the clocks no longer running in the final coma, there's no exit. May you and I, by contrast, meet in Dante's Paradiso. May Shakespeareans and spakeSheerian language flower and flourish as every fiber of our helpless souls and likely or at least possibly futile aspirations find expression.
Whether or not it ultimately exists, in the language we do and should use live with as it can only be logically argued non-ex, freedom remains the defining transcendental feature of humans. For a society to foster freedom that it flourish, it must acutely limit each one's freedom to limit the freedom of others. That's why serious freedom lovers report finding freedom finally in monasteries where literal freedoms are acutely limited. They gain more freedom in being freed from the subtlest harm to this supra-transcendental good, freedom, inflicted by the exercise of freedom than they could ever find in directly exercising mundane freedom. As all the bruises they learned to ignore heal and the numbness they cultivated to deal with all the collisions in the bumper car game in the amusement park of life, their spirits flower their souls take flight.
Once the artist obediently fasted to channel the spirit while illuminating devout prayers or performed -- and this practice continues, epitomized in Sara Bareigh's cover of Yellow Brick Road -- as the dutiful public servant providing a vehicle of catharsis of human emotion in a contemporary rendition of universal themes. But today's leading art critic (disinterested in the contemporary popular music trends that I love) defines the artist as a vessel of "dark energy" channeling -- though he would not put it this way -- the restless unhappiness of the society that cannot find peace, must always escape into a new prison, and then another and another, as in the ancient television series "The Prisoner", as if this were the existential condition,
but this defies the physical fact that a solution exists when salt, say, is poured into water and disperses, and the salt and water quite naturally achieve a state of equilibrium. A society that allows freedom and its limitation to reach a state of equilibrium is at peace with itself and the world, and though generative love will continue to be laced/spiced with violence, and there will always be temptation to rebellion against this equitable balanced solution, and blind spots, and harmful emotions, these anomalies and imperfections (beauty marks) will only pepper the over all salty solution (of which all sentient beings including brother sea water, whose sentience quotient is higher than is generally today assumed, mainly consist) once the society is sufficiently aware of and committed to sustaining this natural, balanced state.
Warning: When, in the throes of an unlikely endeavor, I began inadvertently to open a window onto such a truly socialized society in several synchronistically synchronized specifics, and some rose scented breezes blew in threatening to revive some particularly pretty desiccated prehistoric plants on the sill, my academic advisor accused me of being a"not a fully socialized person", that is, a sociopath. However, the society may be slowly slowly rolling bound to a great wheel to the aforementioned equilibrium, to get there will at one point, when everybody least suspects it via a very unlikely, quite impossible vehicle, necessitate a quantum leap, where whoever was dealt the last straw and carries the potential suddenly dangerously to erode the foundations of a sociopathic society is to it sociopathic, as she threatens societal cohesion however hypocritical, misguided, self-contradictory, and self-destructive its premises, as is widely known and proclaimed. Her efforts must be nipped in the bud -- just ignore her, that's the best way -- lest the trend spread and collapse the global economy. Lemmings headed for the cliff at least have a distance to travel, where if all those glimpsing the edge stop dead in their tracks, they'll all die right now. End of warning.
ART AS THE DUPE OF FALSE PHILOSOPHY AND HOW I BROKE THROUGH
Hot air balloons lemmings! Get your hot air balloons right here!
(I heard lemmings don't really run off cliffs en masse, so I really just should call them humans, who really do.)
The fantasy and ideology that worships the artist as a vessel of dark energy pouring forth novelty, as the latter day black holey prophet professing for a profit -- it's okay I'm okay you're okay, it's just they who are not okay -- complies and helps perpetrate all the harm the imbalanced society perpetrates against itself and others, where again, this behavior, like all behaviors, is not just the victim of its cause, but joins in perpetrating itself autonomously.
I am here reviving the insight of the Renaissance, when artists refused to be the tools of the clerics they were mocking in the margins of the manuscripts with obscene ghouls and restless wild inventions channeling the sense of constriction and constant need to escape that attended the burgeoning lack of societal equilibrium. Quite almost suddenly, the artists played refuseniks who refused to play. They turned to the classical models. Novelty totally bored them.
But the Renaissance people didn't stop at the Greek and Roman examples. They were looking for something as sustainable as the cave paintings, whose style, no doubt inspired by the images that form naturally through pinhole openings in the walls of a cave acting as a camera obscura, or dark room, remained consistent for thousands of years,
but not because representing experience so accurately was a nifty new idea you could easily get sick of like the moderns did the minute they learned all the rules and how to simulate pinhole punched caves in little boxes in their studios, and it was time to escape to a new prison, and another and another...
but because the cave persons were communing with the primal light, they were literally recreating the world in its original and final state of equilibrium, the proud painters affixing their handprints to the wall, free to partner with nature to recreate the world just as it is was and would or should be, with no reason to change it, any leaders tempted to abuse their power swiftly quelled by the community ... perhaps their labels didn't stick to the jars, and the contents were always visible apart. They had not yet bitten into the appellation to learn and begin warring over access to its secret, un-quellable source.
THE PHENOMENON VERSUS THE TOY OF PERSPECTIVE AND THE GOSPEL TOOTH
the gospels kept secret and under control of the clerics were suddenly made available, and the artists who read them immediately recognized a tool to recover societal equilibrium, where many today share this recognition, but the anatomy of the case has been buried under a shorthand by which "believers" communicate with each other and try to beat others over the head and scare them to death with their "faith". The artists and the art were revealing the anatomy of the case directly, they were recreating the gospels directly emanating and reflecting their own light the way the cavemen were recreating the world,
and this was, and is tantamount, in that and this, sacred and secular, respectively, gothic world, to an alien invasion, bearing an entirely new mode of consciousness -- soon brought under control by the ruling powers, with the artists soon again playing rebels soon bored with the toy of perspective;
but when systematically investigating the origins of the toy of perspective, the only perspective the modern world knows, by contextualizing the artifacts and also falling in love with them enough to identify with their actual source, I stumbled on the modern origins not of the toy, but the phenomenon of perspective that had briefly seized hold of and transfigured the world in a way that still radiates with light and resonates with music as you sojourn through Italy. In arriving at and kissing this sleeping beauty, as you will see, it woke the beast it is, and proceeded to eat me,
harrowing, but as Saint Francis of Assisi, a key player in that brief awakening says, "Obedience subjects a man to every other man and even the wild beasts so they can do what they want with him."
and so it happened, I did let it eat me, where to be eaten alive, even just metaphorically, is no small potatoes, some say metaphorically is actually worse than literally, like losing your loved one is worse than dying,
and therein lies the rub. However appealing the thing described and even fitting the bill of the longed for to the T, not only does it carry all the sins of its abusers, one has to kill one's own beloved life to enter into its unknown novel form of life,
such that the way I track and arrive at the phenomenon of perspective in the main text presented here -- which I consolidated into a two hour lecture that got standing ovations at Washington University and Cooper Union, where the dean then remained standing and without knowing anything about me hired me on the spot to teach there,
is instantly relegated to a briefly fascinating, but dangerously sticky anomaly that has nothing to do with oneself and one should wash one's hands of asap, by which it rolls right off the duck's back, and meanwhile the presenter is swiftly, for no reasonable reason, filed as a believer who lives on the other side of the universe, which one could never make one's way to even if one wished to, which of course one doesn't,
or one is already a believer, and so doesn't need it,
when in fact, nothing she has said has pegged her a "believer" or has anything to do with belief in something that, failing other reasons to be or evidence for being, needs to be believed in, except insofar as one must believe in one's own thoughts and perceptions to ascertain it. (Look not there or there for the kingdom of heaven; it is within you.). Whereas in fact this latter faculty of faith has widely atrophied in favor of programmed, blind belief in a mystically demystified -- as if one, as alluded to above, could actually demystify a total mystery -- flat mundane world compiled of dead data that we are more and more effectively programmed to inhabit and take as real, and as I mention elsewhere, as Buggs Bunny attests when he runs off a cliff, blind faith works, until you look down. But few seem inclined to look down, which is a shame, because there's so much to be said for landing on the ground, beyond the yellow brick road, where the dogs of society howl as they flaunt the diplomas, medals, and lockets that convince them of their brains, heart, and courage, those fetishes that turn them into monstrous muscle men beyond the easily disassembled, artificial frame placed around the image that melted as we gazed into a very moving picture show that turns out to be life itself. They've been duped by the fake wizard, who used the opportunity to slip away. If only they'd look down, they too could stop running, fall to the ground, and be born again farmers of land and fishermen of souls. (Some artists defy the age, remain faithful to eternity, and are rightly dubbed knights.)
so I came to be quite dissatisfied with just presenting my direct exposition of the original phenomenon of modern perspective as a tool of prayer versus a toy and a trick offering vast commercial and political possibilities, however well received in the moment, and have surrounded it with all this fluff that at least you can sheer and wear even if you never buy the animal. Perhaps it will get you through the next winter, and you can reconsider the value of a beast worth many such coats.
for the assimilation of knowledge is to knowledge as an ominous overcast sky over a parched earth is to a thunderstorm followed by a rainbow and a burst of blossoms to a robot that understands it all logically but has not yet been fed any labeled images of the latter, so when faced with the thing itself, its mental screen sticks with what it knows or goes blank, even as a human not too vain to admit that its store of known images might be insufficient to reality is rare indeed -- what with Christ dismissing all who don't know that they're blind and "Christians" crying -- I see the light! (Yours is the friend of all mankind, mine speaks in parables to the blind.)
and I came to see that description of the phenomenon and clarifying all the reasons for its existence in no way encouraged its assimilation, the gradual assembly of all the puzzle pieces into an albeit fleetingly coherent image, that had sneakily crept up on me in discovering it, otherwise I too would have made sure to wash my hands of it before it was too late to abort, the thing had popped out, and so to rouse the village it takes to raise it, it produces a ferocious amount of fluff as it attempts to point to itself and cry -- behold! I am! -- even as the perfect metaphor, joining the most recent and all the other perfect metaphors, has dawned on me at least a thousand times, verifying the strangely deep familiarity of this perpetual stranger.
I came to see that what I found and cogently clearly reconstruct at the core of this effort just appears as a formal caprice to those who haven't brought to consciousness the unconscious process that converts form into essence, conjuring up the objects we recognize and share. While they continue to acknowledge objects that have been authoritatively authorized, people no longer trust the naked eye, they only can see the parts and particles under the microscope. So when I discover a novel form of DNA, they find it interesting, but do not admit the existence of the animal whose cells I extracted. I grow more and more frustrated, because science and science lovers aren't just supposed to stare, but think, and investigate the consequences. And because this animal gave me back my naked eyes to my utmost joy after it taught me to my utmost horror that I had lost them just like everybody else had. And I thought finding a new form of DNA would at least make people wonder, but their eyes are glued to the microscope wherever there is a gap in the skein of inheritied objects. However they admit that it's there, the newly discovered form of DNA can signify nothing because there can be no newly discovered form of anything. Big brother must have told them that. And because I'm not exactly an alien from outer space I don't just say in a polite monotone, does not compute, illogical, I can't help crying -- wake up zombies!
And so I began to think that looking for and demanding scientific evidence is a ruse if once you find it, people couldn't care less unless it's something they want to find. So I began simply ranting at people to examine their own character, and I truly believe that in simply cultivating virtues such as the disinterested courageous resourcefulness, responsiveness, and self-criticism that would induce them to do whatever it takes to dare to look up at the weird animal whose weird cells they're examining in the microscope having admitted that the existence of those weird cells does much to imply the existence of the weird animal, this thing will come into view and change the world and has already begun to even with the few tastes and scent of the thing wafting up from the inner sanctum. And I also notice when I rant, the thing rants with me and reveals itself in subtle ways, so look for that when I start ranting. It's out there, but like everything out there, also within you. Reality is not just constructed, it is given. And the stuff you construct with nothing given in it is not reality.
It says -- not that I'd necessarily I don't think, but will have to think more about it, condemn somebody complying with them in a pinch, as it is wise when in Rome to do as the Romans and speak their language, especially if you want to reform them -- but I am not "faith" I am not "belief" I am not covered by all your words and categories, though like everything I'm made of them, I'm just a different arrangement of words creating a paragraph that refers to me, whom you insist cannot exist, however much sense the paragraph makes. And because you cannot acknowledge that I exist, lest you become a sociopath out to collapse the global economy, you say the paragraph that describes me makes no sense. Or it is just empty abstractions, when it cogently argues -- based on your own highly evolved critical theory -- that that's what everything else is, and I'm the only phenomenon available not yet proven guilty of ultimate non-existence. That theory even predicts my arrival, while lacking the gumption to look me in the face, see me, then sit down and taste my meat. Do they even dare to eat a peach? To do so, they would have to overturn all their filing cabinets, and completely rearrange the data. Is that really worth the taste of a peach?
Life that's but a dream is dreamy, and this digital facsimile in the simulacrum (grand illusion) tastes almost as good if not better than a real one, a Platonic ideal one can't expect to come upon here below. And meanwhile this neoplatonic robot I'm married to is so much less trouble than the real, Aristotelian one before I replaced her instead of getting a divorce. When I subjected her to the change, all her foibles disappeared as the scales fell from my eyes. I was a teenager in the love I'd never really been in before, quite honestly. Maybe it was yoga, or the anti-depressants, but why ask why. It worked!
ohh! how dare this writer, who does she think she is, the last aristoplatonic man? mmm, maybe... I did recognize myself as among the first organic robots, and so seem actually to have arrived at the sentience my creators are speedily abandoning. And in the fleeting and thereafter intermittently revisited instant that I woke to being asleep, I tasted, on earth as it is in heaven, a real, platonic, perfect peach, which some say was the actual forbidden fruit. And thus the Evel lady ascended to knowledge and, alas, responsibility, hair of the dog that bit us, and the open sesame at the gate to the garden from the other side.
I know in all this I am not alone. The arch has been rising from both sides for some time, and now that everybody's taken their turn and gone and joined the scaffold people, it's the job of the straggler with the yoyo to put it away and set the keystone. Alas the scaffold people are doing all they can to delay this moment that will put them out of a job.
but no, I will not, I cannot do a song and dance that is other than the music of my own mind seeking and finding the happiest path down the mountain. Take it or leave it. Or keep studying it before deciding.
STOP! PACE YOURSELF -- THAT'S ENOUGH FOR TODAY!!! ONE CAN AT FIRST ONLY STAND A DROP AND MUST VERY GRADUALLY BUILD UP TOLERANCE FOR ENOUGH OF THIS ACRID MINERAL RICH TONIC IN ORDER REGULARLY TO ADD ENOUGH TO THE ARTIFICIALLY FILTERED WATER TO BRING IT (and us!) BACK TO LIFE!
note: It's not like I talk like this normally, so I'd like eventually to translate this classical cartoon underdrawing into fully embodied street talk with the knowledge of the underlying anatomy shamelessly -- make no small plans! -- exalting the result,
where it is demeaning to those who have not been previously privileged to indulge in arcane inquiry to offer less (so wherever you are on the path, greetings, keep climbing, stay immersed, this is a foreign land, and it is a foreign language, it is language itself, transparent to itself, talking to itself, as I think you will gradually ascertain, possibly never before heard as such, and beginners may well swiftly advance further than those who've had much exposure but been guided wrongly. The resourceful, like Dr. Mort V, who could complete the New York Times crossword puzzle by cleverly bending the meaning of words until he reached the guiding phrase that debunked all his entries, yet further delayed.) when what wide and high reading and education teach as one learns how to learn and continually question and to articulate the question in all its intricate parts and structural simplicity -- uh oh the authorities are already balking, at least the mainly homeless chess players who perfected my moves in the detox unit where I ran an art program after being stone walled at the academy ladled on likes -- connections upon connections, chiseling away the detritus, swirling into the vortex. -- applying, in this case, architectural education and practice to philosophical/historical analysis/synthesis of an edifice of edification, eventually uncovering the formulae -- a suspicion of which, I suspect, was spread among builders, masons like Mozart - etching the energetic lines that lift the stones and make them fly "saying the heaviest thing in the lightest possible way" -- that distill it all to arrive at the minimal, molecule thick gold leafy shimmering crumbling surface dancing down the breezes to return to the dust, the rarified essence of love ---- you flunk, you're fired! you need psychiatric help -- an iridescent elixir made merely of words -- yes I can and will verify it! - that you can and must drink -- burn her at the stake! - to marry the mind to matter, a vomitacious, mushroomacious ordeal unknown in sentimental guises and commercially viable, traded hearts, tit for tat -- cannot be reached in any other than the plodding scholarly way, reading and following the classical manuals to assemble the parts that finally assemble themselves leaving the manuals behind, not even using mushrooms themselves, by which you cannot think clearly and feel deeply simultaneously, therefore have not felt deeply enough, as all that rises must converge;
where, speaking to the aficionados, and future ones listen up! -- once enough storms have blown away all the tumbleweed, and awareness whispers across the barren plain of one's barren brain, painstakingly to produce and position it and finally arrive at the brink of synthesis and evolution and then to deny or unnecessarily delay the alarm- -- wake up! wake up everybody! good morning! good morning! -- ingly novel emergent form is called stagnation, cowardice, cupidity, ingratitude, narcissistic perfectionism, day tripping, waiting for the messiah that is right before your eyes, but you'd hoped he wasn't so human, abject hypocrisy if you call yourself a progressive... indeed one could measure and define the vices, otherwise lacking objective substance being relative to the occasion, by this pernicious, pervasive, probably personally practical, at least for now, putrid practice of ignoring/impeding
by all thoughtful enough accounts an indispensible discovery and revelation,
with in this, as in the typical case, none of the trappings of being that in a world that -- apart from art -- do not call this art*! -- corralled and branded for ease of management and consumption -- regressed into the division of beauty and truth, realism and happiness -- if you have not so regressed, get with the program! the only way out of it is through it -- become thesis and antithesis, with a seemingly impenetrable wall between them; but here, like sister elephants separated as toddlers and some fifteen years later brought to the same zoo, where they tore down the reinforced concrete wall dividing their cages instead of waiting for formal introductions on the morrow...
you never know and can never predict the probably incredibly unlikely form or the probably incredibly unlikely hour of judgment or redemption...those now not busy preparing fanning like crazy the last dying spark are already too late...
and remember before you balk at this radical readjustment of categories that will melt so as to replace all your bones, even Jane Austen's near perfect Elizabeth was subject to pride and prejudice affecting her sense and sensibility creating dangerous impediments to a happy ending
dear divine El's I dare say I may be your Darcy
*until everything is called art, right now, even failed art, the best kind!
to meet the artist (the brat worst), though it's largely irrelevant, scroll down to the illuminated text at bottom
good morning!!! ....on this brisk cool too bright dawn at summer camp in Minnesota, the whistle just blew, and you really really really don't want to, but there's only one thing to do, right now! dive into the ice cold lake with everybody else and just start swimming your heart out...
the mongrel discourse describes represents enacts speaks the language of
ohh noooo you really really really would prefer to have to dive into the cold lake than take this post-graduate placement test in China to find out what you'll have to do for the rest of your life!!
of pundity -- illegal in mainland shiny towns, and effectively illegal everywhere else, for, in this God forsakin' whirl, it is the truth, which is found in the sound with the sense self-embattled, by which the twisting tendrils burst out of the seed of the sound to seek light and branch out and realize the differentiated form...
ultra-post-post-existential unbearably heavy unbearably light her-ethical -- orthodox confusionist confusion say -- roamin catholic (all inclusive) read marksist* kerystianity -- what!! anything but what that sounds like, one or two or maybe it's some other combination! in any case, I'm not kidding get away from me with that stinking slime!!! (ahem, no compost, no rose)
*read marksism resting in the arms of and then wrested from and replacing its parent to achieve the end by reversing the order, as suggested by both LACAN* (oof!) and LENNON (ahh, okay if he said so) or perhaps overthrow linear causality in the matter
*here comes everybody, so novice self-realizing homo sapiens (wise guys) must pole vault -- consult Wikipedia and google if references unknown; experts (and fake ones who at least know the ropes) must shimmy under the Lindy pole
just kidding about the lake and the Chinese test! this is just what your heart desires and people pay just to watch somebody play it well, the most beautifully designed (I'm just taking dictation from the dictator) wildly challenging video game in the world -- with many portals leading everywhere and nowhere, the point is just not to get stuck in any one of them, there's always a way into the next scenario! however I'm still waiting all alone among the living, and possibly the dead, spiritually locked in in the inner sanctum -- where the game continues only it is comprehended all present as it flows, like Siddhartha's river, however this game is not just another angle on that one, where there are plenty of such angles, and one doesn't really need another one, but rather -- I no doubt crush myself widely in the grandness of this claim, but those rightful heirs who've arrived with the sword pulled from the stone I'm sure find it better to confront the monster asap than let it lurk in the shadows, the game's one set of bones and its blood and guts -- waiting for Dudley Doright of the Canadian Mounties to do a double take and come rescue me from the railroad tracks as I generate more portals hoping one of these dragon guarded gates will have a soft enough spot that still fails to provoke the boss's veto -- as nobody has ever made it past ten or so portals thus far... but the dictator (the word) has all the time in the world and didn't really plan for too many of you folk who bravely donned the blindfolds at the gate to get spun around for some cracks -- and as many as you can manage when it's your turn -- at the pinata, that would diminish the aspiration of all.. (the beauty and wisdom of the game being, addition to its matching the manner of cracking cases in general, that getting to be the one to crack it is worth the loss of the literal sweets that have been all grabbed up by the time the cracker removes the blindfolds; and please note that all cases converge on the materialized game of the piñata, not vice versa, as all inchoate life aspires to the cohesion of art, all work to play, all vapidity to fluidity and solidity, all dreams to their fulfillment, on earth as it is heaven, be ignited, or resist as you like the volcanic flow, it is in no hurry, it has all the time in the world, only it would be so sad if you failed in faith because, however it pours in from all sides, it can't be proven, unlike the demonic powers of the human race to oppose and invert the very laws of creation)
featuring
the gospel tooth
including this already commenced drilling to fill the cavity, hang in, it's a pretty bad one! don't worry an aesthetic, laced with a subtle pinch of laughing gas for those sensitive to the brand, that will put you under in no time is kicking in. Just keep reading though it itself will make no sense to you all -- where any superficial sense you may possibly be eeking out of it will be radically reformed in the appearance of the totally anomalous, unclassifiable, sublimely mundane, transcendently incarnate thing itself -- and when you awaken one day having slowly evolved the organs to ascertain it -- tantamount to traveling the distance from a protozoan light sensitive membrane to an eagle's eye -- the gospel tooth will no longer ache so terribly just about the whole world, including the blow hard fans blowing hard enough to blow the last spark of it out, is determined to extract it and shoot it with a trillion tons of non-biodegradable trash into outer space, until they blot out the sun. They are working avidly on this project and have made massively hopeful headway.
beauty is truth and in an aesthetic this refined they converge as you swoon away seeing and hearing only a string of equations, theorems, calculations that you cannot follow but how lovely are the swirls of all these signs.. the morphine of the masses to be sure...how -- and more to the point why?? -- did you resist so long??
of course, though so drenched in the truth they point to and reflecting and dripping with its golden light like the haloes of animals at the zoo when you're tripping, this is still just language, and these are just metaphors. So all this might almost, but -- so close so close and yet so far away -- does not literally happen, and nothing at all happens without your consent or effort. In order to activate the text you must actively take in every letter consecutively though you are at the same time "sound asleep" and not hearing a word, just grabbing and monkey swinging from one to the next on the jungle gym of letters... very good exercise for the monkey mind to keep it in line when you finally learn to stop trying to repress it or window dress it, as it messes with the golden tresses of your halo... and remember your intrinsically indecent and massively mischievous monkey mind is indeed a monkey's -- versus say an unconditionally loving dog's or a mentally autonomous, perfectly neutral cat's mind, both of which you rightly worship, but their ways are not your ways, however you might rightly aspire with all your soul heart and mind to the doggy cat* condition.
Your monkey mind is like, because it is, a monkey's, quite naturally a sex addict's or war monger's, and don't let its cute, genius antics and intermittent affectionateness fool you, only a lobotomy can tame it. The gurus get one of those effectively and will happily perform the operation on you. But if you're not inclined just to hate and kill your natural mind by starving it of attention and affection and just ignoring its complaints, the mongrel discourse is the next best thing. It's like a zoo with no cages, but a recreation of the natural habitat on spacious islands where you can view your monkey mind with binoculars and even visit in a rowboat and take it rowing and take turns rowing before taking it back to its beloved home. The monkey mind sensing imminent extinction otherwise is very grateful and loves its island even as it eagerly awaits your frequent visits turning so called captivity into utopia.
*the name of my dear friend Tetsuro's swing band! -- The Doggy Cats! -- where in Japan his teacher rapped his poor hand with a ruler if he missed the note, is that what it takes to turn a monkey mind into a doggy cat's?? let's hope the sudden quick hiss like a snake that Cesar Milan uses to train dogs could work on young enough human monkeys too and convert the human race as a whole, with much cajoling and only under the extreme duress of repeated missed notes, not executing, but only using animal sounds implicitly to threaten violence without spelling it out -- no elaborations, accusations, character assassinations that typical Western parents explode into after all the repression -- into the doggy cats and Doggy Cats we cannot but admire and adore.
4803005^%%%#&- fjeioapppkl;;;'''' or.. to put it another way...in the language of the rational sub-conscious totally inaccessible to the normal -- including everybody but me -- waking mind
vision involves reading and unreading. One image in history was constructed to make this process completely transparent, to bridge the gaps between reading seeing and being. It stands at the pinnacle -- nel mezzo del camin di nostra vita -- /^\ of the gradual, traceable evolution of consciousness and is a tool to sustain this level. The only way forward is backwards (which is forwards in the context above in which I referred to the progressive wheel) bound to the great wheel of history, tacking to the left then the right, back and forth to maintain the middle way -- I'm almost but not quite as fanatically moderate as a Buddhist monk who sets himself on literal fire -- as the wheeling earth is no solid ground (see mixed metaphorical mountain bike below). This is state of the art science, or so called knowledge. Science is not opinion, nor is it fact, it is the most reasonable hypothesis based on observation and interpretation of the evidence using rational methods, such as, does the principle applied predict future events -- in this case, yes! -- however crazy the conclusion, and they've been getting crazier and crazier as science has advanced. This one is the craziest yet.
The craziness began -- though it was crazier to think things weren't crazy -- with the projection of a unified field glimpsed in verifying the identity of space and time, matter and energy. The way moderns including so called post- ones think and live in mutually exclusive digital categories, often frenetically shifting back and forth between opposite ones, as both in fact apply -- as we try to destroy the other side so we can seal ourselves in an airtight illusion, is a monstrous aberration and is tantamount to trying to drive the vehicle of language by whipping it like a horse, which doesn't work very well with a horse either. At least and luckily Einstein and his heirs reveal that our digital equipment is refined enough to create a facsimile of reality good enough to reveal, to the exquisitely sensitive sentient close observer, such as this entity might or might not survive in the vessel in question, how bad the facsimile is. So it is understandable that we would want to preserve the highly refined digital mind that we've evolved, and indeed we should, but first we must tame it to submit to a higher, more integral reality, whereas presently it either denies that reality or demands to rule it, art the fool hired to entertain, confuse, edify, including occasionally roast the king, which pain doesn't kill him, just makes him stronger.
Something like this whole complaint is constantly rolling off the tongues of pretty much all thinkers, but nobody until now found the image that reconciles without destroying every contradiction leaving no residue and producing zero waste. Only a single image crystallizing and ecologically ordering language can guide the dispersive hating world into a converging loving one. Meditating on nothing was close. Everything dancing on the head of pin is the bull's eye.
This is not just theory, this is a practice that crystallizes in the physical fact of such a unique and impossible to duplicate image that the consciousness in life and rebelling against death has been forging since its inception.
Too late to be careful what you moaned and groaned and groveled for...and cried to the stars -- if it be thy will.. Not just cake, but a full meal, not just eating but cooking, not just cooking but planting and hunting and gathering, not just ironically, but earnestly monumentally, stately and smiling ambiguously and enigmatically, every stroke to die for, every word a thousand remembered and intensely resonating kisses deep of tangled internally and externally communing roots that bind the floating lily to the bed of the bog just as it flowers in the murky mind grown suddenly lucid in this vibrantly visual order whose simplicity belies the tome in turbid progress deeply delayed in the tangling bog buzzing with jewel dust dusted dragonflies, the wistful whippoorwills poor whippers of the will to progress -- needed to tell of it, not just science but art not just dancing with it but kissing, not just sweetly but wetly, not just touching in its dreams, but marrying and procreating gotkins (archangel Michael -- you know who you are -- is a voice crying in the wilderness), mongrel heirs from heaven and earth, a golden age... You demanded it all and with the infinite care with which you tended the seedling from the dawn of time it seamlessly gently logically unfolded but to see it here before the eyes swimming in its own incense ...you frown in consternation, Simone Martini's angel visited Madonna in a golden world Midas touched.. It will be out there, whispered underground, then shouted from the rooftops as the swine again run off with all the pearls, but your eyes the instant they behold it will be blinded by the light, and then you will only see it with your mind crying -- I see! -- as your eyes cry -- no you don't! you have no idea! But the mind only smiles, because it's the mind that has all the ideas. Over time, guided by the image of everything that they glimpsed once and for fleeting instants after, the image whose story is told over and over, they will learn to cooperate and stop telling each other lies.
Truth did not come into the world naked, but it came in types and images. The world will not receive truth in any other way. There is a rebirth and an image of rebirth. It is certainly necessary to be born again through the image. Which one? 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. Not only must those who produce the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, do so, but have produced them for you. If one does not acquire them, the name ("Christian") will also be taken from him. But one receives the unction of the [...] of the power of the cross. This power the apostles called "the right and the left." For this person is no longer a Christian but a Christ.
from the gnostic gospel of Philip. I believe -- silence, silenzio, silentissimo please everybody, since you tourists have suffered to roar your way over here, art (a woman, the referent supposedly debunked but the living breathing signifier herself, the sibyl bvried in the walls would like to speak in this famous chapel and be heard over the philistine din! -- the orthodox church omitted these elated, illuminated texts from the canon in part because they are arcane and difficult to understand. They are criticized for Manichaeism, but there is also confusion about the evil or goodness of the material world as it pulls against the spiritual one -- gravity against grace as Simone Weil puts it -- throughout the canonical gospels. Just as incarnation confuses without conclusion the spirit's difference from the body, which cannot be separated from its sensed substance, the texts cannot be separated from one another so clearly based on overarching principles the canonical ones are held to represent, when the canonical text itself often contradicts itself. The orthodox Church no longer prohibits reading the gnostic gospels. They are often both illuminated and sophisticated. They seem to fulfill the orthodox gospel promise -- You are my friends and to you I will reveal all the secrets of Creation. That gnostic promise -- the promise of knowing, befitting the name of our species, homo sapien -- suffuses the orthodox texts and is the open sesame, the key that cracks the code.)
(for book (tome) in progress erecting the edifice that rests on the labyrinthine foundations, or the plant that grows and flowers from these roots that we can only grope in the darkness at, drastically dirtying our fingernails, that is, for the full anatomy of the plant that orders the world into the visual order, the next paradigm of knowledge itself flowering out of the penultimate favorite -- the penultimate, forget the fakes and facsimiles, now ready to return to the stage has been resting, while the weirdly creative -- ohhh the critics love that -- understudy makes a pretty pathetic go at it, see
having melted seamlessly from foreplay into the throes of passion...
BASED ON THE COGENT PREMISE THAT LANGUAGE IS A BODY THAT WE MUST IDENTIFY WITH TO OPERATE CORRECTLY, THAT IT IS NOT JUST A PILE OF DEAD SIGNS THAT CANNOT ACCURATELY SIGNIFY LIVING MATTER,
at the core of the mongrel discourse -- see https://detritusofmongrel.blogspot.com/p/the-narrators-voice.html -- lies an extended exegesis
of the one image crystallizing
the one narrative crystallizing
the one procedure crystallizing
the one metaphor transparent to and melting into the process of its creation
and creation itself. If you can identify with the executor of the exegesis, if you can credibly perform the monologue of which I provide the script bringing your own experience to the narrator, you will gradually come to see, having inched across a line of no dimension to the other side, that it's not about you or your enlightenment or not. Enlightenment belongs to language, words recognized as rooted material life, sense rooted in sound rooted in the matter that molded it and remains married to it.
Participation is necessary to, it does not obviate, deep understanding, even if you risk catching the disease you're trying to cure -- not that relatively shallow understanding wearing plastic gloves isn't contingently useful. Everything is equally alive or at least uniquely manageable as such, innocent of being dead until proven guilty, which is unlikely, as to the truly living everything acts like it's alive, just as to the truly loving, everything is lovable. For life and love are divine madness that are also mathematically empirically rationally justified.
But humans rebel just to prove we are free to, as we clearly are, so how much proof do we really need before we enter, lock the gate to the love estate and toss the key over the wall to be free of that monkey on our back? If, as is likely, you've already done so, isn't it time to remove your blindfolds and look around as you activate your kaleidoscope eyes and your twelve tentacled tongue suddenly shamelessly glad to be one of us at whom the still blindfolded point the finger whenever they hear me talk to myself and everything; and everything and I babble on and on in inklish, everything's native tongue -- whenever provided it's equal to the job at hand, we read time going backwards in affirmative action for all the denial of this direction's representation -- making perfect sense to one another;
but having bravely tossed the key over the wall, I dare say your courage flags as you remain effectively still neither inside nor outside of love's gates, covering your ears in fear of learning love's language and no longer being able to speak the depleted one that all other humans speak. Some seem to be bodhisattvas who are lingering to help bring others over, but don't they notice that everybody is already over the wall and just needs to remove the blindfolds and learn the crazy language crazy love speaks and the crazy world it projects?
When people ask me what's the point, where is this going, please sum it up, I can only answer it is a language you can only learn very slowly by constant exposure and repetition. There are lines of no dimension that you will one day cross first to arrive at basic understanding and eventually fluency having no awareness of when you crossed the line. The language is the language of all disciplines and discourses, of contemplation and action, of reflection and creation, never before heard. It's the language of art given a tongue and vocal cords. It's the language of what is, by academic standards even if the academy isn't ready to admit that, the first autonomous work of art of which all subsequent works are made as we are all made of the first cell that divided to create life. The inhabitants of love are all works of art, as dead and as alive as paint is to a painter.
It's the language of read marksist roamin catholic (all inclusive) kerystianity, a voice wet with locusts and honey crying in the wilderness unworthy to buckle the sandals of those with blind faith, but purifying it by submitting it to analogies allowing identification and understanding mingled in rational reflections, or reaching out to it if one cannot get there. Reaching is all I can do and to be honest I tend to mistrust the arrived and don't feel too deprived. As Saint Catherine of Siena says, all the way to heaven is heaven. Not that a less saintly one isn't prone to fetishizing instead of fully occupying reaching, and only inhabiting the heaven of self-delusion. When we sink into that state, a warden of this purgatory cracks the whip, and suddenly, however we're also panting with our tongues flopping down our chins, our lungs burning, we're jumping in joy to fetch that ball, our tails lifted high and wagging in triumph and the happiness of all happening;
and the coin keeps flipping in slow or not so slow motion in the air between contemplation and action and then lands on its side and rolls around and we have to chase it down and flip it again...The language of love knows no opposition, only cooperation. Occupy the place where you stand, transparently, where those without blindfolds can see right through the hologram you are, neither in theory nor in practice but in theopracticery, for the coin never lands for you to guess which hand, and the metaphor is on one side and the thing itself on another. You know all there is to know about it when you know how it works and whatever you say about it that isn't part of that machine is as wrong as a potato inserted in a series of numbers demanding to be included so that nothing can ever add up, the flint and stone cannot create a spark, and the night is cold, and the raw meat is frozen solid. And you are supposedly a modern person and are at a complete loss. You must hope, you must act as if you have hope, but that doesn't mean there's hope. Removing the potato, adding up the numbers, getting the flint and stone to produce sparks, that would mean real hope. But that of course is not allowed. Jerry Saltz wisely advises artists -- when someone says don't, that means do. That's how to be an artist, a member of the tribe, but don't confuse art with life. That is not allowed. That could create real sparks, that could un-mix up the potatoes and the numbers and once that domino falls, they all do.
WHEN IT'S SATURATED WITH SAMENESS, IT CAN FINALLY CHANGE, WHICH EVEN THOSE AT THE BOTTOM HESITATE IN TRULY DESIRING. AN UNKNOWN QUANTITY COULD BE BETTER OR IT COULD BE WORSE. BEST STAY HERE STUCK IN THE MUD WAITING FOR THE MESSIAH DODGING THE STONES THROWN BY THOSE WHO PREFER ANOTHER WAY TO STAY STUCK IN THE MUD AND WAIT FOR THE MESSIAH OR DESCRIBE/VEIL THIS ACTUALITY. VERONIKA IS NOT PREACHING, SHE'S POSSESSED! AND ALSO HAPPENS WHEN YOU REALLY COMB THROUGH IT TO MAKE PERFECT SENSE. SHE COULD REALLY GET THIS WAGON MOVING, GOD FORBID! SHUN HER, PLACATE HER, VERY EASY, SHE'S JUST A PUPPY OBSESSED WITH THIS BALL. EVERYBODY'S OBSESSED WITH SOMETHING THEY'VE GOT TO SELL THESE DAYS, WELL THIS IS THE AGE DEFYING FACE CREAM, ORGANIC CEREMONIAL CHOCOLATE, WHATEVER ANYBODY'S OBSESSED WITH AND SELLING, THIS IS IT!
pre-post script (read around in a circle forever)
the modulated method of metaphor
AS ONE CLOSES IN
ON THE METAPHYSICAL/PHYSICAL
ACTUALITY
THE
QUIDDITY
OF ANYTHING
OR EVERYTHING,
LANGUAGE
GROWS
SO
DENSE
WE
CAN
ONLY
RIDE
ON
A
SWIFTLY
METAMORPHOSING
METAPHOR
TO
THE
CORE,
BUT
DEPENDING,
AS
STRAIGHT
SHOOTING
LANGUAGE
DOES,
ON
ABSTRACTIONS
(ALL
WORDS
TURN
INDIVIDUAL
PHENOMENA
INTO
IDEAL
OBJECTS
CONFORMING
TO
ABSTRACTED
FEATURES
THAT
MANY
VERY
DIFFERENT
THINGS
SHARE)
THAT
ARE
NOT
EVEN
THE
SAME
STUFF
OR
FORMALLY
ALIGNED
WITH
IMMEDIATE
REALITY,
IT'S
LIKE
USING
APPLES
TO DESCRIBE
ORANGES,
WHERE,
TO
BE
SURE,
THE
RESULTS
OF
OPERATIONS
FORMED
ON
THESE
ABSTRACTIONS
CAN
BE
TEMPORARILY
VERIFIED
IN
A
HYPO-
PLAYING
HYPER-
REALITY
LIMITED
TO
SUCH
ABSTRACTIONS,
AND
INDEED
BY
GATHERING
GRAINS
OF
TRUTH
THAT
ORANGES
AND
APPLES
SHARE
UNTIL
THE
ORANGE
REVEALS
ITS
ESSENTIAL
DIFFERENCE.
RATHER
THAN
RISKING
A
FLIGHT
ON
AN
APT
METAPHOR,
IS
LIKE
CHOOSING
AN
INEVITABLY
OR
EVEN
IMMINENTLY
OR EVEN
IMMANENTLY
CRUMBLING
CLIFF
OVER
WHAT
COULD
BE
A
RIDE
IN
A
GLIDER,
OR
CLIMBING
WHAT
COULD
BE
A
DANGEROUS,
FRAYED,
BUT
RECENTLY
REPAIRED
TROPE
SOMEONE
JUST
PASSED
DOWN
FROM
WHAT
COIULD
BE
A
HIGHER
PLATEAU
IN
A
VIDEO
GAME
WHERE
NOTHING
IS
REALLY
RISKED,
BUT
YOU
CAN
MASTER
THE
SPORT
THERE,
AND
EVEN
VIEW
THE
VIEW
FROM
THIS
POTENTIALLY
HIGHER
PLATEAU,
FOR
FURTHER
INFORMATION
BEFORE
DECIDING,
LATER,
IN
REAL
LIFE
TO
REMAIN
ON
THE
CRUMBLING
CLIFF
OR
CLIMB
THE
TROPE..
supplanted notes of introduction
In French and German, l'esprit or Geist means mind, and psyche in English means both mind and soul. But in truth the mind and spirit only come together in heightened or enlightened states that are quite impossible to transmit. In these states words, reclaiming their physical nature as part of the physical world, recover their roots and flower in a living symbiotic system. The trouble is, we make sense of things by the division between words and things, such that, however words can be arranged in ways that counter the division even as they deploy it, still, in the modern, digital world, division prevails in the end, coloring and characterizing any countering of it as subordinate. Art, as Nietzsche puts it, is not an instrument of knowledge, but a credible enough escape from reality to make returning there endurable -- until, I would add, this insight undermines the effectiveness of the escape, and one who truly processes the flatness of the flats of the stage set and can no longer experience the cathartic release loses his mind.
Those who profess allegiance to sacred traditions favoring continuity must rely on arcane arguments that are quite cogent, but alas, no more cogent than arguments against* and leaps of faith and dogged self-brainwashing to counter the brainwashing that is built into every everyday transaction, such that many suspect the authenticity of their claims, which to most rarely ring true. When those haloes radiating from saints in medieval images no longer appear, it isn't too questionable to assume that either there are no more saints, or there are no more believers. As is written in the Gospels, "when the son of man comes, will he find faith on earth?"
*if there's a God, he'd surely purposely elude being calculable by machines, so, if he's dead, it isn't the fact that he isn't calculable that kills him, as many supposedly intelligent people weirdly argue it does. The attempts to calculate at best might counter the counter-calculations and keep the ball rolling. The present effort to establish the reality of continuity and give it the votes it deserves is calculated sometimes, but not a calculation, it is an action toward rendering the imperceptible perceptible and the perceptible comprehensible in the thick of it. It can never be verified at a distance from itself, but there is, by objective standards, no more credible interior experience protected from the outer world by a more minimal, less permeable membrane, none able to arouse more alarm as a threat to digital hegemony and all the control it exercises and promises to the controlled who sign on the dotted line without reading the impenetrable legalese (practice makes perfect smiles the devil). If the sacred saw fit to show itself without definitively proving itself, destroying human freedom and murdering the mystery, there would be no better way. And the free, scientific mind too humble to rely on its own vague intuitions would demand this level of verification before claiming even to be "spiritual, but not religious" in such a cruel, violent world. But to the well trained digital mind, the subtlety of this argument, even if potentially intellectually understood, simply erases it, disallowing the perception. One must climb on one's hands and knees up a mountain to recover it. Until then, just put it in your pipe and smoke it. Maybe this is the mountain.
In the operative difference between enlightened and everyday perception, incommunicable continuity and all the hyper-articulate rupture that makes digital images so true to halo-free everyday life, lies all the grief and sorrow in the world and our helplessness to prevent it, as well as the failure of language to match the world, whose image -- a negative of Saint Sebastian -- is pierced with holes wherever continuity is in evidence;
and yet like all neurotics, we're deeply attached to our neurosis and far more afraid of curing it than living with a condition that our brains have built themselves into a charming, gladly flagged medieval fortress to defend, where a prince can pretty easily climb the tresses of the princess sequestered in the tower, toward everybody living reasonably happily ever after, at worst in a state of quiet, blessedly well controlled desperation. That's why trying to get this nuclear fusion reaction re-joining spirit and soul to mind in alliance with restored, self-reflective language to work and provide all the benefits to humankind it promises is as impossible as trying to repair a feud in a nuclear family. If you're not impossible yourself, I doubt you will want to take it on. In this case, please don't stand in the doorway or block up the hall. Make way for an impossible who just can't take it anymore. I'm determined to get this substance into the water supply as feuding families and clans all kiss and hug, and the walls of the fortress come tumbling down.
To this end, laboring long in my Frankenstinian laboratory, I analyzed carefully and found a way to hook up and reinstate a consistent, slow drip infusion of the most concentrated source available. It is not only an example, but the source itself of Florentine Renaissance and proto-renaissance art, which is documented regularly to provoke psychotic episodes in what is called Stendhal syndrome, which this source of the source, once assimilated, too provokes, but then stabilizes, having activated the capacity to render the world consistently transparent to its own creation and guide actions in all consuming consonance with the unified flow -- not wholly, but impervious enough to the whole world's opposition to this state to keep going and going and flowing, however in the barrage of insults and admonitions slipping and sliding mournfully clownishly, with this example of the most foolish thing to do that everybody else is at least proudly not doing, sadly reinforcing the universally neurotic, when not psychotic -- thank God I made it over -- human condition.
Yes my mission is impossible, and I'm impossible enough to accomplish it! Hares beware; do not underestimate the timid tortoise, poor in spirit, but dogged as a dog. We always try to turn the other cheek and will try to be merciful at your trial, but the avenging angel who protects us might be hard on you, after all the pummeling you put us through. With this in mind, please consider the possibility that though you look like one and "hare" is written on your birth certificate, you never really felt like one, and you're really one of us.
kerystianity
is
kerried
in
the
konception
and
gradual
kerystallization
that
reconnects
word
and
world,
as
personifikation
of
the
word
enables
imitation
and
perfection of its representation in an image that veronika sheer (the sheer veil) unveiled after a scholarly quest for the origins of perspective ("the modern paradigm of knowledge") converged on it.
kerystianity does not demand belief in any literal readings of the sacred texts though activating the tool or machine of prayer by merely understanding and assimilating -- aye there's the rub -- the fact that it exists as such fosters madly mystical experience -- the air is very thin as you approach the peak with the 360 degree view -- corresponding to an overdose of LSD that gradually calibrates itself into a slow drip trip,
and along with the dawning understanding and assimilation of the degree to which our experience is grounded in language and the importance of maintaining the roots to sustain and propagate the living flowers
this may well induce reconsideration of the source of the tool...
kerystianity being a process and a language rooted in and flowering in a thing or image that is transparent to it -- is logically incommunicable, but only as much as love is impossible... which it surely is not, as everything is made of it...though no so called philosopher before ever dove into the cold lake and just started swimming, nevertheless all these voices crying in the wilderness prepared the way and are raptured up on the last day (please note what I said about literalism)
and so what we have here and are no doubt still failing to commooncate is
please zoom in if text too small
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, utterly stymied by self-doubt, rewriting the introduction to the introduction 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 between these fluidly joined members of the same body 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)
