Greetings my name’s veronika I’m presenting myself here, reluctantly, because I need to transmit a finding of some significance. It concerns philosophy and its relation to language, which may not seem that critical, until you start to assimilate it, and then you realize, it really changes everything. I recommend if they’re not immediately available, stopping the video to find paper and pen or pencil to doodle while I speak to relax your mind and go with the flow.
This introduction will maybe take about as long as a TED talk, but though my finding is an eccentric one, the purpose is not to exhaust my fifteen minutes of world wide fame and leave you feeling a bit wiser. Rather, this first talk of many will only, as it were, touch the ball to the nose and leave you baffled, which metaphor derives from my late mate’s proven method of teaching our dog to balance a ball on her nose wherein, on the first day, all you do is lightly tap the ball on the nose, and that’s it.. the second day leave it there for a second only, etc. Beware. It works!
again, I’m posting this, reluctantly, to transmit a specific finding, where this finding, which is dictating all of this, involves not just that of a physical thing, but the visual language not just inscribed into it but determining its form, which is the language I’m speaking right now, though the artifact itself is seven centuries old. The words of the language are all warped cognates, whose meaning you vaguely get but in a twisted way that learning the language will untwist, and then you will understand the language inscribed in the artifact, where visual and verbal language conjoin — an unprecedented event, but I am an unprecedented kind of philosophical mind that is still ostracized in society, a female philosophical mind. More on this to come. Also to come a clear description of the inconsistency that underlies our paradigm of knowledge as it contradicts its own findings -- the findings grateful to them, have outgrown their parents, and it's time for the parents to let go, though this idiosyncratic avenue that has opened up for their safe and honored release to the Elysian Fields, and the peaceful birth of the new paradigm in a warm bath with Mozart playing will be an impossibly hard sell, as was the discovery that the world is round and other highly inconvenient truths, given all the investments in the disproven ideas.
first time as tragedy, second as divine comedy or farce or something between like "All's well that ends well, as we awaken from a midsummer night's dream... thus spakesheer...ohh it is too beautiful to be true but too strange to be fiction... won't you join me by the sea, one hand waving free, forgetting about today...the ideology of now, the truth is much crazier than that...when I quote it's not to scalp but to join all the parts in the summa...
This finding mixes things up, genres, disciplines, the past the future the present, them and us whichever side you’re on, and that means it fosters an identity crisis, even if you land exactly where you were literally, you will be changed, your position will be tempered. Or you will let it carry you away agreeing not to know just how far away, and then you will experience a temporary psychotic break to cross over, similar to the one Karl Jung reports, but many have already assimilated Jung’s findings, this leap is to the next plateau, where there's a sneak peek of the peak and even a path up there, where I met Martin and gazed on the promised land afar with my own three eyes.
This new place consists in a new way of getting there, it’s an appearance true to the name, the act of appearing, awakening all appearance and restoring its numinous aura depleted in mechanical reproduction so pervasive our minds do it spontaneously; we automatically scan like machines for stimulating surfaces and information as we program ourselves to align with programmatic responses. This finding as I find it won’t be scalped and worn as a mask in the usual way, wherein the childish public contentedly licks the icing off the cake, when the knowledge carried in a novel finding inheres mostly in the finding of it, leaving finders, even those with accolades and having exclusive rights to all that cake, feeling terrible loners. At least rather than aggressively ending his own life, as do many anguished artists, critically supported perhaps but still unable to transmit the essence of the findings that are their works, Einstein passively refused surgery that would prolong it. Meanwhile addicted to the cake’s elating icing after almost, the fat being highly flammable, blowing up the whole world with it, still an option, the public and its idolized icons go to endless pains to prolong their icing addicted lives being well supplied even with the escalating needs required by the habit,.
Even without dissemination of the icing and exploitation of addiction to it, it takes decades of laying on straws to break the back of the camel of ignorance, only to lose the fluent life that the poet Wallace Stevens credibly discerns belongs only to the ignorant… so best stay ignorant, the problem only arises when the ignorant think they’re educated in examining isolated bundles of information and believing that inspecting these bundles until you know the ins and outs of bundles of them constitutes not just sufficient knowledge for each bundle’s occasion but for all occasions — amounting to what’s called a paradigm of knowledge, which is a scheme that brings a world into view as if it were the only world there were, however you might possibly, though more and more rarely, tolerate other paradigms, you still secretly think their proponents are out of their minds. In fact these bundles of bundles do not add up to a sufficiently knowledgeable paradigm, and the reflective constantly refer to the incomplete fractured broken meaningless nature of a reality made of bundles of discrete, all tied up bundles, though this reality remains somewhat lovable and even almost knowledgable compared to more seemingly seamless insufficiently knowledgeable paradigms;
but in fact sufficient knowledge exists here and now. It inheres, again, not just in findings but their finding, an ongoing, ever unfolding happening, even after it physically appears, the state keeps changing, it evanesces revisiting the time that preceded its first appearance, it condenses into words that flow through time to describe it, then it again crystallizes, each time differently, that’s why a finding is not called a found, which would finish it, and all the founds remaining findings in name only don’t really exist and turn the world into a very dead, unreal place however well the skeletons dance inside of the pretty balloons blown around them, and however sick everybody got with cultural critique and having given up hope for any action on it, dealt with the disappointment, decided heroically in a way just to face the music and dance, eventually getting quite carried away with their great performances,
worthy of the dream characters in Oz elated on reception of diplomas lockets and testimonials conferring infallible confidence, however the cash went off the gold standard and the ultimate referent is now infinitely deferred,
where, in this dream world, the only important thing for Bugg’s bunny to remember having run off a cliff is not to look down, as blind faith keeping one afloat doesn’t usually work so well when it’s recognized as such — don’t worry I installed a trampoline at the base of the cliff.
So because, among other things, actual, incommensurable endless findings unlike the imaginary authorized founds cannot be transmitted in the usual bundles, everyone gave up hope for sufficient knowledge; and maybe that’s why even those such as Einstein insanely educated and burdened with fluency-flummoxing near knowledge had never stuck around long enough to pile on enough straws to break the camel’s back, however some gurus profess to having done so with such authority that nobody dares up the ante until they show their cards — but then one day — I’m laying all mine on the table,
beginning with an unsuspected run in a different suit from what’s been thus far played, prepare for a sharp turn, —
recently they freed the black slaves, the penultimate straw, then gave women the right to vote, in 1918, the birth year of my mother, S Sue Shear, the empirical Jewess scissor, known for manning up and snipping things down to downright bald. After her father splained to Suzy that despite the invention of the washing machine still only boys in that family get to go to college, she educated herself and served her last 18 years in the Missouri legislature; on her grave is writ — a woman’s place is in the house. She was a frontal tip of the last straw. She then gave birth to my elder sister Mary called by the diminutive of her equally saintly middle name, Kathy. Kathy, oft roamin around the world on the lecture tour, came to cover the length leaving only the last tip of the last straw; last year she won the title of the world’s foremost expert in unsticking stuck grief and was instrumental in getting it this year to qualify as a psychiatric disorder that insurance companies would have to foot the bill about. Honestly whatever helps people, is how she womansplained her long embattled renegade philosophy, unusually worthy of the name, to the New York Times, where previously and according to the powerful opponents of this floating stinging heavyweight champion of the world’s grief counselors took several decades to lay low, getting stuck grieving was considered a healthy option, however badly it hurt and could ruin people’s lives and when in fact, as my late mate, proclaimed — you can learn a lot from pain but you can learn even more from pleasure; he was a rare respected authority — and an artist no less — who did not see fit to lay heavy burdens on his mentees. As many male artists are, though rarely to such a degree I don’t think, he was such an inner woman, Ron the non-mondrian would when he could afford it only paint curvaceous forms on warped curvaceous stretchers to avoid all proud unbending military masculine angularity and erectness, and he danced like a jelly fish Of course the less a man needs to protest against his womanliness the more manly he is and vice versa, and that’s how it was with us, who played Siamese twins of sorts — I stumbled into that metaphor for love in a book I read right After I set it down, as so often happens, corroborating the recent scientific finding on the reversibility of time — as we had and still have each other’s backs, so as severance could be fatal, though I officially had myself registered as a world roamin kathylic, I must for now at least still respectfully refuse her cure and grievously stay haunted by my late mate’s ghost. Oh and that book that used my metaphor also explains my kind of madness as beautiful and useful, indeed necessary, however mad, however mad Karl Jung almost convinced people that it isn’t mad at all, and now the wave has caught you and pulled you out to sea, and all you can do is swim for your life in the unremitting uncertainty as to whether a mad person who knows she’s mad is really mad at all. Doesn’t it feel great to be back home, merperson?
My sister’s seminal accomplishment before which the intractably grieving, by the typical negative wisdom of the long ruling patriarchs, had nowhere to lay their head in the scientific paradigm supposedly made to heal the whole world of intractable grief, certainly constitutes the main body of the last straw, then following at a safe distance still close enough for comfort a second and male sibling, I arrived, three weeks late and the last of my eighteen first cousins (16) and siblings (2)— as reluctantly as Mohammed… Imagine my astonishment as well as consternation as I filled in the phrase to complete the puzzle only to find my own name written there. How could I be the decisive camel’s back breaking end tip of the last straw, impossible! but somebody does win the lottery — in this one you get to get both stoned and stoned, pray only verbally, that’s bad enough, in the non-smokily case — although it does seem impossible to be that both lucky and unlucky. But under the indispensable early and ongoing tutelage and influence of my genius noble big brother’s securely masculine enough to be very womanly mind — albeit intermittently, after leading you down the garden path, when you least expect it, testifying to the blinding testiness of testosterone — I had an ace up my sleeve,. I cheated by being self-destructive and nerdy enough actually earnestly to seek knowledge completely apart from, and totally negligent of professional career concerns even in the very thick of them, causing such consternation in my deeply caring professors we had to part ways. I am a philosopher, a lover of knowledge in my blood and bones. I take full responsibility for listening to that snake concerning the deliciousness of that fluency flummoxing apple at whose appellative core lies the apple-ication of itself. It had to be one of Evel us, the last straw. And now it’s allowed. Jesus (she’sUS!?) opened the gates and indeed assures us that the only cure is hair of the dog that bit us, just stay stoned, truth is a Bacchanalian revel in which no-one is sober, says the consummately sober Hegel, whose insights are often worthy, but whose droning voice will put you to sleep in three minutes, and when sound vies with sense, the knowing cat smells an insufficiently knowledgeable rat in cat’s clothing.. Then Walt (my astrological twin) says — so I contradict myself, I contain multitudes. Wrong. Men and women who learn to speak their language contradict themselves because they’re afraid to open their eyes and see what joins the head to the tail, afraid to bite the apple to its core in apple-ication as revealed in the original apple-ations such as findings versus founds — cmon honey it’s really okay this time, and it’s already done, you’re in denial — and however earnestly they try to apple-eye their ideas, there’s always significant slippage that their faculties fail to register with uncanny precision as when a tornado leaves half of a picnic table in smithereens and the half full wineglasses erect and untouched on the other side, and these bright positive souls are always turned to the sunny side, so continue the conversation as if nothing happened, calling women who protest depressed and fatalistic. as dark as the hole that we essentially are, after they stretch like Bill Clinton what it is that is means, however the fact is a donut has a hole, it does not inhere in it, and actually it doesn’t even have a hole. The hole happens where the donut, which, unlike a penis In the related case, carefully avoids it, is not! So if the secret is that belying the apparent magnetic effect, like attracts like, it’s the man that’s holey with an e before the y. To veil it in the hole-ridden mesmerizingly high falutin jargon at which they excel, — stretch breathe — the sign is arbitrarily related to the signified — according to the father of modern linguistics Saussure following Saint Augustine, oft called the father of many if not all significantly modern things, who brutally sliced apart these entities, sign and signified, as if a two stranded DNA molecule were a Gordian knot.
As Margaret Thatcher (like Liz Cheney this monstressa had some stellar moments) if you want somebody to talk about it ask a man, if you want somebody to do it, ask a woman. There can be no knowledge if the signs of it have nothing to do with what they signify! My God my God why did you let truth fall into the hands of these mental when not physical war mongers! Knowledge is not knowledge unless it can be purveyed in signs and words but NOT words used exclusively in the presently exclusively authorized man-handled way, cut off from their roots, their souls sucked out, dried and pressed into the fleeting incomplete certainty of data in an uncertain world in constant flux, as the heads of the perpetrators of this repression swim with numbers mimicking the effect of sticking one of their weirdly doubled heads in the sand at the approach of this unfathomable beast, reality. Not that physical men, women or not, are genetically damaged, rather they are genetically empowered, and power corrupts. Let’s hope I get some corrupting power to distribute the findings from this vortex of uncorrupted powerlessness, so grab the goods while the gate is still open. Yes it fell on me, perhaps the most powerless person in the world, the woman without qualities, cipher to the age, pulled in every direction equally to pin me to the spot, and I was equal to it!
I rescued the words, the words are characters in the play, the play’s the sting. Thus spakeSheer! That’s why all the usurpers better flee the palace, the Gemini twins I am mean business! Penelope is not going to stop weaving and unweaving, and Odysseus will take no prisoners. Oh many decades I laid on straws that those burdened with insufficient ignorance and insufficient knowledge, those known by their cute puppy dog hangdog looks, provided, and then I arrived at the very weighty bundle including phenomenology and relativity that manly camels with their overdeveloped back muscles are able to lug around, indeed in the delirium — denial mingled with the inner knowledge that it will soon be over with — preceding the laying on the final straw, they suddenly feel light and giddy with jouissance, Hang in there camel, I’m coming with the last straw to put you out of your misery, however they who’ve been burdening you will utterly deny that their language as such is defunct, the way they speak of things in often total contradiction to their actions including the action of their speech, is not long for the world. The truth burns as it melts the scales from the eyes. Feel and love the burn. Homo sapien, wise guy, is synonymous with philosopher, he, biological or otherwise, is wise because he, the scientist, listens to her, biological or otherwise, the artist, the real one, who includes and transcends the scientist, refusing to adhere to the current practice of serving as his playground where he can blow off steam or illustrate the precepts of his ineffective protest at the level of symptoms, protest that only exacerbates the disease wrought by that slice that tears apart sign and signified, bound in this immortal living knot we are, only to create more bleeding snakes to slice, their favorite game. The seeming security of their position based on its mechanical simplicity and its contingent effectiveness -- I do not oppose it when effective; I a real artist, include and transcend it — is a scam. Understanding of their words requires no less a leap of faith than understanding mine does, you are only practiced in it. It is a habit, a habit of imitating machines with primitive feelings or stimulus response functions, their precious babies since they can’t have human ones, a habit you must break before the breakage that’s happening everywhere is irreparable. Thank you for listening. MUCH more to come.
Suspend disbelief, hang in when it sounds like idle rambling or some other waste of time, or is taking a tack you habitually dismiss.
Rearrangement of the same old material can transubstantiate it, as when the same number of particles rearrange themselves into a different set of molecules representing different substances, or when animal or vegetable life appears in the entwinement of two mineral strands that before this arrangement or in its severance resemble or become life threatening viruses — overlooked by the history of male dominated philosophy east and west, I do not argue, I definitively proclaim definitively to change the game that in truth remained unchanged after I bought that face cream, based on overwhelming universally discernible evidence — that the essence of everything lies not in idea or matter, but in the form or the arrangement, a qualitative versus quantitative difference, and that’s how it bamboozles science and always slips out of its grip again, while art never fails to nail it, however the ruling paradigms, both sacred and secular, limit exploration into the implications of this fact toward taking command of the ship that is currently spinning in the wind, not to mention how much fun it is to careen back and forth through time in the time machine I find and activate in pursuing and being pursued by the secret of the universe.
If on this unprecedented occasion it’s hard to follow me as I trip along the stepping stones of metaphors, genres, twisting and turning, wherever my foot finds rare solid ground as the world crumbles in the usual way all around, just hold on tight to my head as you ride on my shoulders like a happy amazed daring child and be thankful you found me in the nick of time.
When I was in school a few decades ago, theory was so in fashion that they named a clothing store, which still survives I think, after it. Meanwhile apart from the cool, dark clothes it wore, theory itself, unable to solve the problems it raised just kept going around in circles, having widely fallen in love with the sound of its own voice, caught up in tautologies, a very dangerous thing to be when you’ve uncovered life threatening problems
but useful to appease the behemoth you might otherwise come to threaten, along with your prestigious job and your comfortable life. I play a tiny person dressed up as a mouse scurrying around their laboratories and ransacking their files then poring over the data for decades with daringly different plans.
So in short, I think I can almost guarantee you will in the end be curious enough about what just happened to hope, if only for insider information on the enemy, that soon the ball will return and linger a little longer on your nose — even against all the reasons and feelings in the world now gathering from every corner of it to prevent you from hearing me out, as I careen from too boring to too interesting for my own or anybody’s good. I’m everybody’s enemy. I’m an artist, an abstract one rolling in the evocative shimmering gooey mud of words as they and I conspire in abstracts of the otherwise prohibitively long incomprehensible papers of reality. I’m also a painter, when my inner weather cools and all these vapid words melt and crystallize. Some say I’m two, then, a writer and a painter, but I am water, which is one that comes in one of three states in a world of hydrogen and oxygen atoms that just can’t get it together, with all due respect. The Eskimos might have many words for snow, but do they have a word for what all snows share? Probably not, some see forests, others trees, and then one side tries to kill the other so everybody can avoid reality in the same way, and get life over with as soon as possible, not that the life wish doesn’t fight back for a brief interval, but someone threatening the overarching rule of the death wish, the underground stream shooting its chthonic energy through the feet to the crown, calling us down down down, is a consummate enemy of the people, evil or mad or both. Those saints who flew up stairs of course were witches, and figuratively versus literally could be yet more dangerous, with the practice so easily disseminated. Luckily they found and now effectively apply the infallible method of nipping any such trend in the bud — ignore-once.
***
second try
I'd toss out all my work to save the life of a cat. -- Giacometti
...but first, an impossibly difficult note of introduction to the impossibly difficult (somewhat mirroring its mother) hyper non-fictional -- truth truth more truth! higher lower narrower wider more and more replete -- mongrel discourse -- how do you convey what you mean in a long long lazy line of letters snaking through time and constantly leaving the last behind when every thought is somewhat novel, and only when you've absorbed them all can you absorb one of them -- some guidelines are not too far down there somewhere, and if you are now or soon inclined to slip down and dip into them, be sure to climb back up and reclaim what you missed -- the insight unraveling a thread woven into an instantaneously appearing image of which only words can plumb the depths? the purest appearance imaginable incarnate, deeply camouflaged in the flayed flawed flesh of being, a thing you only find and see after decades of reading and thinking about things abstractly as you fiddle and fiddle and hack away the bramble to where you find a partner in solving the Rubik's cube, and his hands move where your minds move them, outside of time, how do you make everybody a great enough actor to play anybody and everybody every other minute without losing themselves entirely? --
please -- I'm down on my knees -- though it is impossible, complete the introduction to decide whether or not you're interested in this impossibly ambitious case -- justified by the ambition of the art of another, art that I'm a cipher to, impossibly, as with a carefully engineered, almost organic veggie patty that almost really could take the place of a burger after the namby pamby world can no longer digest them and really it would be more ethical and ecological at the very least to alternate between them, especially given the institutional abuses attending mass distribution of the real body and blood --
in which we -- novice philosophically inclined scholars and the like must pole vault, veterans must shimmy under the Lindy pole, often falling and reestablishing contact with the long lost earth, then back on your toes! still way down low, go go go! -- systematically and unsystematically, analytically and synthetically, establish a scientific as well as artistic, a prosaic as well as poetic* basis for the public** restoration of the sacred domain -- bound to and defined not by vague, abstract ideals, but by specific, circumscribed holy ground*** -- of the scientifically understood world, please at least -- in however many different sessions required -- listen to the whole introduction --- sssh please it's very quiet, hard to hear, skittish, and will dash away and hide at the drop of a pin.
*scientific as well as artistic, a prosaic as well as poetic...the textual textile's warp and woof as it gradually weaves up an image of an actual image possibly more visible than the thing itself --
** public at least in principle, however the public itself might not be too interested, where it might only interest those individuals who identify with the collective and distrust so called private understanding not available to it, whether the public takes it or leaves it. It is written that many are called, but few are chosen. Perhaps only a sadly limited elite are true democrats.
***bound to and defined not by vague, abstract ideals, but by specific, circumscribed holy ground...what so many great modern artists dreamt of, ached for, as much as prayed for in every word and stroke, outlining the absence with such care it glowed with presence, the egg of the hopeless lack cracked by the one un-stray among millions to change its name from lack to irrepressible, however hidden hope for the lacked, hope named that secretly, unknown to any (before this time as well as space penetrating sonogram) mirroring itself, gaining self-knowledge, evolving, differentiating, quietly in the depths of the unconscious, already slowly rising to the surface, as the living form of the hoped for gradually takes form... oh if only they and not their disingenuously sycophantic heirs high enough on clicking and being clicked on (their bar is low indeed) were not themselves, but those literal soldiers, those moderns returned, drooling over their death of drink for the glimpses it offers of that fulfilled hope's intoxicating beauty, just waiting in the hell of hope -- unlike my generally over fifty percent disembodied contemporaries, who surrendered all hope and were raptured up into a sea of clicked hearts, leaving their bodies behind, as per those spiritual paths -- not this one! -- that teach the body is or becomes an impediment to the spirit, not its only realized form, both mortal, or both immortal (the long shot, dark horse that Pascal puts his "money" on, since you have to leave it behind with your money otherwise) and death's just a more thorough sloughing off of dead cells, where radically rejuvenated, the body/spirit's waiting somewhere over there to reclaim you -- for something so impossible, for the true lover of serious enough sinners to lift the veil for just one instant, as those gigantic Michelangelo David Letterman hands press down and those knees that would not bend for any imposter or facsimile buckle, that wailing prayer from the tower of song "If it be thy will" not cried in vain, but in the instant cried, Giacometti's cat miraculously emerges unscathed after a truck rolls over it -- as when her leash broke and my late dog did that -- and he and the song writer conspiring in the deal move to toss out all of their elegantly anorexic work, but that big regal hand grabs their wrists and stays the ax -- that the image/story in spacetime, the cleanest waters in the world, repletely living waters thrilling to dive in, remain transparent down to the ocean bed.
congratulations, if you went slowly enough to hear all the words above -- if not, I'm happy to repeat them -- on arriving at the first recommended break for a good day's work and/or a good night's sleep, or if you're on a roll of beginner's luck, at least a coffee break to calibrate rather than squander it, don't worry I'm happy to wait and won't start until you return, sure you can bring your coffee to the garden (I wouldn't think of chirping without a back up of sparrow, robin, and cardinal song and fountain babble, plus the Cleodoodle likes it out here) --
Some guidelines:
The difference between silent reading and listening lies not in what goes in the ears or not, because, if you go slow enough, you will hear the words in your head, which effort increases the effect of listening, which also means very much receding and giving the incoming input space inside of you. When something novel, something downright impossible, is trying to be heard, listening is very much required. I hope to pique your interest and minimize the work required to listen, but this can also backfire when, having successfully entertained you, suddenly there's an appallingly weird object in your view that every bone in your body shudders against. So I must calibrate it delicately, cajoling you to effort, sometimes seducing you, sometimes seducing you into refusing to be seduced, fortifying and empowering you to help raise up this Lazarus, however this flagrant effort at manipulation may spontaneously inspire mistrust, until you remember why I'm doing it, or at least why I say I'm doing it, and there's a chance I might not be lying. I don't think I am and pray I'm not, but one never knows, does one? I've never met a human being who never split into Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and the wileyer the disguise, the more dangerous. Lord have mercy!
If your mind wanders, and you find you're not listening, just go back to where you lost the thread, and I will, as it were, repeat what you missed with infinite patience, happy to give you all the time and all the listening sessions you need to complete this rather lengthy introduction. The one who takes the longest time and the highest number of reading sessions to complete it will win the race. But few should be concerned with winning this marathon; for the most part the goal is rightly simply to complete it at the slowest, most measured rate at which one can achieve this momentous victory. Just use the first listening sessions to train and gradually build up strength to stop when you want to keep going and keep going when you want to stop before you establish a rhythm. I know I'm asking a lot when I, an incorrigible child, personally have not yet made peace with brushing my teeth. But whether it's war or peace, one must brush one's teeth, and so, I hold, fellow centaur or some other mythic chimera, you must brush the golden mane of your mind as it manifests in your halo as you gratefully -- you are a beautiful beast -- gaze into the mirror of the mongrel discourse, and then suffer the disjunct and the hangover when you're back in town with all the clowns over and over.
the mongrel discourse turns the inside out world right side in. It reconstitutes our understanding of all objects. Objects are, on reflection, transparent to the philosophy or ground of being that conceives their nature and limits their function. We can reconstitute the world to be consistent with the degree of knowledge we now possess, or we can keep manipulating objects grounded in obsolete philosophy and constantly run into walls. This first infantile effort is a baby wobbling and constantly falling, the reader must help!
The mongrel discourse represents an attempt to represent and activate a fully worked out, absolutely viable, historically grounded and right in the flow -- arriving just in time, however behind the times everything else might be -- novel paradigm of knowledge embedded seven centuries ago -- at the immaculate conception of the world being born in blood sweat and tears right now -- in a particular fresco, perhaps the last production of the famous so called father of modern painting, Giotto di Bondone
at, or rather as, the blue hour -- when the cries of the night animals cease, before the day animals are roused -- the first diffuse, dawning light, only brightening the midnight blue to piercingly intense dark ultramarine-ish as it signals that distantly imminent sunrise called the Renaissance, that blue hour even more timeless than it is -- which you experience directly when you find a way in there, into the vortex of the hiatus, as when a falling or rising object stops on a dime outside of time at the apex or nadir of a parabolic curve -- or the climax of a parable -- and uses this interesting instant only to turn from opposing to surrendering to gravity or vice versa, or as when a substance suddenly stops heating up or cooling to change its state;
there is suddenly no measurable quantitative change or movement, only an immeasurable qualitative one, and yet the energy producing the former transfers to the latter, which is like saying you can translate prose into poetry and vice versa without losing the essence, and it is happening constantly, physically, demonstrably, which means that the wholly quantifiable world of science isn't the world at all, but more like a Big Dipper you read into the stars until you arrive there and find no suspicion of a soup spoon through the lens of the ancient classical Socratic "skeptical" science that read it there until such fallible science "advanced" to a more global and resilient constellation of quantifiable points from which to interpolate, delusionally, a wholly quantifiable whole --
hence the urgent need for this mongrel discourse initiating discourse among all the discourses, to speak to the way things actually are, not to a shallow simulacrum growing more and more resilient as if made of more and more intractable state of the art ultra-non-biodegradable, but nevertheless murkily yellowing, less and less transparent plastic, the longer the alternative is repressed.
The blue of that bluest of skies in the blue hour before the dawn of the Renaissance -- nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita -- had never found a pigment to represent it before a massively supermanian man aptly named Mas Subramainan accidentally cooked up what was christened YInMn blue in 2009. The ancient Greeks lacked a name for any of the blues, perhaps they were unable to hear them enough to see them -- in the instant of recognition, all the senses converge -- because they had not yet heard about all the gods returning to their source in Zeus melting back into the unnamable one who in a human guise is caught, crucified, and declared dead even later by atheists who differ on the details and level of literalness of the crucifixion, but don't deny the cataclysmically painful, while paradoxically joyous quality of the event, even as they also acknowledge resurrection in what they call the eternal return, which is as blue as it gets, that tragic event continually inescapably recurring, as is also implied in the purported transubstantiation of bread and wine into living body and blood.
Resonating with this terrible possibility, the eternal return, as with other, even some golden and rosy theories, the spiritually YInMn bluish appearance appearing with all its heart, soul, and might at the site of this particular fresco, however nobody else can hear or really see it yet in part because the ear shattering sound is too silent, the light too blinding for other than mutants to tolerate, is, I will eventually directly show or at least clearly explain to those who can't look, not other than, as the paradoxical, self-annihilating narrative engineered to facilitate this systematically -- I will trace the steps -- crystallizes, appearance itself, as it, among so many other things, exclusively occupies and enacts the turning point of convergent and divergent, sacred and secular culture.
The pure appearance of appearance began to appear for me, literally knocking me off my feet and driving me out of my everyday mind for a full few months, at the culmination of an inquest into the origins of perspective that, due to my ruthlessly relentless sleuthing, turned me around and allowed me not only to see the thing from the other side of the looking glass of history, but to translate this hieroglyphic speaking its own massively advanced, massively regressed, terribly timeless language into an evolved version of the contemporary vernacular tongue informed by state of the art philosophy, cosmology, and cultivated -- if I may say so, but you be the judge -- taste, which is not to be sneezed at, as beauty is truth, however before they converge in this fresco, they most drastically depart, at opposite ends of the diameter of the circle they set out to describe by traveling in opposite directions. Sure, go ahead and read that again, human does not live by bread alone, but needs food for thought. And for a full banquet, please suspend judgment and keep reading.
The mongrel discourse is philosophy in action, however the action is made of words, the words are more active or creative than descriptive, or description is the larva that is morphing into the butterfly of action even as I now speak. A harrowing prospect, as this continuous natural process has never before appeared to the human mind and can never appear elsewhere, as it is the essence, enactment, and proof of individuality, specificity, and quiddity, with everything else doing something else equally particular, which has been doubted in the failure, previously, to locate the source after people stopped believing the authorities when they just said, however rightly, trust us, it's there, where they perhaps justifiably balk at my indulgence of slackers in trust, such as myself. Well, Jesus quite pointedly indulged us, and that's good enough for me.
Homo sapien means man of knowledge (this woe of man blamed on woman, who is included). However woefully womanly (like all blabbering professors even those who've been me too'd, or should have been such as the one I'm thinking of, rumor telling of his extraordinarily sizable member), we sapiens have accrued and can continually accrue knowledge, and it is pathological not to own one's own capacities; this extra arm cannot be denied and inadequately exercised, or it will grow twisted and diseased. Moreover, philosophy provides the premises, and if the premises are flawed, so will all that arises in them be. Philosophy is difficult in a friendly way, the mind is a thoroughbred long pampered in the stable dying to race, however awful the ache in its lungs as it picks up speed, nearly blinded by burning salty sweat. If not us, who? I'll answer that. If not us, including you, a very rare visitor who went to more trouble to show up here than you or anybody will ever know, nobody.
Philosophy is a strange joy unlike any other that, if you have just arrived at this plateau, will radically tweak your aforementioned taste, some will suddenly be connoisseurs when possibly previously they were content with the diner wine of thought snuck into an eminently labeled bottle. You will find and awaken buds that will flower on your tongue in territories that you never knew existed. As with saints, from all walks of life -- novices must pole vault; experts must shimmy under the Lindy pole -- the true philosophers, homo sapiens worthy of the name, will emerge, exposing the frauds who chose it to serve themselves, rather than waiting for it to choose them to serve it or pass over them, whether they like it or not. Unfortunately, only the hopeless riffraff such as myself are left to chose from, as whoever can manage it, will choose to do the thing that serves him, her, or it, who will then likely try earnestly to serve that thing, refusing to admit that this match was not made in heaven, and nothing too great will come of it. Better to be hopeless hapless riffraff and hope to be chosen from the motley crew of spiritual if not actual Jews, those of us who fail to do as we choose and therefore remain available to be chosen.
So, if you have not already done so, be sure to dive in where you're over your head, don't know how to swim, and are bound to drown to be born again the potential chosen. The only way out of it is through it, and don't blame the messenger for the one that signed the message that's sticking you to it. Where all this truth is leading might be scary, but what important, rewarding thing isn't? The advance in philosophy or what it loves, knowledge, transpiring here -- like all such radical advances, radically resisted, banishing the carrier from all authorized channels where she threatens the systemic corruption -- happened because of a discovery I made that demanded the advance to represent itself. Even as burgeoning philosophical awareness caused my boat to drift this way, toward an object from long ago that also registers this awareness and was similarly given no official forum as such. For a long time now philosophy, aligned with relativity and other advances in cosmology, has acknowledged the interdependence unto identity of means and ends time and space -- restoring an indivisible wholeness that reestablishes its roots in sacred traditions, while allowing it to flower -- but has not reformed the means to align with this interdependence. Philosophy, after all the attempts at deconstruction that lead to Nazism or just abject confusion, returned to describing things and ideas as things apart, objective objects, even if the object discussed is the failure of objectivity, where the appearance of this tautology signifies the end of this kind of philosophy being kept alive on life support at the taxpayers, not to mention the students and their parents', expense, as the choosy philosophers enjoy the life they chose, however it fails the chosen thing.
In fact, the best philosophy can do is watch itself participating in the things it perceives, or watch itself co-create them. As Howard Bloom brilliantly elucidates, the essence of Creation is creativity. Creativity and analysis are not digital choices, the former incorporates the latter, and the latter apart from the former concerns not things, but categories of things not just helping to organize them, but competing with them and inclined to obscure and repress them, while we ourselves come so to identify with the categories that only categorical effects affect us, and I agree contingently, in medical matters say, that who cares if it's a placebo if it works. That is, I agree until what causes the symptoms this method heals causes new ones, more and more resistant to it, to appear. To be positive and creative, with deconstruction, analysis, destruction subsumed in the greater act, is to go with the flow of Creation, and all analytical disciplines need to be subject to Creation's reign; rebellion serves only to verify one's freedom to paddle upstream, so the world can marvel at one's muscles and shower contempt on the puny, and a culture that can't stop trying to defeat the flow is very trying to Creation until one day it just can't take it anymore and disowns the culture, God forbid.
All this is why, instead of describing a novel thing/idea I, playing at the forefront of the present, this culture as prodigal son, am returning to Creation, never again to stray as it joyously throws me a party that bristles the dutiful who never so rebelled, as unlike that dutiful son, we both love freedom enough to tame it, not just "put it to sleep" aka euthanize it for being so much trouble and constantly in pain, in the nature of the delirious when not melancholy doggy whom only love can heal of wishing it had never been born if it could formulate the hypothesis, which I believe it can, actually, however in the language of emotion far more articulate before words get hold of it morphing the piano into a laptop keyboard requiring extreme compositional skills to recreate the Beethovonic articulate play of emotions in a dog, a perpetual novice whose trick is to stick to the black keys.
In mutiny against too long rebellious philosophy in close alliance to commerce, traditionally its mortal enemy, enslaving everything else to their whim, I come up with -- or has come up with me -- I will be...I already am... taking a giant leap toward understanding everything by transparently recreating one thing, yoking myself to both the discipline and wildness of the act of creation, a real live rodeo in painfully slow until it suddenly lets go motion -- from at first abstract premises only beginning to take shape in broad strokes that will not read as anything for a long time, so just relax into the rhythms of the sweeping lines of thought at the outset of the act of the thing's softly psychedelic, very slowly unfolding appearance.
There is no faking it to make this, I authentically, while on a different quest, find myself bringing this novel object into actual view, quite apart from the literal surface being scanned by the cyborgs who visit the church where it lives, as they listen to choosy guides tell anecdotes or point out a few disconnected, formal features that caught their choosy eyes, anything to avoid retracing the continuous thread of which every feature is woven and actually seeing the thing as it would change their life and change their mind about everything, such that they would strip off their crippling capacity, disable their talent and throw away the key, so as to join the choosable losers and let it have its way with them; and now to show it to you I must imitate or fake it, as I try blubberingly to say something and point to its real reality while everybody who's hung around a while gets more and more riled up, calling me crazy and/or boring, knowing neither exactly fits but nothing else does -- as I painstakingly reconstruct this insanely complex super-sentient seeming machine -- it's here to serve us insisting and continually verifying with its frenetic calculations the extremely cogent hypothesis that we've come too far to retreat; the only escape from this kind of thing is in the eye of the hurricane -- from all the mutually maximally deviated, but consonantly converging directions and ideas and perceptions that bring it forth.
Because I am not talking about things in general using abstract ideas. I am slowly generating before your eyes a particular visible thing out of abstract ideas growing gradually more precise until they crystallize in an object that perfectly embodies them. But the journey is circuitous with many digressions and side roads, wherein the character of the thing is already manifest, a thing that defies all categories and can do whatever it wants, usually what is not expected, but reminds you of arcane high art, because it is that, but demanding to be unveiled and translated into language that puts all other language to shame, which it does explicitly, where other high art does this implicitly. So it is not an idea, it is a crystallized idea, that is, an image, an image of everything making everything an image of it, which is true of everything but in this case, it is not anything other than everything, transparently, unmediated by any other idea; it is art purified of philosophy, though only philosophy is a high enough mountain from which to glimpse it. Though it is going somewhere, you shouldn't care, but just love where it is right here and now, learn -- by continued exposure when you most want to run away -- to delight in the fine wine of its voice that even the connoisseurs for a long time find so subtle they can hardly get it down, for only then will you ever get there in maybe ten years or your heirs will in a couple of centuries, by my mother's prediction.
It is not a personal epiphany, but constructed of collective experience as with all recognizable objects. I am just the first one to see it, seeming as crazy as the first who glimpsed the roundness of the world, but in this case it's as if the authorities -- twice fooled shame on us, whisper the secretly conspiring sacred and secular ones -- had anticipated the insight and done everything needed to deflect attention from the teller in advance in perpetuity. I can only pray a small clan at least might break through enough to bring up baby with the love, humor, and bravery required beyond the primitive practice of caging the beast as soon as it's spotted as those with time/money to squander pay to watch it pace back and forth, hear it roar, and sigh in relief that it's not still at large. In any case, this catliche image -- never before read in the unique language in which it speaks, therefore never before seen as the unique world it represents -- emerging at the crack of the dawn of the Renaissance, indeed the single source of it, the sun that illuminates all the planets, asteroids, and moons in the solar system of the Renaissance, is the sole source of this mongrel discourse, an alien language from an alien land, the language of the splices spilling out from between the frames and challenging their hegemony and that of the paradigm of the spliced stills in favor of the one appearance as such, an endless act of appearing always newly.
Yes it is a language, a way of seeing and organizing experience based on what it takes as given including in this case the knowledge, for instance, that language is embedded in the given in the beginning -- creating some confusion, as what it is and what it points to are all mixed up, but however it works in the short term, in the end it's yet more confusing -- how did being so seemingly clear land us in this terrible mess? oh it's all THEIR fault CLEARLY -- to operate on false premises. What it reveals may flash up at any time in all its parts, but as a language it will take as long to understand as it takes to understand any foreign language and by the same immersive method, as the rules of grammar are gradually revealed and always more and more fluency is achieved. There are as many false friends as cognates, so suspend thoughts that you ever for almost ever now understand. It lies in the sound as much as the sense, in the physical presence of the words, so please don't skip around, just let it flow as you swim where the meaning floats in the lanes between the lines where the buoys of the words are strung together, maybe after quite a while you can try sailing by tacking back and forth; and while there's an end years away, you will never get there by subordinating the endless way of being here now where each word is heard, and you are gradually saturated with being, not so much you as yourself, but you as everybody, carried and connected in language being purified in this high tech treatment plant overseen by the bona fide, philosophically artistically refined, state of the art sibyl. The unbearable lightness belies the unbearable heaviness and vice versa, but the unbearable when shared grows more and more bearable until the burden is light, but no longer unbearably.
One should not seek to transcend the self and admonish oneself for failure to, but only fully to occupy the whole of the self's suffusingly transcendent nature. We are gods. All this you have heard and no doubt approved, so why be alarmed or confused to find it happily happening? Because things are so very very different from our apriori ideas of them, so much more charming and humble than we are, we being more precisely gotkins (like Michael), which are childishly fallible gods, presently widely rather wooden Pinocchio's, Frankenstinian pastiches of apriori ideas -- like four year olds trying on different personae, unseemly as this is in grown up bodies. Recognizing this, some escaped from the island of lost boys who never grow up and began shattering all the idols and resorting to elevated abstractions, losing all touch with life as it's lived where it intermittently actually is lived -- not a pastiche, but an aesthetically integrated collage of a-priori ideas, visibly fragmented, but signifying something whole fed by an underground stream, an artistic effort that transforms them into novel realities without trying to escape them, which only fans the fire.
In art, pastiche replaced collage to imitate so called life in the failure of all resistance to flat, uninspired, technical materialism; anything not quantifiable relegated to debunked mysticism. But the essence of actuality is qualitative not quantitative. Actuality is all made of the same stuff; difference lies only in different arrangements differently arranging our perceptions. Art's somewhat unruly rules and means belong to everything. Art carries truth stealthily concealing it until a distant, appointed hour. In the meantime, it must be loved for itself, even the ominously withholding glimmer in its eye, but meanwhile, don't fetishize the glimmer and delay the hatching hour. I'd say, after any re-reading to scrape the plate clean, that's enough for today. Dare to hope to see you or your heirs for a similar full course spiritual meal tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow until the last syllable of recorded time, a tale full of sound and fury signifying something told by no more of an idiot than Dostoyevski's nominal one... thus spakeSheer, the mirror...
************************************************
third try
playful overture anticipating the playful denouement after harrowing hell...
