FORGET THE HEADING -- THIS IS AN EMERGENCY!
PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE
Suspend objections and discussion
And read to the end.
A flowering society is a plant that looks relatively simple and ordered, but its actual philosophical roots — the ground of its being — consist in a wild tangle of madly evolving preconceptions. Before you disagree, or if you already do, again, please read through, and scientifically (open mindedly) and swimmingly -- sticking to the lanes between each of the consecutive lines, feeling the cool fluid caressing medium of language, much sense is carried in the sound, and not going faster than the viscosity of the medium allows.
Medieval theology, embryonic scientific philosophy naturally developed into the precious babe of secular philosophy, the cord was cut, and this swiftly growing body of knowledge, with its impossibly difficult tomes, the holy writ of the root specialists, is society’s sacred trust, however nobody but the root specialists understand it or what the use of it is. The latter puzzlement puzzling, as clearly this knowledge is critical in the case of root damage threatening the plant. But sadly the society generally lingers in the dark ages of the early Enlightenment concerning this matter, scorning all illuminating, visual models or metaphors that can't be quantified and controlled —
such as the critical plant metaphor we're using here — as the scales they remove return to the eyes, and the intrepid mind required for thought -- risk is beautiful, says Plato -- widely atrophies. Not everywhere, some great recent philosophy, restoring and reclaiming ancient mythologies and metaphors calls us dogs -- see Dogs by Mark Alizart -- and that is the first step -- as is taking in a dog -- toward reclaiming one's humanity, toward a re-rebirth of the rebirth of humanism in the poetry of the animal lover, Saint Francis of Assisi. For homo sapiens, or wise guys, are not dogs as long as we know we are dogs, but this wise truth swims too close to the surface of things to reestablish the deeper roots torn in all the twisting to the right, to the left, to the right... and on and of the stem.
The theory that we are just tumbleweeds is not born out in an image of history's spiraling progression, bound to a wheel, where it's a slow slow train, gaining a micro-millimeter with every seemingly, in the end, futile revolution, but it's movin on, and if that's not the truth, it's the most accurately aligned with the evidence so far, as well as the most beautiful, good, and useful hypothesis, so we are obliged to instate it as the working one.
See also, on another day, after completing this post https://detritusofmongrel.blogspot.com/2022/07/we-interrupt-usual-program-for-this.html
To return to the roots, the last generations, picking up the pace, seemed almost to exhaust the navigation of the developing primordial soup of seemingly finally more slowly evolving preconceptions, at the breaking point of overextended complexity, and one day a novel form of intellectual life with an elegantly simple structure appeared in the subterranean muck. Action and reflection were entwined in the mongrel discourse, the scientifically grounded oracles of a new breed of sibyl, spinning like a whirling dervish in the middle of everything, her kaleidoscope eyes spinning round as she rhapsodizes and synthesizes. The roots have formed into a carrot! Nothing can change without staying the same, nothing can stay the same without changing. Whatever you err on the side of, this will cover the balance.
What a boon, as without a way to consolidate the roots and transmit the findings to the people, it just keeps twisting the stem to the right to the left to the right to the left, and one day it’s too late for the plant!
Do not fear the sibyl's strangely siren-seeming song and how she appears a kind of bearded Medusa monster of Lochness slimy with seaweed rising from the depths, such that the medals, diplomas, and lockets of the tin men, straw men, and cowardly lions prove alarmingly ineffective; but the Dorothies who fell in love with Oz, which they made wicked witch-less, and decided to put down stakes, laugh out loud in sheer joy at the wondrous miracle of it. is this She's Us?! the second coming?? just in the nick of time. In its day the first one, with its unparalleled, outrageous scandelously renegade, revolutionary, inflammatory poetic ethic and rhetoric sounded just as offensively ridiculous, and who would get the jokes? Erasmus at least.
Outside of the cogent analysis in the first part, it's almost pure rhetoric, all form, no content, but the kernel will eventually be revealed that explains the almost literal, carefully salted popcorniness. It's all true, about the primordial soup of the roots, however this might only be the coacervate of discourses crying in the wilderness in anticipation of the second coming. The world isn't a thing, it's a numinous happening, where everything is signaling and symbolizing something else, glimpsing, chasing, and never catching it, and all this motion of only imminent things conjures up immanence as when a moving sparkler manifests a sphere, or molecules of spinning particles manifests in a sheet of gold leaf. To limit speaking to, and conform it to, what is actually happening is called telling the truth, which is beauty, and showing the beauty which is truth, and once you tell and show the beauty truth, after you fall off your high horse in a blinding flash of light, you can dispense with all the imposters sucking the blood and brains of the best and the brightest and rotting the roots. When life appears in the primordial muck, it scorns the mother muck and most ungratefully throws it off. Some might have faked it, but as fellow Gemini (a triple one, my moon is in Cancer) Bob Dylan said, I'm too lazy.
Only art, real presence or its only mirror, casting a cold eye on life on death can process today's world moving events, only the smile of smiles will tame this lion, the crowds are foaming at the mouth, and the show is on.
