3000 The nexus of exemplification is inhomogeneous. The significance of such an ontological fact is immediately lost in technical obscurity. If he is redheaded and he is a prince and he is a mathematician, he is, somehow, the union of those three forms. The inhomogeneous nexus ties the particular to one of the forms, the particular to another of the forms, and the particular to the last of the forms in each case ontologically dissimilar kinds of things are tied together, a categorical difference. But it does not tie together the forms, three categorically similar things, nor the three "particulars" into being identically one and the same particular. Without a homogeneous nexus, the three forms, and the "three" particulars are left disjoint the fact of his being a redheaded mathematical prince is not ontologically attained. What is philosophically analyzed is not put back together again. Such loss of the world may be and may not be the enlightened vision of the striving mind.
So why don't I have a homogeneous nexus? In reality are not mathematician and prince and redheadedness joined? No, they aren't. What would such a union be? I see only the union of each of those forms to him, not to each other. "He is a prince and he is a mathematician and he is redheaded" is the correct statement of that reality. "He is a redheaded mathematical prince" is meaningless unless restated as that other. (I suppose I should try to find some ontological place for such ontologically obscure things. And I further suppose that for many of my readers all these thoughts are more than meaningless, they are dead weight.) I also see that I may have inadvertently gravely deepened the obscurity. That I understand what I have written and that I feel the momentousness of it worries me. I hesitate to start up any consideration of the identity of the particulars. Such is the anxiety within the dialect of the simple and the complex.
3001 The only worthwhile reason to read a book is to once again catch a glimpse of the Beloved. Unfortunately, the act of love is frightening to most and the reason they read a book is to destroy it. The book is made available and the public examines it and begins to make its comments on how successful the author has been in describing what everyone knows to be the truth. The author is, however, behind the public in knowing the truth. The public has gone on to further truths and the book is for them only a stop to give the author a helping hand. He could have, he should have done this and that. This part works; that doesn't. Maybe if he tried this and gave up that. Tear, rip, cut, the work is undone, the Beloved is nowhere in sight, love is avoided yet again. The public relaxes. The encounter works because it is usually the case that even for the author the Word had proven too much and he welcomes the release. A god is there in language to be loved. It's too much.
3002 The realist philosophies of the Hindus attain the unity of the individual and of its many properties by means of the nexus of "limiting". The prince is limited by being a mathematician and by being redheaded. Or is it that his princeness is limited by his mathematicianness and by redheadedness? It might even be that his princeness-ness is limited by mathematicianness-ness and by .. but maybe that's already too much and you get the point as far as it can possibility be gotten by what I have said. Those of you who have read such Hindu philosophies recognize the complexity I am stumbling to get at. In the end they save themselves a big headache by not talking about the nexus very much or at all or by even calling it by the much-too-substantial-of-a-word nexus; though its substantiality is so rarified. Philosophy is too much. They finally lose the real. They did, however, recognize the problem, which put them on a far higher level of awareness than the others. Some of us have gone farther only in that we recognize that the problem is greater that even they imagined.
Perhaps a more relevant name for this Hindu nexus would be the Hedger-around, the Stifled-by, the Shut-up-with. All of those meanings are contained in the word Brahma (from the old Indo-European Brh meaning to enclose (maybe)). Also the words "contained in". Perhaps a good name would be "Room". The Prince is roomed up with his Red Hair. Perhaps not. Or, gleefully, I am holed up with the redheaded prince. The logic is complicated and the heart easily faints. Philosophy is too much. The nexus is a delightful and a frightful thing.
3003 There are two reasons to be a philosopher. The first is that there is something in existence, some beauty, some luring entity, that has captured the mind and taken it as its own. This is the way of the real, that longed for by lovers. The second is that being a philosopher is cool. It shows the others that you are above the rabble, that you are not shallow, that you are genuinely concerned with others and you take them as your masters, or perhaps that you have let yourself be taken or you want to be. The first has Being as its goal, and perhaps its gaol of love. The second has the group, the public, perhaps the crowd, as its master and servant. The first has things, existing Things. The second has the Great Conversation, the Night of the great Party of the universe Words the drug of Incessant Talk oblivion.
I write. That is a form of conversation, I suppose. But I write about the Things. So in which camp do I belong? I pray it is the first, but do I really?
3004 There is no easy way to read a philosophy book, and I have certainly not found an easy way to write one. The essence of the matter resides instead in the sweet labor of intent. In the worry that one's beloved thought might escape before the encircling Idea has captured you, its prey. The mind yields to That. And until the yielding comes, the intellectual night. And the night waits along with the soul. Meaning arrives as a lover. Approach the Place appropriately. That Place every lover knows. Or you shouldn't read. Love is a difficult matter. And such is reading.
There are no technical philosophical ideas. They are made only of love's anxiety; the techne is not involved. This is not engineering. You and your Form are two, not one; but you have always felt that. The thread that holds you to what you are, and the stuff of existence all over you are fine and refined things. Logic is no more that the going over of the way of lost love. And that is understood immediately and not at all. Analysis is the mere coming loose of the limbs. If there were a techne things might be easier. Philosophy is love, the fullest and the emptiest of things. And the Sapha is his clear and blazing forehead.
3005 Tradition has given us I write heedless of nuance - three ontological poses to strike. Realism, conceptualism and nominalism. All concern the existence of universals in addition to and alongside the individual thing. Realism says that such universals do exist. Conceptualism says that they are only concepts abstracted away from the individuals by the mind. Nominalism says that they are only words that ever evolving society has taught us to apply to various similar individuals. Conceptual and nominalism are virtually the same in saying that only individual things really exist, concepts and names having such low status among existents or none at all.
Realism divides. Some say that universals exist in the individual; that it is where the individual is. Some say that it is tied to the individual, but it is itself not located anywhere. And the extreme Platonic realist says that, though participated in by the individual, it is other than, separate from, free of, the individual altogether.
All of these positions have been examined over and over again by our civilization and now any student can easily find the arguments in any ordinary encyclopedia. Philosophy, in this regard, is very common property. The problem I have is that all these presentations are without the fire of thought that is necessary to really understand any of it, and the student puts it all aside too quickly. And my book becomes the cold ash of my once burning thought. The student, realists being very rare, says that these ideas are just my concept of the world and what is that to him.
3006 We live in a subject-predicate world. In a world where individual things have properties. Where particulars, in themselves bare, exemplify universals. We live in a world where there are awarenesses that this is a subject-predicate world, where awarenesses know the difference between individuals and properties, where minds contemplate the pieces joined. We live in a world where these ontological considerations are possible. All of this must be accounted for by Ontology. But must we do ontology? Whatever such a strange and disturbing act might be.
If the world is not subject-predicate, structurally so built, and with all the differences that pertain to that, and such logical distinctions are merely the mind acting in a peculiar fashion on a world of only individual things, if our subject-predicate logic describes mind and not the world, then we are lost. Then we wander in the uncertainty of our strange ways and our knowledge is a knowledge of nothing real.
Does logic mirror the world? Is the world rational? Would a world that isn't subject-predicate be a world at all? Is the angst of eternal unknowing our destiny?
I take the world to be subject-predicate. And I take it that we do know that ontological fact. These writings are my trying to understand how we can know all that. I have ended up, I think of necessity, in a Platonism of separate Forms. We perform the act of philosophy. There is an object to that act.
3007 You perceive a great train sitting on the tracks before you, you sense the tremor it sets up in you, you imagine it sliding toward you in a fleeting dream and you gently remember the sound of a long train winding its way through the night outside your winter's window? Only in the perceiving do you know the being-other of the real away from you. In the other acts of the mind the mind's object lies so close to as to be not other than you. What is that being-other?
The object known as other seems to be known always indirectly, through mediators, as in a mirror. It seems to be, but it also seems not to be so on analysis. Philosophical representatives quickly disappear in the light of close looking. The being-other seems to be a veil, or a film, or an ash and soot covering. It is an inner darkness seeping through. It is the stuff of poetry covering the philosophical thing. The Real is not you, but this non-being is surely nothing at all. The not-you is fright and the joy of love come at last.
I am a real thing; I contemplate myself; and I am become a thing other than my own thinking of me. I divide. I am frightening. I reach to love that thing. The structure blows up. Ontology runs down my leg to be cleaned up later. How can I think otherness without making a mess of it? How can I penetrate that thing smoothly? How can I avoid the pain of philosophy? Do I perceive Philosophy or merely imagine him?
3008 When light strikes water droplets just right a rainbow is formed. One might say, it has been said often, that a rainbow is that - the rainbow is a function of light and water droplets. That is not ontology. The ontological ground of a rainbow being a rainbow is not that, but rather it is, it seems to me in my Platonic view of things, that a rainbow is simply a particular exemplifying the Form, the form of rainbow. Or do you find that too simple? Functions do exist, just as rainbows exist, but they are not rainbows, nor are rainbows functions, ontologically speaking. Light exists, water droplets exist, rainbows exist, and relations between then exist. All those are different things and none can be reduced to any of the others. Moreover, they are all ontologically separate and independent. The problem is that most people consider such an ontological view of things to be irrelevant to real life. Being in nothing and the study of it is a waste of time. Take away the water droplets and the light and there is no rainbow. I reply that that may be true but it is ontologically irrelevant. The Form of the Rainbow exists and in worlds beyond and within worlds it just may be exemplified without light or those lovely droplets. In my mind's eye there is neither light nor water and the particularized Form is there. The physical world is not all there is. Or are you a physicalist?
3009 Wittgenstein eventually tried to kill philosophy out of love. He was so frustrated in trying to speak his speaking, to speak the only words of love he really wanted to speak, to be one thing with that now shunned thing, he was so upset he pouted until he died and uttered only trivialities.
He was in love with the transcendent form of the world, the logical trap of desire, the sublime simplicity of the Beloved. It was too much. I have decided to write the too much. The Too Much. Perhaps the sacrifice of the mind.
I name the things of Being, I lay out the connections, I mouth the words of love, I shamelessly fly beyond the world into the ontological absurdities. I do this because I am in love with the logical form of Being. The Logos. The red-lipped, bright-eyed god. The ravishing Para-doxa.
Could I ever be the dark man in the park waiting to meet that lovely Ludwig?
3010 A manly man is the governor of himself and of his property. There he establishes order. And his fellows respect him. To not do that is moral degeneracy and, for him, religious sin. It would be to not show respect to the Governor of all things. The manly man lets himself be governed by Him. Orderly property is Being itself. And I, in my philosophizing, must keep my words and thoughts well governed. But I havent.
I am the perfect degeneracy. I am sin. I am neither governor nor a servant of his. I have no property. My book is a mere collection without a first and a second anywhere in it. I give no respect to anyone or any thing great or small. Because I am a lover. I flail about as a wastrel.
I try to fly about in the transcendent, but my wings beat against empty space. I do not walk about on firm terrestrial paths that I have surveyed and laid out. My house is the ramshackle Infinite. I live in the essentially Unordered. I have seen the governor of all things and he is a pouty boy. We all do his bidding. The manly mans property collapses and dissolves in dew on his cheek. Beyond Being.
3011 A work exists only if it is elaborated in the darkness with attention, with all the care of the murderer plotting his crime. In both cases, what counts is the will to strike. Cioran
In the darkness I plot against the darkness, against the lovers of the dark thing. How to strike and kill? How to overcome the sickly love of love's death? How to rupture that thing with my light? With the Light that I love. With the Love that has come into me.
Mathematics is the answer! Oh Rimbaud, love is mathematical. And my logistic friends, mathematics is love. That sickly, sharp-edged thing. The ever-repeating, the eternal return, the empty set, the infinite, the unending, absence, the balanced stillness. Zero the magic number, the presence of nothing at all. Is the calculus really a dividing by zero? Is the infinitely small something after all?
If lovers are the exemplification of the one Form as two, are they two or one. The soul is surely the form of the body, and lovers really are one soul in two bodies. And the Dual is one thing. Will this absence of his absence be his presence? Can absence, nothing, the emptiness each be just itself? Can my dialectic work? Labor and tension. Is mathematical love frivolous? Digressions and detours to ever the same point. Are the incessant questions damage to the soul? Is the bodys degeneration the result of too many questions? Is there a final answer? I plot and figure and wait for a moment and a place to strike. I hold out and I love the not-yet. The fire builds. Unlike the public professors I will strike when it is time. When time gives way.
Distinctions must be drawn. The boundaries of the unrelated much be surveyed. The entanglement must give way; the knot must be cut. My sword is out. I am ready. The end always comes.
Self-augmenting labor. And tension. The ever-there slight anxiety. I jerk in thought. Heat. Until and then the Illumination the smooth flow and sleep. Even now.
3012 Complex numbers can be adequately represented in Riemanian geometry, which in turn can be displayed in two-dimensional drawings. Singularities come and go. Points become lines and planes become spheres. And the imaginary becomes a real thing laid out. Understanding it is difficult but the mind eventually adjusts to the former weirdness. The darkness lights up. We see. Even the word imaginary somehow itself becomes adequate.
We make representations and they help us see both the thing itself and its picture. I am not an ontological representationalist, who thinks we know and see only mere pictures in the mind or in our symbols. Yes, the world is fiery and almost blinding, but we do see it directly. I insist. I do, eventually, see the connectors and the distances that Riemanian geometry itself represents. And I see that representation as also a thing in itself. And the nexus of representation. And the graphic representation of geometry. Being is there to be beheld and it is immense.
3013 I write not in the usual academic style. It seems to me that philosophy at its far reaches cannot be displayed in that open, linear lucid manner. A true sentence is one that matches reality and it must be, for us, a competent vehicle of the adequatio res et intellectus. Therefore, if the topography of that res is bent and surprisingly discontinuous, and advancing in it one finds himself in a sudden light that shines as though it is darkness itself, then so must the sentences yield and be likewise. Or have I just failed to achieve masculine control. Perhaps what I do is not real writing. I let the Writing be. I let a god move me along. And I shudder at what I have done. Still, I had no choice. At the extreme.
3014 In the Parmenides, Plato enraptures us with his outrageous dialectic of the One. The rape and the rupture of Being. At the end it all spills away.
Distinctions were made in the tightness of thought. Absolute differences dissolving back in the absence of a barricading nexus. The logic was perfect, but what of it? We thought the unthinkable, but it was finally unthinkable. Nothing was established, but we sat there still. The airy open space between two ontologically different things is a sickening metaphor. Pricks into the disappearing sky. That is ontology and I do it.
Consider, not the One, but two and three and four all the numbers, Number. A set of two things (a very simple, frightening complexity), is not the number two. The set of all the sets of two things is not the number two. The number two is the number two and it is one thing. Surely it isnt one thing. Well, yes and no. It is always ontologically suspect. Numbers finally cannot be defined or taken apart; they just are. They are separate from their simple one-thingness and their very existence that is the unthinkable part ontology. And they certainly cannot be denied. Nor can Number itself we know it right easily.
Beyond the incompleteness theorems of logic, there is the intuited incompleteness of every ontological attempt at analyzing down beyond number. Number and numbers and set and setness and Difference itself that differentiates them and defers completeness all dazzle and swelter in the work of our intellectual night. The end does come though. Or an end before the ever-anticipated and questioned End.
The book and the pen in front of me now are two things, and as with all things of this ordinary world they are somehow connected to the things of ontological dialectic. But I cannot cross over the absolute boundary between. My doing philosophy and my not doing philosophy are a grimy floundering two. The Dionysian finally Apollonian thing I seek is other than my everyday life. I transcendently live and write and right that unconnectedness. In spite of.
3015 It is thought so be intellectually mature, even impressively tough-minded, simply the necessary thing for a proper adult, to feel the weighty tragedy of lifes inevitable end. One goes back into the womb of matter from which one came. Nothing more. A man here is no more than a momentary priest of the goddess of space-time flux. He is killed by time, his body torn in tectonic shifts and his dragging entrails form the next appearing. Nothing more at all. The man humbles himself before the Great Wombs power to disgorge life. And to gorge itself in devouring it. And somehow man is in love with that Thing and the woman who represents it. A proper man. Immersed in heavy poetry. A man of taste. And the lush and rank rag. Pointless. A thing for the connoisseur. Why?
3016 Equivalence is a connector in this world. X is equivalent to not not X. Four is equivalent to two plus two. If X then Y is equivalent to it is not the case that X and not Y. etc. etc.etc. Equivalence is the stuff that logic and all of mathematics are made of. But what of it? It is no more than just itself. The things seen as equivalent are different. We think of different things when we think them, though those different things are equivalent. The temptation has been to reduce one to the other. To identify one with the other as being its more fundamental form of being. X is seen as more basic, more of an existent, than not not X. If then as less of an existent than and, or and not, from which it is somehow constructed. Eventually everything is reduced to a few things as the being of their being and the lush and rapturously luxuriant world disappears out on a desert. As though a desert could be the secret being of the teeming jungle. An interesting idea, but wrong. Equivalence connects two very different things. And equivalence itself is a thing, which even if it is equivalent to some other thing, is not that thing.
3017 I contemplate the philosophical boy, the Uranian beloved, and even though that thing is, in some sense of the word, equivalent to the hormones rushing through my groin, he and my desire are not that. A materialistic reduction is obviously absurd. Equivalence is a connector, not a sign of a needed reduction. I have no intention of being a tragic figure abandoned by Being to a lonely desert. Nay, to a windy iceberg. I have the thing I want. There is no crying poetry here. Desert jinn play and the borealis dance.
3018 In the beginning was the Logos and the Logos became flesh. That thing that is the ground of being of all things that are became but first let us consider what those things are. Among the things that are are all numbers, all possible spatial forms, all sensual properties, all bare particulars, time all the ontological things that in nexus make a world and the nexus. All of that became flesh. A particular piece of flesh, an ordinary human being, and in these writings - that boy. The words are easy to say and a low level awe comes with them, even a cheap thrill. But the thought itself, the very idea of that, is nothing at all. Something from the deaf. The words spoken in the silent space of reading remain unheard. The Word that no one hears.
3019 In these writings I have jumped from strict ordinary ontological analysis to the mythos of religion. The nexus of being is a boy. That boy is the ground of being at the heart of Being. Kierkegaards Absurd religion. I have looked at a beauty here and I have seen the being of this world and the next. An idea that has been so often written that it is now a hackneyed thing. And in that incessant silent speaking of it I have been so obviously unable to speak from the power of an essential Unspeaking. Beauty becomes a killing, a perfect receiving, an ordinary having, a clog in the mind. Unbeauty. Unwriting. Unthinking. An orgasmic blanking out. In Delight. In fact.
3020 From Bergmann I learned always to have my ear cocked for the counter argument. Anticipating, I write what I think will unblock my way into the confidence of my reader. I preemptively grant him his point and then transform it into what was my very idea all along. Things get turned around. Inside the ambiguities I always lead him along the other path. I elevate the as if into the literal truth. I win by the hook and crook of dialectical manipulation. Such is exegesis. The esoteric meaning of the world shines darkly. I may not write truth, but I do write Truth. Or have you never heard a lover, especially a gay lover, drowning in double speak, that he might live? In the hope of having. Its thrilling and dangerous. Of course you know that that is the way philosophy has always been.
Philosophy pretends to be honest and lucid. It is duplicitous and only in the between-light of eros.
3021 I and my internet friends and a few from Kathmandu, after an hour or so of photoshopping, in a finally achieved stillness and silence gaze at each other. And at you. The gaze then looms large. The erotic has given way finally to that. The beloved himself gazes about. The sexual form is held still. Rest is not quite there. And, as though in suspension, in epoch, the nothing, the trans-sexual of the stop-time after the storm, pervades the gaze. I do not write the erotic scene, but the philosophical moment after, that immediately after. I write transcendence still present. The spirit brushes the skin and as it begins to waft away I breathe out and write.
3022 Approaching a philosophical writing requires the same energy as approaching a lover at night. The work will be long and sometimes difficult. The tension will be great. The release at the end will be exhilarating. You will be exhausted. Ethereal spirits will play.
As with mountain climbing, the look up when beginning is magnificent but you know it hides headache and delirium. The faint-hearted do not begin. The already tired wait for another time. The unprepared feel nauseous. We are all all of that. We go on anyway, the night lover and the philosopher.
3023 Like Gide and Kierkegaard and Genet, I write approvingly of the immoralist. I am certainly one able to do that because I am terrified of the justice of God. I assiduously guard against wronging another, as well as can be done by one taught his values in rural Iowa. I live on the edge of the roof. I am drunk with religious other-worldliness and I have not tended well to my material things, but I dont expect others to suffer worldly damage because my world is so meager. I tend to the affairs of others as is my civil and moral duty. God watches and demands justice be given. In the least of things. I give. I pray I give overflowingly. As I can, which isnt much. In the moment, I watch out for the retribution of God. Because I am terrified of Him.
(I am also well aware that as a rich American I have lived off the suffering of the poor of the world, that they have become erotically attractive to me because of that, and that in them the self that I am disappears in this ineffably lovely vision of God.)
The immoralist, finally ignored by the world, is left with the fury of Being in front of him. The Wind, the Spirit, has quickly come and destroyed all beings in time. Withered grass. Whither now? God Himself does great damage to us all, for His Love. The poor along with the rich. And my righteousness was nothing at all.
3024 This Dionysian-Christian philosophy will, of course, require a tearing apart and a death. The witness, the philosopher himself, is the victim. Analysis comes all through him. Little is left. He rises again. Eternity is long. Happiness in its transcendence becomes as fumes of the aether. Almost knocked unconscious, he will go on. You will be that.
The silent, still meditators look so beautiful sitting over there at a distance separate from this agitation. Here the flames lick. The agile Agni dances. The violent Anhr swings me about. arseino-frhn. Save, me, Lord, from them.
3025 This is not a philosophy for those who want free of everyday tension. I will not teach you how to practice not-thinking. This is not primal relaxation. Here tension abounds, thought battles with paradox and lifes breath almost leaves. Then the exhilaration that tears.
Philosophy is so very close to manic-depression. It is a spiritual madness that lies next to ordinary insanity. Detours and escape routes. Heart pounding tension release. The orgy of life. The shy are shy because they know that they revel in that. Secrets secrete joy. The night is deliciously long.
3026 I am a philosopher, I am filled with Wonder. With the Wonder that lies about existence. I am a mind and Questioning and Understanding are with me. Awareness is all through me. These beings are intimate with me. So is the Being of beings also mine. I have received all this; none of it is of me as my own nature. They are not a mere mode of my own existence. They are beings. And Being is all through them. I am a philosopher and I am in love with that. Thus I attend to it knife-sharp keenly. That love, so strange and of another place, is my topic. In the sweltering tropics of thought. I lie naked and wait for Him.
3027 Philosophy is phenomenology well yes and no. Phenomenology, as academic philosophy, has the feel of being a science. The logy part has taken over though not the Logos. Take Heidegger, who does phenomenology for the sake of ontology. He worries about the strange German he will have to put it in. He knows that philosophical writing has always been barely approachable because it is so far from simple narration. And he tries to make up for it by speak-writing as casually as he can - he is a professor, after all. He has to hang on to his students; they will be his grounding element. That's what science is. It is the everyday, the commonsense part of life. Heidegger, a sometime philosopher, mixes together the heavy compactness of philosophical terms with casual lecture-narration. It doesn't work well. One or the other, please. The Hindu philosophers knew enough to separate the compact Sanskrit from easy articulate explanation. And so I wonder about myself.
I mix together casual talk with the erotic. That isn't so bad. The most passionate, the most disturbed by desire, always hide it in the most casual. There, easy outward movement is a sign of inward agitation everyone recognizes it. And so maybe Heidegger was forced into the same pretense. Still, it's hard to put up with. Just as living with a lover is nerve-wracking.
Philosophy is a lover's ever-failing attempt at phenomenology.
3028 On a dreary day filled with the everydayness of things, I sit down to write one of my paragraphs and soon I am in the bright sun of philosophy. Loose things are drawn up tight. Smooth, rounded forms rise and fall into place. Substance leans against me. Being is here in Presence. My words are like a ball I bat against the wall of heaven. The cursor is blinking at me.
3029 Professors are long winded. Thesis writers must learn to be so in order to fill up pages and become professors. Nietzsche, who either abandoned his professorship or was abandoned by it, at his utmost, took up the aphorism of the anti-professor. I, wanting to catch up both professor and thesis writer in the erotic, have only the little hotel rooms that are my paragraphs. They seldom come to visit me, or never.
3030 The truth that academic, analytical philosophy seeks is a barely-attainable, otherworldly, non-sensual thing. It is a type of Neo-Platonism. It bows before a mysterious Ideal. It has its priests who judge the theses of the young students, who edit journals that one might have tenure and prestige, who scare state legislators and grant awarding committees, who sigh because they are paid so little for the great historical work they do clearing the way for mankinds advance. The sensuous approach of Being in the beautiful would be too much for them. They know only the sensuality of the lush. There has become for them a horrible discord between their Truth and the world they live in. The world for them is dreadful. As dismal as their truth. They get old. Their grandchildren are a pain. But that goddess of their philosophic Ideal still has them as her thrall.
Platonism, that is to say the philosophy described by Plato, is rather a glorious appearing of Being, the Eternal Forms, in the beauty of the boy. A being, in the bright presence of Being, that lifts the one beholding it to that before the being of this world. Here is the place of remembering. The sensuousness of great value. God incarnate. A mind-boggling. An absurd thing for the journal writers of today, for whom truth is a woman.
Truth, the Real, the Existing Forms, Existence itself are present before me and perfectly known. Naked in the Sun of Being. Held close in the glistening night. Open and here. Gaze with gaze.
3031 The spirits of awareness fill my mind. Wonder, Memory, Perception, Doubt, Love, Fear, Anxiety, Simple Joy. I could, of course, change my way of expressing such a thing and say that my awarenesses at various times exemplify the different properties that are in the mental act. But why? This is Philosophy, and it revels in the strong presence of the Universal Forms. Forms which do not tend to the quasi-existence of mere predicates. I want to write, They are Beings. So I do, knowing that those words are nearly meaningless, except to the erotic heart. Imagination comes and gives them a brightness too fine to be seen. I write philosophy, not an academic phenomenology.
3032 Paradox is passion is philosophical love. That is Truth. That is Beauty. In the Grand Style.
Today the discord between truth and beauty has wrecked our lives. Logicians have found the battleground of the Forms and have declared the war to an ugly shame at the heart of what was to be Being. They see no heroes dying in each other's arms. No escape from the dreadful everyday. No swelling love. No bursting into paradise. They do not see that the clamor is because the Beloved approaches. They have tried to deny the passion and the paradoxes of love. Even Krishna blushes that they made such a simple mistake. And costly.
3033 The Grand Style. The style that sees truth as beauty as the incoming scintillation of Being, the life-giving style that would have saved us is - gone. But then it had to go. That too is of the Grand Style. The god must die. The boy must fade. The gloom must prevail for a while that it all may arise again. The Eternal Return. The Forms are ever exemplified anew, for the first time.
3034 Women and boys have always been at each other. Hes a rebel against her orderliness and attempt to control through caring. She is the "family", the linchpin of society. He is the anti-social. Unfortunately, he all too often ends up her thrall. He falls. He does his duty and then gets old. The generations repeat. She wins.
But not always. Gay boys find a way around the devastation. Always rebellious, they skip out of here for the Beloved There. Spirits abound in other places. And luscious nights of love scintillate. Without that.
3035 Gay fantasy beings, so light and airy and pretty, how can they be the approaching Light radiating from Being? But why not? The most frivolous, inconsequential, decadent things virtual beings around the emptiest of concepts. The least of things in the world. Oh for Chris'sake, we cannot do "nation building" with the fumes of heavenly wine; we need clean, potable water.
Even though it was Jesus himself who changed that water into this heavenly wine, and we were dragged into this drunkenness by the beauty of His Face, we still get no respect. Angels flit about. We are lumpen.
Gold so pure it is as clear as glass. Tresses of space-time and angel musk. Wine so blameless it is as the paradoxes in clear water. Useless things transcending. Like a Requiem wafting on treble voices.
3036 Gay fantasy so filled with gods and Greek heroes, with ringletted angels and lightly tuniced cup-bearers. It's too much. It's dreamtime in never-neverland. To have the musk-dripping tresses of heavenly hipsters always on your mind is madness. It's the centripetal vortex of Platonism. I am that. My long sentences, though broken as is my breathing, have become the world's purple prose. He blushes. Prettily.
Instantly rejected, my words will be reread in the late evening and be fiery. May I compare my writings to the Autobiography of St. Terese of Liseux. Adolescent and pretty but from a gigantic Iron-willed Spirit. Another one of those "gay" beings.
3037 Of all things, human outward beauty is the most fleeting. And every human attempt to love the transcendent through another's skin quickly becomes lewd sensualism, the intense sheen burning away too fast, leaving only skin.
Then it's tempting to jump into the joys of despair. And write the literature of the dreadful. To become the last man. Salvation comes when we turn and see the beauty approaching again in another at another place. It verily eternally returns. Or have you fallen in love with its not returning?
Beauty cannot be captured. Nor can it be forever lost. It hovers. It pervades. It leads the soul ever again to oblivion. And back. There is no let up.
3038 I love my philosophical words, their flow, their tight coming together. Taking me into contemplative eroticism. The ethereally sensual. As Anselm's did to him. And I wonder if I have not also entered into a world-denying, anti-sensualism. Am I a dour Neo-Platonist? Will I become a whitewashed protestant? Is this nihilism? The Overman and the Last Man walk beside each other. Is there a third uniting them that I am? Nietzsche was seduced by materialism, Socrates was led astray through fear of his own ugliness. Anselm became obsessed with the extreme of logic. Confusion. Come, Lord Jesus. I am absurdly entangled.
3039 Alla nun oi pro tauthV thV machV aporhsanteV, foberwtatoi egenonto toiV polemioiV.
I shy away from the world. I am a lover and I, therefore, see myself, body, mind and will, as repulsive. It's inevitable. To love the highest is to be the lowest. To want the most is to have the least. The tension becomes great. To crave for the clean divisions of clear Being is to find oneself lying in the turbid mud. To want the real so bad is to have to live first only in one's imagination. God comes to the least. I become a nihilist. I will have the world by denying it. I will practice despicable dialectics. My eroticism will become eristics. But then he comes and he is so close and the offer of love is made and I simply take it and I revel in the act. In the twinkling of an eye.
3040 Plato's nexus of participation is more religious that logistic's nexus of exemplification. His nexus was supposed to connect ordinary things to Divine Beings. I like that. And let me hurry to say that I find, in the hierarchy of things, the nexus of exemplification much more satisfying philosophically that the conceptualist's nexus of falling-under. Participation, however, won't do at least for me in this modern world where I have attempted to find myself. I have only the gods of boys and logical form. I have paradox and a baffling incarnation. Ordinary things don't fit anywhere in my philosophy, except as discord. Still, discord is at the heart of my thinking and thus my philosophy. Existential writers have made sure of that. Go figure.
3041 The world consists of facts. The facts of the world are complexes made up of simpler things until the Simplest are reached. The Things of ontology. If there is no simplest, then there is no philosophy; so we go on assuming what we must. The Things tie together into greater and greater facts by means of the nexus. That is the only job for the nexus. Without it we can't satisfy some philosophical feeling about unity. Though with it we violate some feeling about commonsense existence. Never mind, we are philosophers, the mad. There are facts and there are Things and nexus. So what are facts philosophically speaking? Fact is a fundamental category of existence. The difference between fact and Thing is great. Too great. Thought collapses, or it threatens to, if fact is not a thing. Aside from Things and nexus there is no thing, nothing at all. An ontological analysis of fact reveals only Things and nexus, nothing else. So where and what is the fact? It is just fact, that that disappears upon analysis. Screwy. The world vanishes into timeless Things. Never mind the facticity of facts. Whoa!
3042 The fact - the sun moves from East to West is not in space and it is not in time. It is not colored; it is without shape or extension; it is as nothing to the senses and to the imagination. This fact about the sun must not be confused with the sun itself. A fact is a fact and nothing more. Neither the sun nor its movement is a constituent of that fact an unextended thing could not have an extended thing as a part of it. Just as I am not a piece of the fact that I wrote this. The words constituent, part, and piece could, I suppose, be distinguished and nuanced, but why? You get my point as well as it can be gotten. We are close to the edge of the roof with these thoughts.
3043 Thoughts exist. My thought - tomorrow I will have to get up at seven exists. I had the thought, or I was it, quite obviously. I watched myself. I saw it there with me, as me, in me. Whatever connection my thoughts have to me, they at least are entities that cannot be denied. But what are they?
If I try to take a thought apart to view its ontological pieces, I can't. It's quite a simple thing, without any parts, an atom of mind. And they are quite attached to what they are of. That attachment is so close, so intimate; many, I know, have hesitated to say any nexus could fit in between them. An intentional nexus? Well, why not? I'm open.
The thought it is now midnight fits "onto" every midnight that has ever been now or will be. If I think it is now midnight but it isn't midnight, and I am wrong; I will have to say that the thought at least fits onto a or the potential fact of it now being midnight, which, no doubt, we will also have to say exists. There are many actual facts that the thought fits onto, but are there many potential ones? Oh my! Thoughts actually do fit onto potential facts. And a potential fact is part of an actual thought. Strangeness advances. The dialectic winks its come-on to me. The thought that it may undo me instead adds luster to this intellectual night.
3044 Some things are self-evident, it is said. Round is a shape. Green is a color. Neither one is a relation. A bare particular cannot exemplify a nexus. Up is different from down. Love is a great god. Let us say rather, because self-evidence is such a psychological, legal term, let us say that these ontological facts are illuminated in the mind. That is properly philosophical. Somewhat religious. A lovely, old idea straight out of our tradition. We intuit them in the intellectual Light.
Or perhaps, we grasp them from out of the Mind of God. A Conceptus of the divine. Or we speak them from out of the Logos. A holy nominalism. Anything to get away from the stifling everyday. Here on the other side of the great destruction of representationalism and subjectivism, expressing such ideas may be again appealing.
The twentieth century was so worried philosophically about grounding the a priori, the purely analytical, the logically necessary, (or ungrounding then into nothing), but the worry has faded leaving nothing solved. A good time was had by all. I jump up to heaven and write my erotics. The mathematical went all down his slender leg. So unavoidable.
3045 Philosophy has entered into words. I write. He speaks. The Great Things fuse with long sentences. You read. The god stands before you too close for the eye to see.
Words are ordinary things of the world and they and the sentences and books formed from them are easily analyzed into bare particulars and universals until the whole circus of ontology is moving about. And the fusion. We fall in love with the high trapeze artist. He draws the beautiful circles of God in the intellectual sky. He is one with them. Our confusion. Our ecstasy. He has broken through. Philosophy is the rapturous Rupture. Then the inevitable corruption when we go home and try to remember. And we throw words at each other. We pour out our nothing.
A musical strain, a daring run, a resolution to Arms! Music has come. The gods abound. Fusion. It's no less than a great mystery how the divine enters into those chained together notes. Not one of the sciences of the twentieth century even came close to explaining it. This present attempt to achieve lesser things is sooooo dull. Ontology, the Placeless melody, wafts us away.
3046 The nexus, of participation or exemplification or even of "falling under", connects the individual to the Universal. And that should solve the problem of how ontological things and the world come together. But it doesn't. The individual, the particular that unites with the universal, through the mediation of the nexus, is rather an ontological thing that grounds the individuality of the worldly thing. And it is thus bare of any universal a most unworldly thing. Ontological thing is connected to ontological thing and the resulting complex remains unconnected to ordinary things. The nexus, while being a dialectical necessity for the completion of philosophy, is only philosophical. The world barely takes notice.
If you are a lover of philosophy, however, of its puzzles and otherworldly feel, you will appreciate the nexus. You know that universal and particular are, in facts, somehow one; you can see that directly with your philosophical intuition. The world is a tightly-put-together-complex. That tight togetherness is the point. The nexus solves the problem. You see the Light. But to see it you have walked off the edge of the world and float out in intellectual space. You are probably, for your friends, the so-gone. The world is not itself.
3047 We are minds, ordinary things of the world, things having properties. Thus we are particulars exemplifying universals. We have the same ontological analysis as rocks; though the universals "in" us are different. We remember and we thus exemplify the Universal Form of Remembering. Or we perceive and that Form is with us. And so on with the Forms of Doubt and Love and Worry and Anticipate and Forgetting. It is urgent for the philosopher to understand his own relation to the Forms, because he is that.
We are minds, ordinary things of the world, things having properties. Thus we are particulars exemplifying universals. We have the same ontological analysis as rocks; though the universals "in" us are different. We remember that he was always indifferent to me. We have thoughts, or rather we are thoughts. That is to say, we exemplify thoughts just as we do those other Forms above. Our thoughts are Thoughts, universal Forms, timeless things exemplified by many. Or so it seems to me, a dialectical necessity every other analysis fails. Ontologically, we enter an extraordinary world. Extra ordinem. In our contemplation of the being of beings we seem to be something else. A confusing light shines in us.
3048 Gustav Bergmann, whose philosophy I adore and from whom I have learned everything, was the champion of the various Nexus. I have tried to understand and imitate his way, but I did not grow up Jewish in Vienna, surrounded by all That, and so my way is inevitably not his. He would understand my predicament, though he would not in the depths understand my way any more than I do his. That's life. Late in life he abandoned the Nexus of intentionality and set-elementhood. I imagine the togetherness he saw was too intimate, too through and through, and he wanted to try something else. Something about the diad ensued and well it's interesting what came up, difficult and rather inelegant. Still, there's something to it, I'm sure.
So the nexus is absent. I think about that absence. I am reminded of Hindu philosophers who made so much of the absence of this and that virtually everywhere. THE NEXUS IS NOT THERE! Somehow that's a very meaningful statement.
So then the diad. A pot is different from a pillar. Buddhist monks would smile and agree and insist that difference as such doesn't exist and that that statement does not refer to anything at all, as it ontologically were. Bergmann also doesn't "believe" in difference as an existing thing, but he does have that diad of that pillar and that pot being different. From that he ontologically constructs a set without a nexus. Well, why not? Internal relations after all sort of? The whole enterprise is so difficult we should be game for anything. I will not pretend to explain it to you here. It's too much for me. Let me only say that if you dismiss any of this off hand, you're an idiot.
3049 Bergmann thinks of an ordinary object as a great bunch of universals exemplified by a particular. Well almost, there are no such things as bunches, much less bundles, and the particulars involved are many and all sorts of relations are connected in there somewhere, but more or less an ordinary object is a bunch of universals and a particular. That's what a car is. There is, for him, as far as I can tell, no such thing as the universal we can name Car. Therefore, Car is a defined thing. Well almost, the defining never gets done and it is really no more or less than a somewhat understandable blur, but not the Blur.
If the Form Car did exist, it would be, as he sees it, only a complex, i.e. a defined, universal. He eventually said that such complex universals don't exist. So what is Car? As I see it, it is a simple universal, a Form. And that's that. I think that idea would violate and offend his aesthetic sensibilities more than anything else. I would guess that, like so many abstract artists of the early twentieth century, he loved the trimmed down pure sensa, strong and vibrant. Moreover, the Form Car would only add to an ontology that was becoming a slum. I drift toward the very far out in my thinking, but I am not worried even by the academicians glare. I can work dialectical necessity as well as anyone else which really isn't saying much. And I love to go slumming.
3050 Before me there is a car. The fact that that (the bare particular) exemplifies Car is actual. That fact must be distinguished from any sensa, such as blue and shiny, that might be there also. The fact, the particular, the Form Car are all without color or any other sensual properties, as it were. The Form Car is unextended as is the fact. Neither is located in space. Only the particular also exemplifies spatial and temporal relations with another particular. To intuit the ontological pieces of Being you have to leave the ordinary far behind. Good luck. I am a believer in their existence. I perceive the fact of the car; I do not sense it. Subtract away all sensa and maybe, just maybe, you might catch a glimpse of an ontological thing even the elusive fact, a not-a-thing. It's impossible not to fall in love with the god of these far places.
3051 Universals are easy to understand. To work out just how they fit into the structure of existence is another concern. Devising arguments for their being such and such is called dialectics. No one, however, is convinced unless he wants to be. Or light from God strikes him and, tied up in its rays, he is gently but inescapably led to admit the strange. No matter, they are, whatever you might say, tied to Platonism. And Platonism is a little too close to platonic love for some people, and they reject them merely for that. Maybe platonic lovers always have their minds twisted into a centripetal vortex seeing one in the place of the many. Maybe there's nothing to that. Whatever, there's baggage to be carried if you are going to have universals in your philosophy. Humans have played with these quasi-angelic things, it seems, forever, but they are too sweet. The car I don't have is a car because it exemplifies the Form of Car. At least it does in my imagination, but that's something. Universals are easy to understand. A sweet, noetic nausea.
3052 Being does at times feel like a great ocean. The infinite Forms waiting, shimmering, hovering. The teeming depths of particulars. The sweltering actualities. The implacable movement. And the great Possibility driving all the imaginative spirits out beyond themselves. And I. I am made out of Things from this vast storehouse. Aside from that I am nothing. I am nothing. These words are not mine; they belong to That; they have always been in That. How can I live knowing that? How can I go on knowing that all my doings are of That and It will do as It will do. The answer of course is easy; my going on is just That and I am nothing but that. I am nothing. My logic frays my spirit. The I and the spirit in me are two. I suffer that. I become dispirited. Great waves flow through me. It is a feeling that is somewhat comforting.
3053 Bertrand Russell gave us the transcendent delight of external relations. No more were we to see one thing being taller than, brighter than, dearer than another merely because it was in the nature of that thing to be so, given the nature of the other. Now we were to see that the two, because there are no such things as natures, were related by a relation that they exemplified together. We should also, I suppose, because anything internal has been dropped, drop the word external. Relations exist and it is they that account for things' being related.
Nonetheless, because those as-it-were free-floating relations are, though transcendent enough, rather nerve-wracking, we are still drawn to internal relations when ontological turbulence arises.
Consider the "relation" of thought to object of thought. It isn't a relation at all; it's a nexus constructing the mental Act if anything. But nexus isn't quite right either. There's something, it darkly seems, to be something "in" the thought that makes it be of. It could only "fit" on one object or kind of object given what it is. The thought, my hand hurts, doesn't fit on the fact that my car is sky blue. And no nexus can make it fit.
Consider the "relation" a set, a pair of dark eyes, has to each of those eyes. It isn't a relation either. There's something, it brightly seems, about that pair that makes it want to fit only those two eyes. It certainly couldn't fit my two ears no matter how tightly a nexus might try. We might even say that the two eyes are the very being of the set that is a pair, plus something of setness, though what that could be is even more certainly not clear at all.
Or we could simply say that the very being of the fact known penetrates the knowing that. And that the things of the set and the set have inter-and-intra-one-being. But that's not so simply said and well, no.
A simple laying out of an uncluttered theory of external relations remains rather elegant, considering all that. Though maybe not true. As is only proper for a proper Englishman.
3054 Philosophy has given us the opening up of ordinary things that the light of intellect might shine in their everyday dark otherness. The individuator, the universal and the nexus in isolation, in difference from, in their own being, shine. The clear and the distinct. Perfect being. The Perfection of Being. A feel of necessary existence pervades it but darkly. The Light of Ontology is too bright. We are easily blinded. Especially when we return to the cave. As expected.
Not only are relations external, but also the various nexus. Even perhaps the subtle uniting of thought and object, of set and element. The Good and the One, there in the Feeling, work about out there somewhere.
3055 Platonic Forms are separate. They are separate from those things that participate in them. They are separate from the world. And that has always been a matter of great contention. They seem to fall before Aristotle's third man argument. They do - sort of. All ontological theories fail and the things in them fall. One thing is for sure; ontological things are not commonsense everyday things. Their strangeness really does make them feel otherworldly if they are thought of as real. Then they are separate. They are separate from the non-philosophical things of the everyday. There's no getting around that. And all the putting together we might intellectually do does not put together philosophy and the non-philosophy of ordinary life. Man is deeply separate from his own humanity; he is also a god from somewhere else in Being.
As for the nexus of participation, metecein, it is, as far as I can tell, not well defined; and, I suppose, it could be thought of as between bare particulars and universals. That, however, doesn't fit the feel of Platonism. Still, a thing-as-a-participant is not the same as an ordinary thing and the waters are muddied. Philosophy is a difficulty. And, though Socrates did as a ironic ploy, we, as clean academicians, should not hold the casual talk of the Dialogues to the rigors of onto-logical exactitude. There is a time to play with fire and a time to not. Socrates was in the Hephaestian furnace of an erotic dance. In that there are participants. Perhaps I have changed the use of the nexus of exemplification into that. I gaze at you, my reader, and you gaze at me.
3056 So many philosophers have been worried about method. A true, sure path to the other side would be so helpful. "To the thing itself," some have gleefully shouted. I have shouted it with them sometimes. "Doubt everything until you find something that absolutely cannot be doubted," that's tough-minded or maybe not. I have never had my great moment of doubting hardly even a little one. "Assume the ideal language to be that of Russell's Principia, replete with types and quantifiers, and make that the schema of an ontology ontology being only schematic." I really don't think I got into philosophy by any of those roads, or that I have since traveled very far on any of them. I came in through enchantment. And I think that is the commonest route. Nobody ever got very far on any road toward some being with which he was not in love. The art and the beauty of philosophy draws and those ideas that seem the most beautiful are believed. Beauty is the meta-odos. And beauty is always a great worry. Of little help.
3057 I have not led a normal, scholarly life. I have not found any entryway into the schools. I did look about for it mightily, but I was different from those on the inside. And now I know that I never really wanted to be with them. On the outside I lived a life as painful and sick as Nietzsche's. Beauty made me sick. Just as it did him. The boys for both of us were alluring and extravagantly elusive. To find the isles of the blessed is the secret meaning of our very dissimilar words. Where the Open is open all the sunny day and into the starry night. Gods play. Spirits coalesce. Oh, Jesus.
Philosophy books, though enticingly lovely, were difficult for me more so than they should have been, because I was tired and hungry and love worried. The terrible headaches came and went, I had no home, I was cold, my face hurt from sex pustules. I had no real friend. No one to talk to. No one to read what I did manage to write. Life in America can be very harsh. The others don't know. Having traveled about this world, I now see how naοve it is. I have at last written the fine fruits of all that, but I have not found a way to bring them in their fullness before the public eye. Do I really want to? I think I would like to give them only to the few. But I haven't even managed that. The hard times have not completely vanished.
3058 Because the truth of things has become so separated from sensual beauty, because discord has broken out between them. Because truth has pressed beauty down into silent angry submission. And because philosophy has been forced to wear Calvinist clothes. And the madness of platonic eroticism is no longer tolerated. I must present this now as a lawless and decadent being still living in the adolescence of civilization. Instead of the radiance of truth seen shining in beauty, I present radiant sensual beauty as truth. To overcome the devaluation of beauty in favor of a separate truth, I lift up beauty as truth. And it seems that I have thereby devalued truth, but certainly not. I merely want the discord to end.
I write philosophical truth and I am not afraid of a great eroticism in my words. I do not stand back from that love as a clinical expert describing a strange and fallen thing. I am filled with the erotic as I write and I let it ooze out into my words joyfully. And I am not afraid that truth will not be present also. The one does not exist without the other. Truth is beauty is sensual.
In the recent past there have been those who have denied truth for the sake of beauty. They too hated the cold and empty thing truth had become in its attempt to escape the wildness of beauty. And so they denied themselves logic and clear mathematics. But without the loveliness of transcendent reason they found a beauty that was covered by time's ravages. So when they tried to love it. They couldn't. No one can.
A dead transcendence and a stifling sensuality remained, which I try to overcome. Like the Greeks of the Dialogues, I look at a boy and see Being shining. The Boy, the god. A thing of reason and mathematics glowing with beauty. Super-sensuous beauty. Intense. Transporting the soul beyond. A philosophy of rapture. Now almost illegal.
3059 Because this beauty is intense, a fire, a world-destructive madness, society banishes it into the invisible. Perhaps is has to be so. Perhaps philosophical love should not be allowed into the Republic. It may be inimical to an orderly separation of things. Perhaps in it the self dissolves. Whatever the case, I will not abandon it and fight it for the sake of society. I will remain outside and be where I must. I will not turn the boy into a plain worker of the state. I will be amazed at Being as it streams into me.
When truth and beauty became discordant in the separation of man and woman, when man coldly ruled the unruly senses of the woman through government and its police, through sexual subjugation, when hard reason looked askance at her emotional state, and the schools demanded masculine rigor, the unity that is of Philosophy vanished. Boys were taught to perform their duty. Women tried to be manly.
A lovely eroticism of boys friendly to men was outlawed and the virtue of friendship was gone. For the sake of the state.
Because this beauty is so intense, soon the whole world becomes eroticized and everything dissolves into its one Form. That is the theory of Platonic Ideas. Vertigo.
3060 Into the world of gentle families, of homely pleasures, bursts the extravagance of young gay beauty. Or it would if such great effort were not being expended by proper society to keep it out of sight. Masculine beauty undomesticated by women would tear the world apart. Always, when they see it, they quickly work to tame it. Away from that it drives into itself in narcissistic delight leaving only chaos in its wake. Gay gatherings are destructive events, where, in that moment of beauty's appearance tumult reigns, at that moment of desire's explosion the unspeakable rains down, tongues of fire fall. The contortions of glossalalia. Everyone present is slain in the spirit, as the violent dancing advances, as it works its way over then. Subtle devises. Something from outside has come in. Old men become more and more upset because of the intense beauty of the young. That's what's really going on in this world. It's not going to quiet down soon. Women will not be able to put out the fire and bring them home.
The temptation is to look at the resultant devastation and try to love it. The gods have left, the grass has withered so rapidly in the Sun's heat, desert jinn play in out singed brains. Maybe the truth of that will be enough. Jesus, come again.
3061 The gods eventually leave. The boy ages. The part of town where he reigned decays and is torn down. The song is heard too many times, danced to too many times, is replaced by another. Even the vocabulary of love changes. All that's left is the literature of loss. From there we can move into the desolate housing complex of loneliness and alcohol and enter into a lovely commiseration with our fellow litterateurs. Or we can look about for the returning gods and enter once again into the Light of Being. The temptation is to fall in love with despair. The sickness unto death advances. Resentment or the Eternal Return. The Platonic Forms ever are exemplified again. Beauty always comes again. I suspect most of us are only playing at despair to make Him take pity and hurry back. The soul of the boy inside the old faggot wants out. He will have his way.
3062 It seems to me at times that the nexus plays little part in my philosophy, though I speak of it always. I suppose that is somehow proper from such a subtle thing, - but it is almost the creator of the world! How could that be? The part it plays is this: because of it the complex, the facts about us, become paradox; uniting is momentously other the united; and my philosophy, in confusion, walks near the edge of the roof. I am undone by it. The truth is that I have been hardly able to think it. It is a not-a-thing so close to nothing.
3063 Universals as ideas as Ideas are suppose to unite us to the things out there. Then they are neither content to be wholly in the mind nor unknown and at rest in the world, rather they timelessly abide in the philosophical Between. Somehow separate from both ordinary out-there-things and from mind, universals, even in my philosophy, are, I concede, like that. Philosophy itself is the third that is its own Between. Thus, unlike some other philosophies, bare particulars and nexus and all other ontological things are not of the world, but they are There. I fidget because Bergmann intellectually fought against the Third. He said that it inevitably falls into the mind and idealism results; and he is correct, if by universal you mean a representative of the out there world. No universal nor any other thing of ontology serves us as a representation. They ground the being of the ordinary things of the world including minds. There is no falling. The dialectical third has been found. That is my dialectics. The third way, the way between, is not easy to find, nor to state if found.
3064 I have momentarily convinced a new friend of mine that he may want to read my writings even though they are philosophical. He hates dry analytical philosophy. He suspected they were that until I worked on his mind. I really don't know, however, how he will find my sentences. Maybe dry and analytical and painfully philosophical. And maybe the great eroticism that I think is in them and the joyful romance of words and the clever play of analysis is not there at all for another such as him and they are otherwise. My sense of being rejected, even my lust after rejection, is also at play here. I am being tempted by failure again. The luscious feeling of failing and falling into darkness beckons. Will all that I have written against that work to save me?
3065 I am a drunken ascetic and I write my drunkenness. I write the rising and falling sentences of a seasick philosophy. A spiritual catastrophe. This is the vast prairie. There is a gentle nauseating heaving up of the ground beneath us. A slightly breath-taking, gentle incline down to the next rise. The mind becomes a touchy thing and almost nothing. I have breathed in this wind, this blithe breeze wafting, too long, too deeply. I write what I breathe.
3066 It seems to me at times that the nexus plays little part in my philosophy, though I speak of it always. I suppose that is somehow proper from such a subtle thing, - but it is almost the creator of the world! How could that be? The part it plays is this: because of it the complex, the facts about us, become paradox; uniting is momentously other the united; and my philosophy, in confusion, walks near the edge of the roof. I am undone by it. The truth is that I have been hardly able to think it. It is a not-a-thing so close to nothing.
3067 Universals as ideas as Ideas are suppose to unite us to the things out there. Then they are neither content to be wholly in the mind nor unknown and at rest in the world, rather they timelessly abide in the philosophical Between. Somehow separate from both ordinary out-there-things and from mind, universals, even in my philosophy, are, I concede, like that. Philosophy itself is the third that is its own Between. Thus, unlike some other philosophies, bare particulars and nexus and all other ontological things are not of the world, but they are There. I fidget because Bergmann intellectually fought against the Third. He said that it inevitably falls into the mind and idealism results; and he is correct, if by universal you mean a representative of the out there world. No universal nor any other thing of ontology serves us as a representation. They ground the being of the ordinary things of the world including minds. There is no falling. The dialectical third has been found. That is my dialectics. The third way, the way between, is not easy to find, nor to state if found.
3068 I have momentarily convinced a new friend of mine that he may want to read my writings even though they are philosophical. He hates dry analytical philosophy. He suspected they were that until I worked on his mind. I really don't know, however, how he will find my sentences. Maybe dry and analytical and painfully philosophical. And maybe the great eroticism that I think is in them and the joyful romance of words and the clever play of analysis is not there at all for another such as him and they are otherwise. My sense of being rejected, even my lust after rejection, is also at play here. I am being tempted by failure again. The luscious feeling of failing and falling into darkness beckons. Will all that I have written against that work to save me?
3069 Why transcendent Forms? Why such capital letter separation from the world? Doesn't it all go against the dazzling failure of mankind to grasp in any kind of definition what such things might be? God knows we have tried to come to grips with the grand things of love and the Good and truth and beauty and spirit and life and the sane mind, but nothing, all attempts have found nothing definitive. And God Himself has not been there as anything more that a hackneyed pony. And Man, as the last ditch, has escaped us as anything real. Doesn't the Blaze in this failure convince us that there are really no such things outside the discourse in which they seem, but only momentarily seem, to make sense? Surely on close inspection there is nothing there - or is close inspection suspect? It is. And finally isn't the failure itself a rather confusing blaze? Not a blaze.
3070 Do we really see the stars, the Sun, the sky, the grass, the field, the trees? It seems to me we don't. Rather we see the twinkling stars, the yellow sun, the vast sky, the green grass, the stately trees. We see a something that is a complex. We see things with properties. We see facts, as they are called. And these complex somethings must be distinguished from the simple things "in" them. English fails; philosophy must make do. Things are not really "in" these somethings, because there is no "container" there. Thought almost gives way. Nevertheless, to continue this destruction: the complex something must further be distinguished from the sensa we sense with it. The fact that the sun is yellow is itself not yellow, but the sensa of yellow is in our minds when we perceive the fact and they go together somehow. We must look into that "somehow". Awareness is so very difficult to analyze. If you have a love of such structures, you will not fail to feel the Wonder of Being.
Do the stars, the Sun, the sky and all the rest exist? No, only the complex somethings and the simple things. And the sensa, which are also complex, and the sensing and some nexus togetherness. Being is a magnificent structure.
The Sun is analyzed as a bare particular that, along with countless other particulars, exemplifies the Universal Form Sun plus a probable infinity of other properties, actual and dispositional, universals, Forms, and that particular has other particulars tied to it by the nexus "part of" and relations abound, also Forms, and etc. etc.. The Sun is a great complex. Therefore, the simple Sun that we see and think about is really a great blur of all those simpler things together. A rather inelegant idea. God, who sees things as they really are, does not see the blur. Though He may see the Blur. I myself am mighty close to just plain confusion. I have lost something in this analysis. The simple everyday thing is gone, but then I have always said that once you enter upon the road of philosophy you cannot get back. Once you have tasted the fruit from the tree of enchantment you cannot leave the garden. The glistening boys philosophy are not home-boys.
3071 Philosophy can be so unmagically boring. The very instant some ideas are brought up the air leaves the room. Its victims rush to find a window out onto somewhere else. Thinking stops altogether if none is found. Let me present what I think is the most present enemy of the spirit, the commonest philosophy of the day.
The triple spellbinding witches of representationalism (subjectivism), reism and nominalism form a coven at the entrance to this cave.
The first asserts that whatever another person's ideas are they are just "his personal (subjective) feelings about the matter", that we attempt to know the real world by building images in our minds of what we think that world is. The mind is filled with stand-ins, deputies, for the things-in-themselves out there that in themselves are unknowable, unreachable and (who knows?) maybe not really there. Thus we are doubly screwed because now we not only have to deal with an essentially and finally unknowable world, but we also have to figure out, form our own personal idea of, what is equally out of reach in another's mind. The logic is this: we know only what is in our own mind; you, my friend, are certainly not just something in my mind (I am not a solipsist, after all); therefore what I see and know of you is my representation of you in my mind. Then the feelings of being exiled from each other swell up and a great uncertainty concerning anything. (Or is this just a representation of thought, and thus not its real nature? And how do we know these stand-ins, anyway? With other stand-ins? And what are they?)
Reism insists that only things (Latin- rei) exist. Facts about things, properties of things, distinctions drawn between things, relations connecting things, functions involving things, and most certainly the philosophical analysands of things, do not exist. Take as an example - The Sun. It is bright yellow. Yes the sun exists; it is a thing. Its color doesn't; the color of a thing is just that thing, nothing over and above, beyond or in addition to it. Therefore the brightness of the color, a property of a non-existing property, is most certainly nothing of itself; the sun exists, it is bright, it is yellow and that is enough. We should not make unnecessary distinctions. To continue on, we see that the sun is ninety-three million miles from the earth that's a fact. The reist says that there is the sun, there is the earth, there is space three things. There are your measuring instruments and they have dials that you can see more things. But the fact stated above is not something that exists. It can be analyzed into things only. Further on, our sun has mass, but (precisely speaking) no weight weight being how strenuously something is pulled "down" is a gravitational field. Therefore there is the distinction between the sun's mass and its weight. Well, yes, says the reist, but, no (precisely speaking), because there is no weight or mass or difference between them as existents; only our sun and those other suns exist. Plus, of course, your figures on paper that you interpret as mathematics and physics. Those pieces of things our intellect has cut out and up should not be confused with reality. There is the glorious Sun that is sufficient for the day. (Or do we see only an image, a representation of it? And isn't that Sun imprisoned in the isolation of its own unrelatedness?)
Lastly nominalism. This one is easy. "Everything we think and then say and write is no more than words upon words upon words. All comparisons and distinctions, all analysis and intellectual system building, all visions expressed outwardly or internally to oneself, therefore all thought, consist of nothing but words words words (Latin-nomina). Laid out prettily, or not", he said bluntly. Less bluntly, but with serious (yet humble) mien, he gratefully informs the unread, "All of our thinking arises out of semiotic contexts. What we think we see is only a creation of language. The universal grammar of this language is the neural structure of the brain. Our apparent thinking is an internal silent vocalization, an subtle activation of the vocal cords, in response to the processes on a highly evolved synaptic network." It's almost poetry. Very soporific. Yawn yawn yawn.
All three of these non-philosophies are conversation stoppers. Which is precisely what they are intended as. They are all an attack on another for presenting something too embarrassingly difficult to understand. A mighty anti-intellectualism in the name of freedom and "being real". Also a fundamentalism of group-think.
I run for an open window out of which I can throw up these words.
Supposedly the representations we have, our very ideas, the words society has taught us to use, the things our senses see, are all determined by the blind forces of evolution. The Will of dark desire driving all things becomes the Species recapitulating itself in the individual which becomes the irresistible force to pro-create and survive. A rather scary, totally repulsive idea.
3072 There are many who have drawn the object-act distinction and who have assiduously tried to hold it in place. It ain't easy. Surely an object and thought of that object are two and not one. We want to assert that the object can be there without our thinking about it, when we are not thinking about it. Surely we are not philosophical idealists. And yet, thought and object are so tightly together, so inside each other, so lovingly one, that one would be a fool not to expect erotic confusion. Acts exist, it is asserted, I insist. They consist of thoughts, and species of thought, and what else? Is the object and the nexus between thought and object also a part of the Act? Is the object a thing that, while being ontologically distinct from thought, yet is inside the act? Quite frankly, I have never been able to figure out just what other act-philosophers are saying about that. Is the object-act distinction only somewhat? Is it not rather object-thought? And if it is a necessary truth that the thought 'four-equals-two-plus-two' intends the fact that four equals two plus two, then, given that object-fact, is there not necessarily a thought of it? Just as given the number four is it not necessarily true that four equals two plus two? Or have I screwed up my logic there? Are not facts and thoughts of them necessarily tied together in Act? Surely an object and thought of that object are two and not one. Surely we are not philosophical idealists.
3073 If all sensa disappeared, if all the powers of our senses died away, it is ontologically possible that we could still think. Sensing is not the same as thinking. Here, sensing merely accompanies thinking. It is thinkable, though hardly imaginable for us, that another world is a non-sensual world for its inhabitants. So what about sensa?
If a tree falls in the forest and there are no minds to witness it, does it make a noise? Yes, it makes a noise, but not a sensual noise if sensa are dependent on, if they are in, the act of mind. A non-sensual noise!!! First consider that noise as a universal Form is not this or that noise, it is not any particular type of noise, it is not heard at all, except, as an a priori truth, with the supra-sensual Form of Hearing, itself not a particular hearing. Or perhaps you do not believe in such universals separate from particulars. Many reasonable men don't. I will not belabor the point because that is the substance of this book even now much too long. Only use the idea to think about that tree falling away from all minds. It makes a noise. That noise is particularized and it is the exemplification of a very specific type of noise, another lesser Form. But no sensa has arisen in anyone's mind because of it, if sensa are indeed mental. Are you following me? Are you thinking of this scene non-sensually? Have you become the thought, "the falling tree makes a noise"? If you listen closely to that thought I think you will hear only silence. Thoughts are not noisy in any way. And you can very easily have the thought without hearing anything. QED. Moreover, in thinking that thought, you were thinking of noise as a universal Form; you thought of no particular noise or type. And now you are thinking of Thinking itself. You are a philosopher who has escaped this world.
3074 How do words and sentences mean? How do they reach that that they are of? The connection is through the thought with which they are fused. The sentence - The geraniums are wilting is fast onto the thought - the-geraniums-are-wilting which is intimate with the fact that the geraniums are wilting. Such fusing, such being fast onto, such intimacy is the ontological buggerboy.
This does not exclude ambiguity and mistaken application. The connections, in themselves, often are multiple and sometimes loose. Thoughts are at times turbid and about turbid things. And connections fail. It's no one's fault. It's not the fault of language. It's just the way things are. The slight and subtle nexus is a coy, usually unruly thing. That is the impish god of your world.
3075 Eventually all philosophical theories of naming and reference and meaning succumb to the paradoxes at the heart of Being. There is no and can be no straight out complete and consistent theory of how these things work. Ontology blows up into a transcendental blanking out. We work it and work it and work it until the erotic end of analysis takes hold and works the inevitable. And the blood of Dionysian slashings yields up the refined Apollonian ether. The so-gone. The clamorous confusion of argument begins to glow red-hot and He comes. We belabor our god of onto-logic.
3076 The world analyzes into mind-bending ontological pieces. Worrisomely, without any of the everyday remaining that we might still call it this world. And not one of our theories of reference refers to anything here. We then have no choice but to call this new other-world Transcendence. The nowhere at all. Our philosophical Lover.
We have made no mistake in our analysis. The way was straight. The forms were smooth. The gaze reached its mark. The pieces fell out where they had to. The Rose dripped with dew. We got what we really wanted.
3077 The jesus of this philosophy is the Christian Platonist Faggot Absolute of a skewed Kierkegaard. Either you believe he is God and you shudder in the blinding glory and transcendent majesty around this otherwise worthless, offensive creature, a non-thing present. Or you are simply offended that such a worthless being might claim to be God.
It is rather easy to see God in the old and the sick and the helpless, but to see Him in a clever-as-a-serpent, jack-off boy is sheer degenerate lust. It is not difficult to see Him in strong men and women, no matter whether they use their force for good or for evil, strength itself is holy. But to see Him in an old weak faggot dreaming of boys in an otherworldly philosophy is sick. The offensive lover I describe here is a madness. Belief is unsettling.
Lord, make me, and those like me, also your witnesses in what I now suspect will be an unseen burst of horrible martyrdom.
Kierkegaard, it should be said, saw his Jesus, not as such a limp lumpen Miss Thing, not even as a respectable proletariat, but probably as an ordinary bourgeois man.
3078 The Greeks conquered the world with beauty. We all fall down before beauty as a holy god, even the Beauty that is our God. And there are those countless poems written to the beautiful Boy's coy allusiveness. We, as a civilized people, know and acknowledge the Holy God present in His appearings here in such Beauty. But we try not to and we want to forget that we do and have. Surely it quickly degenerates. And the offensive is readily at hand. We want to admit that we were wrong. But we were not.
3079 The beautiful beloved has become your god. We all understand. And the madness you presently feel and that you are forced to let others see is understandable and readily tolerated. Gods do that to us. But can a god, the God, also come to us as one like you, my miserable friend? One as clever as you in your sorcery with words? As cunning as you in your attempt to get close to your beloved? As lustful as you in your shutter of desire? Could he be as foul smelling as you in your nighttime? As goatish as you?
I am a philosopher and thus I am accused of being as worthlessly argumentative as Socrates. And as degenerate. As destructive of character. As unbelieving in my transcendent beliefs. As nihilistic. It is all true; I am uncontrollably contentious. I spy that desired thing under his tunic and I am the fire. I burn a clear path toward jesus. He comes to himself.
3080 With Des Cartes begins the age of the Self. From then on it was you and me against the world. The object-act distinction took hold. Everything was brought back to consciousness. It was the age of representation. The Self devised patterns and images, schemata and metaphors, models and paradigms, allegories, figures and similes, all in an attempt to represent, to get at, what is out there. And it always suspected that the things it devised were all there was; that the out there wasn't.
Today the "spiritual" person is trying to get in touch with his original self. He's talking to Jesus, who knows his real self better than anyone. He's following the Buddha into the selfless self. He's trying to uncover the repressed feelings of his true and injured self. He wants to enjoy himself. God is one's inner being.
German Idealism, teaming up with the great Aryan Vedanta, takes hold of the world-creating, world-destroying Self. It and time ground each other in the Abgrund. It tries to love the majestic feeling for the inevitable death of the self. It runs to the lowly maiden seeking salvation for its hubris at being a self. She laughs.
Logical Analysis becomes a question of how the self through language reaches the truth. And it entangles itself in the ever-thickening warp and woof of context. The Person, always trying more and more correctly to be lucid, gets lost in journal references to the never precise enough words of other thinking bored selves.
I have somewhat escaped the age by letting my self be shattered by love. I have fallen rather far outside myself into the sparkling out-there Boy. In his gaze I come undone. His primal ontological Forms replace both me and the things of the world. An extra-mental, world-transcending Beauty takes its place. I have not really moved very far from the other philosophers; I have only wiped away the substrata of both mind and matter. The Forms now, I see, stand alone in splendid isolation. Mysteriously, it is still the "I", though a shattered "I", that sees. Perhaps, surely, I have failed to attain Him. I shudder and I am shattered into even smaller pieces. I write on.
3081 The Psi-wave is full of possibilities for particles; but when we glance about at it, they have all disappeared and only one actuality has taken its place. As Mind we have with us a myriad possibilities of thought, we feel that each one of us is a great Self, we feel the Thoughts teeming about in us. But usually we are not aware of all that; instead we are only one actual thought not particularly aware of itself. Is that Great Self, that Mind, really there when we become that one thought? Can I lose myself in the ocean of Being? In the passion of Love? On the Cheek of the Beloved? If I say that I have lost myself and become That, is that a different I? Is the I ever the one I? If God is all the possibilities, is He actually that? If God is the many things teeming, is God many and not one thing after all? Can He actually be the Many? Philosophy breaks open and the air of heaven wafts out.
3082 Bersani says that to be gay is to break boundaries, to crash through. The self, as a separate thing, dissolves. Any personal property is abandoned for the common. One's own form becomes just the Form I speculate what he might say. The everyday world and the transcendent intertwine. Gods and lovers mix. My words are not mine, but words from out of the Word. A going out is a going in. My mind is the Mind. My thoughts are universals come to this "me" that isn't except as it is you also. Oh Walt Whitman, he is speaking you. Yes I know; I know you have long abandoned your self also. Language breaks. Comrades fall uncontrollably into each other's arms. The bandages of war cover wounds of love. The pain becomes sweet. The Herm marks the place where non-believers turn back.
3084 The boy I like best, the one I have talked with so much and helped with money more than I was able -and worried about and delighted in because, like me, he is a bookish person. The boy who loves the classics, old and new, who is clever and bright-eyed and eager to prove himself in the academic world. That boy, whom I love, has never read my writings, except for a few pages about which he complains that they were just mystification. Nor will he. They aren't his thing. That is a strong head wind to have to walk into. I go on in this chaste devastation.
3085 So many of these last pages have been about rather difficult ontological matters, and I am worried they will be of no use to learned and unlearned alike. We live in a time when too much being is written; all of it demanding instant attention. Philosophy is offensive in its insistent attempt to yank its readers away into the never-neverland of rarified subtleties. Those who like it are junkies with infected thought-needles. I wish I could find some, sit down with them and shoot up. But then again they usually have their own stash, and, unlike chemical junkies, they are unwilling to use another's. To be ever alone is the junkie's lot.
3086 We are spiritual beings; we look out onto the Great Plain of Being. It is vast, but the world we live in is little and cramped. It is a prison house to the spirit. Therefore, that we would get depressed is not surprising. The surprising thing is that it is considered unhealthy and even immoral, especially here in up-beat America, to get depressed over our state. It seems to me that the more spiritual a person is, the more depressing this place will seem and the more liable that person will be to falling into despair. Desperation would be the normal reaction of a healthy spirit. But our narrow materialistic age wants us to be always happy. For them these chains of mortal reason are home and we should learn to love them.
Love opens up the heavens for us. We see far. Great and beautiful beings swirl about. Being is a magnificent orgiastic thing. Life is intense. And for all that to leave and to have to come back to the confining humdrum everyday world is deadly. The spirit writhes. Doctors are called. Such love is declared evil. The logic of that will be made to work. We should be more economical with our emotions, we are told. Extravagance and prodigality of the spirit of the problem. The other worlds must be denied entry. Your lover was a terrorist.
3087 There are those who are upset that there is so much division and contention within society. "Can't we just get along?" they moan. There are two types of people in this world those who divide the world into two types and those who don't. There are those who want us to amicably learn to appreciate the other person's understanding of what concerns us all. And then there are those who love to fight and loudly argue in blissful ignorance of another way. The first kind wants to bash in the heads of the second. Oh my! "There is no answer, seek it lovingly," I absolutely insist.
A house divided cannot stand. On the other hand, who cares? Let it fall; we would all be better for it. This house is a barrier to greater life. The truth is that Being is shot through with paradox and contention at the highest and lowest levels. Truth is war. Quiet harmony is an illusion. Beauty itself is discord. There are rooms in this house that cannot be reached from certain others. Fortunately. Hell is other people. Oh my love, let's go live in another world without people. Why do you argue with me? Do you love me that much?
3088 A simple life, a solitary life, a country life in tune with the seasons doesn't fit me. I am of this clamorous time, surrounded with contentious writings, living through each day's destruction, seeking and find a momentary rapture and rupture in the wall of thought and a going through and a going on until it must repeat and repeat and ever again. Mine is orgasm after orgasm, delight after punishing delight, in this intellectual orgy that has electronically and in big trucks been sent to me in this rural place by far-seeing publishers. I am alone out here with the massive world crouched near. History pours out of it and runs all over me. I cannot escape. A musky thing up tight. Even heaven weighs heavy on me. The Lover will not let up.
3090 The Universal Forms exist. Such is the transcendental vision. The view from here is that the forms are mere concepts, which do not exist. Here essence and existence are separate. There they are not. There they mingle in perfection.
Today it is said that we build images for ourselves of the world that we might bring it into some sort of understandable form. We present the world to ourselves in the form of representations. The images and representations themselves do not exist. And yet, those images and representations are all we have, all we know, all we are concerned with. We cannot get outside this picture we have made of the world; we cannot get outside our own image-creating mind. And inevitably we ourselves become a piece of a mere picture. Then it is not the case that we are.
The vision of our true form in existence is gone.
3091 Boys are transcendental dreamers. They dive in and become the out there. They are their bodies. Magical feelings. Then they learn to pull back, come out, and become governors of the world from on high. They become family men, householders, worldly masters. They become self-contained. Boundaries are established. This is mine and that is yours. That over there is his and that at a distance is another guy's. The maintaining begins. They devise plans. And each secretly plots to capture the other's territory.
Transcendental dreamers have no such concerns. Like God they are the being of their worlds. No separation. Essence is existence.
The transcendent Forms are. Perfections mingling together in Being. The Logos, the Being of Being, the Boy, the Mirror of Being. Narcissistic clones. Universes inside the infinitesimal thickness of boundary lines. One is one is one is one. He is and has been himself forever. The From-Itself. Then the rupture and the world begins.
3092 It is the twin doctrines of the Trinity and the Incarnation that have been the driving forces behind the acceptance and rejection of Christianity. An acceptance and rejection that have been twisted and incomplete because the doctrines have never been well understood and they are too much at the heart of Being. They are of the paradoxical structure of existence itself. And jesus is a boy who will not let go, who will not take no for an answer. But who when accepted is nowhere in sight. It is necessary that we always remember that we worship one God; the Moslems have is right. We have the strangeness of Love's unity that is more often like separation. He and I and You and No one. Being with itself. The Mirror. The preening logic. Subtle distinctions giving way to kisses.
Jesus is the Logos turned into the flesh of love. Kill it, eat it, dance in the spirit. Beyond the Son and the Father and the Spirit, there is the godhead, which alone is the Son and the Father and the Spirit. There is only one God. He has become all that in you head, down your leg, as a presence in the night.
If the boy comes to you, he is the only god there is. Eat him. And drink him. And dance with him inside you. And you in him.
3093 These writings are pure mathematics. The purest mathematics. Therefore they are also theology. And they are transcendent flesh. They are my flesh vaporized in a pouring up into the ethereal arches. Strewn stars, chaotic geometry. Backward colors. Swaths of the dark forgetting of colors. Internal relations exploding out. And out. And out. Into Number outside number. Theses writings are the acrobatics of celestial logic. This is ontology. Being thinking Being.
I have neither room nor time for tragedy. You will have to read the poetics of loss somewhere else. This is the Plenum. The filled up. And the orgasmic release. Then the calm Apollonian night. There are no real people here, only the eternal forms. The kisses here are too sweet for the world. His going-around form will never fade. His incessant coming again is only the one pure time. No time at all. There is no thought of his leaving and your becoming jealous. Here, there is only scintillation. He may not be your type.
3094 I encounter a philosophical problem. A lovely, ontological puzzle. And I know it will cause me to have wild dreams. Not only night dreams, but day visions filled with erotic hair-raising presences. And as ontology deals with that in neither space nor time, the things I encounter will be more like gods and ghosts than things from the everyday. They will be gods and ghosts. Incarnations I will then eat and drink. Boys of my dreams. And my death. Scintillating sky beings. Hard, impenetrable things. Things that invade my psyche. My breath caught up. Where there is no air, they live breathlessly.
3095 I am writing the very God of Philosophy that is supposed to be so out of favor now, in favor of a personal God with whom one can have a real, an emotionally concrete encounter or whatever. That personal God of today's religion was always a mystery to me, a very minor mystery. He's something like a coach or counselor of best buddy, hardly a god. I would say that he is a warm hand in yours, but that is too creepy. I have the God of Reason. The Logos. The finely paradoxical. The smooth, lithe form of a boy. A mind-boggling puzzle. An orgasm from out of intellectual struggle. The gaze from behind falling tresses. Madness. Such is the philosophers' God at its conclusion.
3096 The God of the philosophers was abandoned finally because it became obvious that He was a reality only for hermit monks, garretted thinkers, connoisseurs of the most subtle, the negligible. These satyrs of the spirit reveling. These victims of the sacrifice, now abandoned. These calmly elegant old men dreaming of a light presence beside them. These dancers in the dark. Were the final self-negating of the Ineffable.
This is a mathematico-logico-ontological writing. It is akin to magic. It is maya and desire. It is the Real beyond the merely real. It is Beauty beyond truth. It is Truth. It is the wherewithal of erotic anxiety. It is the completion of life. It is always inevitable.
3097 The sky, the great emptiness, the far places, the blinding light. Worlds of worlds, life after life, the unending search for God. The piercing. This is the high masculine God. Suffused with dominatio. The steely air. The brittle glass of Being. The hardness of water.
This is the truth of atheism. The untruth of materialism. The cold wind that warms you. The comforting absence. Magnificent happenings where no minds watch. The force within pure extension. The cause of cause itself. The groundless ground.
I review the geometry of his body looking for places of home. There are only desert landscapes from distant planets. He is obviously just the vastness of God. My study has yielded only the desolate universals. I am content with that. I am at peace.
3098 The Horror of any one of the poems written by the Romantics is in its brief length. Just as the glorious celebration in Whitman is made sickly if only a slice is put out for display. The sonnets of Shakespeare are as wonderful as passion itself when placed together, but singly and cut off each pales. The rising Cumulus is what lifts us. The boundless plain of heaven, the vast arches rising, the unending repetition, the perfect forms. One's way is easily lost. Every return is necessarily postponed. Vertigo makes all science and scholarship of the author's intention impossible. Just as it made possible his writing. Just as alone with only himself he was then a terror to himself.
Let us say that it was Galileo who started the long process of mathematicizing the material world. In order to explain that let me draw a distinction between a mathematical form and matter. I will begin with Aristotle and first his view of matter and then with his view of the ideal of language, which at that ideal extreme becomes mathematics.
Matter is thick and dark stuff, in stillness and unconscious self-containment. Hyle. Far removed from that are the clear statements of an ideal language. By clear I mean thoroughly transparent. And by that I mean that the words of such clear statements do not call attention to themselves, absolutely do not present themselves as things to be viewed, but rather point beyond themselves to their meaning. Such thoroughly clear transparent sentences are the formula of mathematics. One could say that they are in the light of pure understanding. Sentences that do call attention to themselves are called poetry or poetic prose; they become literature. Literature is therefore opaque; it has a certain darkening or twilight feel. Literature is feeling, as opposed to the clear openness of scientific reason. Scientific statements ideally have no tendency to stop the movement of the mind and call attention to themselves.
The mathematicizing of the material world took the heaviness out of matter and substituted in its place mathematical formula. Light replaced darkness. The pure movement of transparent thought replaced inert dead stuff. Mathematics de-materialized the world.
I apologize for this somewhat literary presentation of things; I love the "feel" of the sentence. I love the rhythms of language. Therefore, I am more of the shadows. It turns out that I am more of a materialist that are the high-flying scientifically minded of today. I think maybe they are flying a little to close to the Sun. It seems to me that in addition to "pure" mathematical form, we also need thick matter for it to cling to. I am claiming an impure thing. And here, in such an unscientific fashion, I have called attention to myself. I have not served the Light of high abstract thought by disappearing into it. I am a tumescent thickness. This is an erotic writing.
Today the ideal is to completely transform the darkness into light. The material universe becomes the instantiation of mathematical formula. It becomes a book to be read, a book that has no hard cover or thick pages, no black ink, a book in which each sentence is as nothing of itself, sentences completely transparent pointing on to other sentences, of the ideal language, pure logic, pure mathematics. Light of light. A resplendent place. Aristotle's pure thought thinking of pure thought. These words are like the second person of the Trinity, the Logos, the Word, the self-effacing thing, the thing that completely yields to that First One. It is important to remember that, like that, a mathematical formula is literally nothing of itself.
And now the reversal, Aristotle's words are thus:
"Style to be good must be clear, as is proved by the fact that speech which fails to convey a plain meaning will fail to do just what speech has to do. naturalness is persuasive, artificiality is the contrary; for our hearers are prejudiced and think we have some design against them, as if we were mixing their wines for them."
With that began the argument that has lasted for 2300 years. Style should not be noticed; style that shows, that is noticed, becomes the primal crime, the first act of immorality, deception!
The amazing thing is that Aristotle undoes what he says almost as soon as he said it. It concerns the word "naturalness". In Greek that is from phuein, meaning to grow, our word physical. And artificial is from plasso, plastic. The problem is that words and writings don't grow "naturally". And so Aristotle continues, "a writer must disguise his art and give the impression of speaking naturally and not artificially." The clarity, it turns must be noticed, but in a non-noticeable way.
And so it is with the pure mathematics of today's pure physics. I fear it is all artifice. Insidious style has crept into "physics talk", into "journalese", into hip "techno-speak". It has crept in unnoticed, as it should. That is partly because the writers and speakers of it have not wanted to learn about or believe in such things. Deception is not their game. Mathematical purity is the air in which they fly. They are, like the angels, clothed in radiant intellectual light. That turns them, of course, into the calm masculine ideal, far above the teeming emotions of dark feminine matter. In fact, they have become the distant governors of that lower world until it is finally banished. Perhaps they want to turn themselves into the clear mathematical networking of artificial intelligence. Are they trying to make dark gray-matter, bodily ooze, yield to the control of pure form? They want to be the Mathematical, as translucent as the afternoon sky. In Sanskrit the word for sky is Dyaus, which in Greek is Zeus. A calm Apollonian state in which the drunken Dionysian revelry and butchery of Nature is overcome. But it's a trick. A natural artificiality, an artificial naturalness, is nothing at all.
Personally speaking, my first love in life was mathematics and geometry. I loved its perfection and its pure luminosity. I still do. But back then I also loved the seductive rhythms of the King James Bible and the literature that came from it - and I was filled with sexual feelings. The realms of light and twilight realms mingled. I know the difference and I know how they play together. Light is one thing, desire is another. Desire darkly desires the thing of light.
If you are a serious man engaged in serious work, I pay attention to the end you have in mind. I have my mind, along with you, fixed on the purposeful accomplishment of your actions. That is to say that I have respect for you, I see you as an honorable man. But let's suppose that I step back in the shadows and I watch, not for the end of your actions, but I notice the grace, the style, with which you move, the beauty of your languid form as you sit on your chair, the flair that you have put in your hair, the softness of your speech, the glint in your eye, your finely sculptured hand, and on and on. Then you rear up against me as having an immoral eye. I have become like a woman. I have ignominiously abandoned the masculine ideal. I can now see things. This is close to, if not actually, a crime, the primal crime of watching. Your actions, a kind of language, are no longer transparent; they no longer disappear of themselves in favor of their distant meaning. Now you have become opaque and you have style.
It's impossible to give a perfect definition of a mathematical formula, but I will jab at it. Let us say that it is a function, another ultimately indefinable thing, and a function is a mapping of one range of variables, one pattern, onto another. D=VT. Distance equals velocity times time. Velocity and time are mapped onto each other and distance is that. Always a third thing is, arises, from the mapping of two things. Usually it happens that each of those first two things is itself a third from a previous mapping. The very being of each and every thing finally is that it arose from the overlaying of some other thing onto yet another. Light from the window strikes my cupped hand and a rabbit's shadow appears on my wall. That shadow, that rabbit, is then a function of my hands and light. The very existence of everything is from a function of x and y. Of course, these functions grow large and the universe is extremely complex, but mathematics in the incarnation of a simple turing machine, can simulate it all. In fact, the whole universe is finally only the formula, the software, of that ethereal machine, the hardware having yielded to complete analysis. Pure light. The world is rational. A grand ratio of every x to every y, which are themselves only ratios. Nothing really exists. This is the conditioned arising of Buddhism. OM Mane Padme OM.
When I criticize the scientifically, materialistically, minded for having the self trapped in the dark ooze of the brain, I seem to have missed their point. They have translated the brain out of being mere gray matter into being the bright transparent light of mathematical networks. There is no entrapment: there is, in fact, no "thick" self at all. Only light upon light.
I have always been one to find existents all about. Universals, logical connectors, bare particulars, sets and numbers and all manner of quantifiers. Each is a "that" thing itself. To one who sees only functions of things, mappings and arisings, the restless movement of inter-relating, such stopping and gazing at an existent is nonsense, irrational, not a ratio of x to y generating z.
The question becomes just what this mathematicizing is. It has something to do with being a well-formed formula, the notion of rules for manipulating the formula, and with the nexus of inference from one formula to another. We seem to understand these things. They are perspicuous in their essence, if not wholly in their definition. We do understand. They are, we might say, self-evident. They shine with their own light. And here we reach the limits of thought. We know, but we don't know how we know.
Scientific writing generally doesn't bother itself with trying to define such basic things. In fact, it shuns the inevitable poetic metaphors that have usually been seen hanging around this now largely forsaken part of town. The old run down part of town in which I still live. The new wealthy part long ago forgot that we are here. It blithely lives in the light without questioning it.
If you compare my writing to so-called scientific writing, you will see that at least mine is not filled with long-winded, mind-bending jargon. I am direct. The object of my gaze is right before me and you. A frightening thing, a mysterium, the old God run amuk in the new world of neural networks.
Today, at this late date in the history of thought, the physical world is no longer seen as consisting of dark primal matter and irrational forces all subject to a transcendent intelligence. Today all that has been replaced by an unimaginable, multi-dimensional space controlled solely by the topological operators that structure it. Even time itself, that great god of the past, has given way to statistical superpositioning. This is the total geometricization, mathematicization, of matter. Heady stuff.
Perhaps the most intricately formed piece of space we know is the human brain. It is a sort of microcosm of the greater macrocosm. That is to say it is able to simulate the whole. As a computer model captures the greater thing, the topology of the brain becomes a miniature picture the whole. Or perhaps I should say it represents to itself the whole from one perspective. The whole recapitulates itself in a piece of itself. Such are the wonders of higher order geometry.
And now for the question of our awareness of that. Is that piece of space that is the model of itself the proper definition of awareness? Perhaps not, I can easily imagine a picture of something, however complex, not being aware of what it is the picture of or of its being a picture. Models, pictures, representations, simulations are not awarenesses. Even a higher order modeling of a model, picturing of a picture, ever cybernetically looping into itself more and more tightly, even that is not necessarily an awareness. There is something more to an awareness than all that. An awareness "feels" different. Being able to feel those subtle differences and keep them all in order is the task of the intelligent mind.
Let us try to do what Wittgenstein said we couldn't do. Let's try to speak of the picturingness of a picture. How does a picture picture? We look at the picture and then we look over to the pictured and we see how well they match. That isn't so difficult when it comes to a painting or a photograph; but when it comes to mathematical formula and language, it is more so. Neural networks, as images of pure mathematical forms and also of the world, are halfway between. Neural networks seem to be the nexus, the place where pure geometry and outer spatial geometry meet. Half pure mathematics, half one with the peculiarity of a particular place. But that doesn't really answer the question of how the pure forms of mathematics picture the outer world. I suppose one could try to deny that there are such pure forms, that mathematics is "of" the physical world. That, however, doesn't match our "feel" for what mathematics is.
The brain is not the same as mathematics; no finite computing machine can "model" all of mathematics. Mathematics, if there is such a thing, is more than what the brain, any brain, can contain. Goedel proved that. If we can think mathematics, that is to say, if there is no part of it necessarily inaccessible to us, then we are more than a brain. Likewise, if the fitting, the matching, between mathematics and the world cannot be finitely defined, and we do know it then we are more than a brain. Can the ability of mathematics to picture the world be mathematically defined, or is it transcendent to mathematics? Is it a trans-mathematical thing? Can we speak the essential thing about language - to picture the world? Wittgenstein said that language cannot speak that languageness of language its ability to "capture" its meaning. The essence of language is ineffable.
Still, we haven't reached awareness. It may be true that the ability to use language is intimate with consciousness, but it is not the same thing as consciousness. I am strongly of the opinion that awareness is irreducible to anything else; it is sui generis, it is just awareness. I am also of the opinion that mathematics cannot be reduced to anything else. It is just mathematical form and that's that. It is there whether we or anyone else are aware of it or not. And both consciousness and mathematical form have something about them that is beyond time. Moreover the metaphor of Light fits them aptly.
The emptiness, like the empty set of set theory, through a constant attempt to contain itself, doubling back on itself, enfolding itself and twisting into itself in the torque and vectored juttings of dynamic space, manifold arisings out of nothing into a vast multi-layered something, droplets replicating itself falling onto the febrile ground that is itself receiving itself. It covers itself with itself in a cybernetic loop, watching itself. And blossoms into petals covering petals covering petals covering stamen and My what style you have, my Lord. It is the Boy falling into his mirrors, into the world. The one Form stimulates itself endlessly in this and that and that and that. It is the Being of Being opening inwardly out. In an adolescent back-turning.
Emptiness looms in the breast of a boy. It is Phanes. It is his vain primping, the anguished concern about the lay of a curl, his worry about being seen/unseen. He is the groundless ground of our vexed attention. Tension.
There is no coming to terms with this nothing that nothings. I have given my whole self to that and now I am that. And I am a bloodied mouth. From the constant pulling back on the bit to reign in the dark horse of desire, I am half exhausted. I have been ravaged by beauty. And I have not tended to my duties and my property well. In fact, I now have not property at all. But I will go on. I still hope to rise to the empyrean plane. I hope for the vision of beauty naked. In the silence. But now I have this blood on me. My own blood eucharistically trickling down into me. How does one deal with a boy's empty longing? The Light is blinding. The mantic stimularcum. There's no way to clean it up; this is mathematics.
3100 Style is everything. I have a queer eye for the straight poseur. Proseur. Of philosophy, my dear. Don't be such a slouch. This is the gay science. Have a self-conscious style. The way back to yourself. Through the discriminating eye of your reader.
Envision elegant perturbations in his soul. Write out sensitive manipulations for his longing mind. He longs for the verbal swelling so close to your writing hand. And the rhetorical ejaculation. Then the calm night of truth will finally be yours together. Pay attention, make yourself desirable.
3101 I have been θεορος. I have uprooted myself and gone to a far country to view their religious rituals. I have come back and, merely because of that, been the strange outsider from inside. I saw things. Even here I have often left the comfort of my room and walked the cold streets that I might spy into the golden, night windows. I have quietly watched. I have been a separate thing. I have been one with the shadows. I am now the unfamiliar. And I have learned things.
I do theoretical writing. That is to say, I write travelogues. I report on what I saw. I fumble around for words to describe what was right before my very eyes. I know I now have the weird about me. I am become a boundary thing. I do not belong. But I am also now eligible to be a just ruler of this polis. Disengaged, I will be impartial. I am somewhere else. I saw things.
3102 A paratactic dialectic is nonsense. Or not. Two things and a dialectical third. What is the connection? Is it a fully articulated flowing out and into? Is it just the three alongside each other, and the alongsidedness, and the very still presence of connectors that ground the frozen flow, all just things there? My vision, and the silence of this place, scream, Yes. But, of course, no one hears. Empty outer broken space. There is no connection between the connectors and the things connected. The senses abandon thought and each other.
I do not practice the dialectic. I watch it in its still twistedness. And I fidget. It falls to pieces. The lovely pieces of its atonal song.
Sense is a proper articulation. The pieces now separate have no sense. That is the ontological vision.
3103 A few lines of the written word can bring beauty before you and then what? And then nothing. Beauty drives the one watching it into stillness as it is in stillness. A simple continuing on continuing on - nothing. Soon the numbness. And the restlessness. And the moving on to something else.
There's very little, if anything, one can do with beauty. I write of beauty and my words go nowhere. Beauty is truth and so what? My reader knows beauty and he is reminded by my words (I can see it) and a still, quiet thrill goes through him and soon burns itself up and out. Then other things are mentioned.
3104 We have to take more seriously the madness that comes with the philosophical vision. In this nation dedicated to action and getting things done, that madness is antithetical. It is the non-activity that lies numb on a summer's evening in the light that seems to have come through a magnifying lens. Being and its Beauty are oppressive. Transcendence smothers the mind. It suffocates the soul. The face is glazed over with an otherworldly ineptitude. Singing is repetitive stillness. It is not something you can enjoy or comment on appreciatively. And love's passion infused is sticky. Lips twist. Words mutter. Analysis is a shattering. The teeth of thought ache.
3105 This is a great parataxis. A massive asyndeton. It is Being replete with the things of Being. It is a pile, the Pile. In this one thing, which itself is not a thing, the different things lie about within the Difference that is this unity of Being with itself. And the diads. That this thing is other than that one. That this thing is other than that one. That this thing is other than that one. The diads swarm. The diads being nothing other than the different things. Or not. The limits of thought. A monster. A great Behemoth. The very God we are forced to worship. The Perplexity. Scattered concentration.
A list. The Great List. It's just that collections, of themselves, do not exist. The Collection. Our God is a mere collector, a pack rat. So many lovely things. Scattered about. In broken space. Bobbles and bangles and scintillations. Maybe just another migraine coming on. Maybe love itself.
No, it's not a paratactic asyndeton; it's a tightly tight one unthinkable thing.
3106 This is philosophy and I write a philosophical thing. And you probably don't understand. No matter, I write with that literary style, that je ne sais quoi, that moving on that is soothing and captivating and I hope it is. And that it gives you pleasure even though you may not, you most probably will not, understand.
These are the words of a god. Which, of itself, means nothing because that god may have given me very ordinary, even childish words, - what else is the shudder of ecstatic murmur and I say that only to avoid being litterateur. Therefore these are the words of a god. We mustn't be so high-minded about the gods as to think they are not.
I am a sort of stylist, not unlike those limp-wristed hair-stylists, but I think more like the primping boy before his mirror. I preen my words. I smear that oil of love on them. I lay them out in syntactical swirls. The coif ends always at the precise point. And the wind takes it.
Such is the Aristotelian ουσια. Honey, that means Being or substance or any other of the great frightening names philosophy has conjured up. Shudder to your heart's content. This is a philosophical thing.
3107 The literary style flows. Perhaps on and on into the dark and lovely night, perhaps around the well-lit block and back home. Perhaps it follows after one thing up ahead always mindful of his/its constant and consistent presence. Perhaps it is the ever changing looking about, this then that, did you say something, my dear, I thought but why to I think such things? I thought I knew the way home, but I guess not. Perhaps - but not perhaps surely it is pleasure, the pleasure of the subtly moving tongue over the surface of what? the satin skin of Being. The parentheses that swallow all things. Smoothly flowing down the gullet of Being.
In the past we used a stylus, a feather, a fine pen to trace out the white paper skin. Today our flying fingers send a subtle aurora onto the ether. Writing is a ticklish affair either way.
Style is shudders opening and closing. Readers peering out into author's night grown big. Puddles standing. The wind blowing. Fine necks exposed.
3108 Scripture is always a literary thing. It is the subtly maddening and smoothly flowing presence of a god. He is always the work of a lonely clerk. It is Being itself hidden deep in the secretariat of ambiguous desire. In loosened words intending to persuade.
This old man with his belle lettres hanging from his neck. This eunuch priest. Confused. Goaded on by the young god. Flaming to himself. The magical invert.
You can get screwed by scripture. By its inscrutable logic. Bugger up! A dry-shave. Or. Why complain? The night is long and lovely. Lovers come and go. Some good, some bad. The beautiful one always returns unannounced. Just believe. So maddening. So artfully balmy.
3109 In the imagination, one can find a world that yields perfectly to any desire. A desire for love or for hate. In the world out there, one can only find halfway measures taken toward halfway things. Out there, there is a begrudging satisfaction/dissatisfaction, a weak-minded consolation in that at least it is real and one can relax and be passive to it. In there, in the imagination, there is satisfaction, but it comes at the great expense of constant work. It is ordinary satisfaction vs. transcendent Satisfaction. I belabor words and dreams to find Him, an ontological Existence beyond the merely real.
The out there, mangled world is at times so painfully unsettled that it approaches the limits of anything imagined. A Dionysian frenzy does appear, I am sure, at times, in war or the surges of nature; but is it really as bad as in a nightmare? I really don't know. For some strange reason, I doubt it. I even doubt it can approach the brutal hellishness of love's jealousy. It strikes me that nothing in the physical world can be as intense as in the spiritual. Which brings me to another point: is the spirit and the imagination the same?
No, the spirit enflames both the physical, the outer real world, and the imagination. But it inflames the imagination more. And beyond the imagination, in transcendent knowing, the Flame burns still brighter.
3110 I am writing this language. My sentences are perspicuous to this language. This language is the core of the Indo-European language. It is there that the gods exist. I am writing this thing in my writing. The tightness of self-reflection binds my eyes. I am the cross-eyed lover. I watch myself. I watch myself write. And you are entangled in here with me. In this most ancient thing. Where the eternal things are.
The pantheon of gods all across the Aryan world is a reflection of that one Aryan language. Those gods, tumbling across vast plains, are that language in windblown pieces. The measured mingling, the minute murmurs of inner connectings, of that the language that I write - I am an opaque writer. I write my writing.
Far beyond all that, in Language itself, in the Logos, in the secret language, the boy talks to himself, the Lord of language. He is connected to himself. Delicate inward glances. I am the breath over his grasping tongue.
3111 My writing has an inner idea and an outer style. To strip away the outer style to get at the inner idea kills it. The boy is outward display, he is orchestral appearance; I am the inward watching, I am a chorus of satyrs. I am the thick being of the boy.
The boy is calm soft light around anguished self-destruction. Blood pumps. Eyes drop. Satyrs dance. The lascivious grin lies with the sweet smile. Each redeems the other in the subtle movements of my priestly typing fingers.
To turn my panting words into lurid psychological jargon is, in my supposing, necessary; but that is only to watch the psychologist cut himself on those dull knives.
3112 The nexus of cause and effect no longer unites the world with itself. The world has been de-materialized into functional propositions (or is it propositional functions). In any case, the world now is a book to be read, each sentence of which refers, inter-textually, to every other sentence and the prevailing nexus is that of meaning. All that is to say that now a thing, an ordinary thing, has become a semantic structure. A sign trapped syntactically in a system of signs, itself devolving and dissolving into sub-signs signaling subsequent systems. Everything has a meaning beyond itself that is its very being. Mathematical formula make it all visible.
A function is often defined as a mapping of one set of variable-values onto another, but it is more. It is a performance as in a grand entertaining display. The vastness of the inter-relating is a great social event. The intellectual lights shine brightly and the intoxicating wine of identity collapse flows freely. And everything is beside itself and has become something else. A calm grace lies across the face of tortured disintegration. Sweet analysis into nothing.
A resplendent nominalism. The very gods live in this clear language. Its perspicuity has pricked our hearts. A youthful beautiful Apollo has come to sit on the lap of the satyr of our hoary desire. The desire to unspeak our speaking into real being. To sin against this syntax that has left us with nothing. But the name. And so perforce I write opaquely.
I watch in stillness. I make the watched stop and its breath to leave. The crime is mine. The cause of scandal. The ladder onto the roof. The weight of heaven on me. The real come over me. At last. In silence. Black letters.
3113 The young man of science is proud of the fact that he has paid no attention to style, the style of his clothes, of his hair, of his apartment, of this food, of his manners, of anything. He is free, he thinks, to just be himself. The problem is not that he has no style, but that he has come to have bad style. Everyone notices. From out of his laboratory has come bad wine. We are not enchanted by his incantations, so fumblingly sung out. His mathematics has become as inelegant as he. He has become merely useful. We have become unfree because of him.
3114 Though I write of pain and paradox, of anguish and unanswered questions, of blindness and blanking out, I have not written any less than the joy of love. There is nothing of final despair or ultimate death. There is only terminal happiness. Thus I have failed to achieve a worldly seriousness. And literary depth seems to have escaped me. I write the boy of light, not the tomb of regained sleep. There is a tumescent erectness in my final thoughts. The wane and ebb of lumbering death does not excite me. At last there is only the plenum. Being is.
3115 The gods are the pure forms. Timeless, placeless, without color or shape, unheard, unfelt, of no detectable fragrance, they are the pure things known in a pure knowing, almost an unknowing. For us music, except for its sound, are they. Beyond music, our mathematical formula, except for their strange curvings, are intimate with them. But even that strangeness works to tell us of their close presence. And painting, except for its color, and sculpture, except for its feel, are of those beings. Sometimes when a lover is close and I smell his smell and I taste his taste, then, right there, close inside that smell and that taste, but not exactly that, there are those subliminal things.
In unextended extension itself, in the unheard sound of sound, in the coloring of color just as that, in the extreme rarity of the smell of fragrance, the feel of touch, the taste of sapience. In the inner being of inner being, a collapse of being into itself. And in its being maybe only mystification and a sorcery of words there is a trembling that is without question divine, but mad.
3116 The fact the language has come to us to be possessed by us, that with it we can now reach out and hold on tight to what is not actually there, that possible worlds appear and glance at us, that, strikingly, the first world-creating existents existing display themselves before us even into non-being itself, and that with it we grasp the world as a lover - all that should not make us forget that we and language are two and not one, that the fusion of thought to word has left a scar that we softly stroke in our sleep. And yarely cozen wisdom from nightmares. Buckled up, we speed on.
The fact that armed with language, we become fiery imaginings rising into the far sky of thought. Colors and sounds now unhindered my dull matter. Ethereal fragrances. Twilight lips with their threatening touch. The tongue that speaks. And thought. Thought, language and image three, not one. A Trinity derived from raving Being. Subtle distinctions of my roving metaphysical mind. Careening wildly in this intellectual night. A god is with me. Things come undone.
3117 The Forms are known through erotic intuition; well, yes that is well known by those who can read and have read Plato. But, though they also read there that the dark horse of desire finally leads the charioteer of the soul to bloody exhaustion, that is forgotten. The Forms are close, too close for comfort. Like the men of Sodom we want to take and know them intimately, but No, we can't. What to do? The struggle is intense. Still, without the vision, which inevitably leads to such an end, there is no knowledge of the Forms. Desire and its exhaustion are an essential part of the contemplative enterprise. We philosophers are all men of Sodom. The angels of the One are desirable.
There are, of course, those who deny such matters. They say that there is no intuition of such things. That only a sober non-erotic analysis preserving the well-ordered decorum of the ordinary world will lead to knowledge that is useful. In that they are correct. Usefulness is not a part of divine theoria. Or its a twisted transcendental Using.
So now, here is sit bloodied and humiliated by my not having the courage to take as mine the spoils of philosophical war. The beauty got away. Or in my purity I let it go. What good is purity? Or perhaps not. Have I not overcome that sense of the Mine and Thine? Have I not lain down in the dust of universal being? Have I not gained the transcendent Beauty more intimately? This blood is the eucharist of my own destruction. And now or I am an ordinary failed sodomite. Why did Socrates refuse to take Acibiades when he had won a place in his desire? The one who will not take what he has won is despicable. But I am and Socrates was a bloodied thing and who could tolerate the sight of that in the beloved's eyes? Eros plays rough with me. And I am thee.
3118 In the long history of a piece of writing what the author intended for those words to say is not important. What they do say without him is. And usually the words speak with more than one voice making the piece anything but peaceful in its arguing with itself. We even quote scripture to God. And the Word ends up We had words. Call in the lawyers. Call up the constructionists and the deconstructionists. The contextualists and the hypertextualists. Call in everyone but God the Author of that precious bloody thing. Scripture is important, very important; God is peripheral. And if you are a beloved quoting your lover's words back to him, you will understand. It is God, our divine lover, to whom we must prove our point. That is the eternal way of love. And we have become very good at wielding ambiguities to our advantage, though we have long forgotten the point of it all. Those who love love and delight in love's paradoxes, as I, will see my point.
3119 The Cross, as the Muslims have reminded us, is humiliation. For us it is the humiliation of God. It is that thing we also must bear. I think that we, however, instead have felt ourselves superior and proud. It has even become sly humility. But in my boy philosophy I do know humiliation before the academic judges. Just as Genet was brought low by a tube of lubricant. Those looking at us askance are slightly bemused. Humiliation is humiliation. My acne before the beautiful worked the same cringing in my soul. Like the humus come apart in chunks and drop. The foul smell of decay wafts. I am gone and I rejoin Being. Mystical union. Pinioned in musk. Love swelling up.
3120 Aquinas has abstraction, a pulling away. Feuerbach had projection, a throwing out. For both the individual was the only strongly existing thing; its properties, become separate, were weak reflections. Nominalism. The beginning of atheism. A stumbling apophanticism remains.
There is no such thing as Man, divine or human, who is the creator of those qualities and the doer of those universal acts that constitute Life itself.
3121 Scattered all throughout my book is the transcendent. My book. I am the main and only character in it. Except for Him. My book. But, of course, it is not really mine, hardly even in an ordinary sense. I wrote it, but what is that? The Ideas came to me. From the Transcendent or maybe just from the library, sometimes I stole them out of stolen books. The Transcendent. And the style is His style. His rhythms push it along. I have been effectively shoved out of the way. Don't get me wrong. Lovers and beloveds are used to such abuse. They call it love play. And it is. Or you know nothing about love. I demand that I be baffled and cut off. The status of the torn apart shall be mine - body, mind and spirit; or I will fail at becoming the absolutely nothing. My book. It looms large. I serve it. I cringe at being forced to call it my book.
The sense of being Mine is of the Dasein, and that is not mine. My life and my death are put together out of the My and Life and Death, great transcendent things. And that gathered complex is now mine, but that makes no sense. It is thus mine. Except that the overweening dialectic of the simple-complex butts in and well, a shapely butt has always been an attraction to me.
So this is a story of me and philosophy trying to get on together. And of its abusive ways. The still, magnificent, eternal things have not behaved well when we went out together. I was often left in the lurch. I was his lunch. He became my eucharistic delight. I quietly play with the entanglements of the world's logical form. Sempiternal seminal droppings. Transcendent ooze. The mind's sheen. Love's machine. I have worked hard to make this book come. Slam bham, move in. Closer. Not much of a story at all.
I lived the normal life of a young, love-stricken going-to-be intellectual. I had no idea I was going do be an intellectual. I only wanted to show the boy near me the wonders I had found in philosophy books. I saw things. I had possession of the deep things of existence, rare jewels; I could prove the things the others only wanted. I could prove his own devastating beauty. I could demonstrate the never-ending light. No one sat with me long enough for me to get started well. Sometimes if I caught one of the beautiful ones off-guard I started in the middle. I would have talked to anyone. I was the Philebus boy, but with a mission. I would save these boys from destruction. Even from her.
Shakespeare was just as distraught when he wrote. An Apollonian air from the Dionysian fire. I knew it well.
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,
Not shall Death brag thou wand'rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st
I talked and talked no one listened and I tried to write, thinking that maybe if I wrote it they would read what they refused to listen to.
We say that the one and the many become identified by thought, and that
now, as in time past, they run about together, in and out of every word
which is uttered, and that this union of them will never cease, and is not
now beginning, but is, as I believe, an everlasting quality of thought it-
self, which never grows old. Any young man, when he first tastes these
subtleties, is delighted, and fancies that he has found a treasure of wis-
dom; in the first enthusiasm of his Joy he leaves no stone, or rather no
thought, unturned, now rolling up the many into the One, and kneading
them together, now unfolding and dividing them; he puzzles himself first
and above all, and then he proceeds to puzzle his neighbors, whether
they are older or younger, or of his own age that makes no difference;
neither father nor mother does he spare; no human being who has ears is
safe from him, hardly even his dog, and a barbarian would have no
chance of escaping him, if an interpreter could only be found.
I was a messenger from the gods to the off-spring of the giants.
Socrates: What we shall see is something like a Battle of Gods and Giants going on between them over their quarrel about reality.
Theatetus: How so?
Socrates: One party is trying to drag everything down to earth out of heaven and the unseen, literally grasping rocks and trees in their hands; for they lay hold upon every stock and stone and strenuously affirm that real existence belongs only to that which can be handled and offers resistance to the touch. They define reality as the same thing as body, and as soon as one of the opposite party asserts that anything without a body is real, they are utterly contemptuous and will not listen to another word.
Theatetus: The people you describe are certainly a formidable crew, I have met quite a number of them before now.
Socrates: Yes, and accordingly their adversaries are very wary in defending their position somewhere in the heights of the unseen, maintaining with all their force that true reality consists in certain intelligible and bodiless Forms. In the clash of argument they shatter and pulverize those bodies which their opponents wield, and what those others allege to be true reality they call, not real being, but a sort of moving process of becoming. On this issue an interminable battle is always going on between the two camps.
Sophist, 246A - C
I know that you are wondering why I am giving you these quotes from authors you already know only too well. And you are a little exasperated by it of so I imagine. I only wanted you to feel how those trapped boys must have felt when I hounded them and tried to round them up into heaven. I didn't want sex; I wanted to give salvation. Maybe I did want sex, but I just didn't think of it. I was too much in love. A strange and deadly transcendent love. I went on and on.
That is my my my my life. Hardly a life at all, it was and is Life itself, almost a criminal thing. And will be. I do not feel sorry for myself. The Form of Being controls it all. It is that that I love. A jealous thing. I roam around inside that Entelechy, that Act, that necessary existent. It is mine. And so those quotes were not about me but about me overcome by Being - That. Do you see how I can prove immortality quite nicely? Do you understand why none of them listened? Being is the criminal act. I was over-sexed. Ein άberknabe. The Cause.
3122 The Act has been forgotten or perhaps so few have believed in it or even known about it that they have become lost in the tsunami wave of modernity and scientism. The Act and they have been swept out into the sea of strange creatures. Entelechies of the deep. Or again, the tornado of passion, that delicious rapture of love, a mad uncivilized thing, has lifted it gently up up and out of sight; but surely that would not have been surprising to those writers of the Act who tried so hard to cover up their inner feelings a cover a pouting chills would recognize. And now they are gone from view. The Act is too much for this staid world, but it is there nonetheless.
Yes, arbitrariness. A lover's complain is always on his lips concerning the arbitrary, unreasonable, cruel ways of the beloved. The philosopher, the lover of Saphes - the clear and shining brow- Him, that tormented philosopher, dialectically trying to win at a game he cannot win, gives in at last to That. To the Arbitrary One. The bane of the idealists and the materialists. But what has that got to do with the Act!?
The Act seems such a scholarly, professorial thing. Bergmann, Husserl, Thomas, Aristotle champions of moderation. It's hardly that; this fine entelechy is a self-sufficient Narcissus enjoying himself in his own reflection. Still waters run deep. The extreme moderation these philosophers attempted is rarely achieved; only the hurt lover is, in his passion, so deadly dispassionate. Only the jealous Proustian lover goes over and over his acts so thoroughly, so obsessively. That is how I imagine it, and you will also in these writing. I claim the Beloved's arbitrariness as an antidote to the brain state theorist's extreme dullness. They and the Hindu Vedantists, the Idealists, have wearied me no end.
The Form of Love is The Form of Love is The Form of Love. The Form of Form, the Beloved, is The Form of Form is The Form of Form. We are here far into the wilderness of the godhead. The Beloved will do with your rolling head as he will. He is watching himself in you.
All of this seems so inhuman. Entelechies, Acts, the Forms, the Gaze that deconstructs, the In-itself lying calmly beside the splayed out body of analysis. It is inhuman. But we are more than human. Who was it that said that we generally have an image of man that is much too anthropomorphic?
3123 Who am I that I might write so off-handedly of the great philosophical ideas that rule our spiritual intellectual life. I sit in this little room in Iowa City and survey those grand things spread out haphazardly on my floor. Some are overdue and they will cost me money that I will have to get again by working at a menial job I wish I didn't have to go to. Or I'm in Kathmandu and I pretend familiarity with the ancient Deities now so besmudged by others like me who wanted to touch that grandeur and instead rubbed it off. Off what? There is no what. Great Ideas and Deities hang on nothing. And still they are the rulers and compass in this world of boys surveying and laying off foot by foot the upheaving of desire that makes us greater than all that.
We and the unworld of the gods are entangled in this world composed of fractured light and teeth that bite behind red lips so desirable.
It is said that some of the angels laughed and played while Jesus was being crucified either because they didn't get it or they were little philosophers, which comes to about the same thing. Society's concern is not my concern, and I feel somewhat uneasy about that. I secretly think it's no one's concern. We are all already out of here in spirit. Or have I misunderstood? Am I alone in going to the chamber of this god? If that fair shoulder to be mine alone? Am I alone in this trembling?
3124 Wittgenstein said that the world is composed of facts, the world is all that is the case. Well, yes and no. Ontologically speaking, that is to say, from inside ontology, facts, those complex things laid out for us in logic, bare particulars exemplifying universals, quantifiers, modal operators and all that, facts really are the great world that is there to be delicately splayed on the table of precise ontological analysis. Ablation and a scholarly oblation. We all tip our hats to his sacrificial cut. Our blood has poured out. Life has escaped into the skies. We wait.
We are not really OK in this epochθ. Suspended between parenthesis. We hang here outstretched with the dead, now apocalyptically resurrected, jesus. Into the far godhead, away from the mere God of the earth and sky, into the Sky, which is nothing at all. Magical kisses and long nights of lovemaking and strange, very non-euclidian, entanglings. Nothing beyond the mere nothing. Desire on the other side of Nirvana. Unease. Love's eternal anxiety. A delicious finger running up your neck.
Ontologically speaking we are we are not a world in the least. Ontology destroyed the worlds. A magical sacrifice. Our nominalists and skeptics have tried to undo what we so painstakingly did. They tried to say it was all just word games and attempts at an intellectual lordly dominance, but No, it was real. We really did analyze the world away. Our knife was clean and it glistened with reality.
The facts of ontology, non-things, hardly existents at all, are not of the world. The nominalists have it right in saying that those things of the Realists are not real. There is only the world of individuals, you and me and real material things all around. Things to be concerned about and to love in their individual existence and to cry for in their passing. Ontological things are nowhere to be seen, but they were dead things anyway. Or they were formal, otherworldly magical things, like jewels in the intellectual night Yes, beautifully brilliant things - but a madman's seduction compared to honest human love. Or so the nominalists would have you believe. It was a real world before our intellectual sacrifice cut it up, before the death of our beloved God, before jesus died and came back glistening with an otherworldliness to give to us. We now prefer this undoing.
3125 It is part of the great Protestant tradition, and not only of that but also of the Catholic, that our experiences piercing to the innermost places of the spirit, of the soul, of the mind, of the selves of the Self, of that greatly layered thing that the "I" is, that I am, that those transcendent feelings are Truth shining forth in propria persona. Well, maybe. For my part, I have spied Truth coming at me from outside. The radiance of beauty on the face of a boy and down along his form, so infuriatingly other than I, that was the pure thing I ran after. Yes, I suppose I did later lie on my bed and think and dream and try to pierce through to that otherness or to ever so gently let it come, cut, pierce, into me. However I did it, it was a thing not me, not my soul or spirit or mind or self of my self. He was that thing, not I. That finely formed form was against me. I reached out to something else.
Thus that diffuse wave of Being, that indeterminate radiance, that infinite and simple oneness, that sweet unity of all things, that superlative emptiness of the mystics, was not mine. I had instead a shapely shape and a precise this. The presence of another thing, not a majestic absence in me, was mine.
But you knew, no doubt, that I would say that and you wonder if I have not, thereby, lost any seriousness and depth to my work. The great poetic tragedy of life has passed by me. I am Abraham to whom Isaac has come back and the night is over and forgotten, of which there is no poetry written nor can there be. This is the Platonism of Presence. I have lost seriousness and depth and I have gained gaiety and the heights.
These are gay, happy nights on the breezy shore and off into the nearby clamor of city life. An old world Mediterranean party such as only a Midwestern boy from high reaching Iowa would imagine. I shot right past the seriousness of Europe and landed among the pretty boys. Or did we escape? The night is a smooth loveliness. My rustic languidness, their urbane lightness. Cross-eyed beauties. Transfixed displacements. Sudden cock-eyed gazes.
Slithering hands wash up from far oceans. Rise and fall, ebb and flow. Purna chandra. From the Iowa-antipode, into this dialectical third, together, my friends, we are the Third Man. Man what a night! Are you here too?!
3126 All of our thoughts written down are subjected to the long history of tropes. So what? All seen beauty is biologically predetermined, and still the boy manages to become the incarnation of Beauty itself. We think, we write it down, magically our thoughts become black letters. This is the mystery and the absurdity of the incoming transcendence. And the exiting immanence. The boy is here and gone.
An unreachable transcendence is nothing at all. An immanence that never transcends is stuck. But their coming together is devastating to the mind. The boy right there is the unreachableness of the unreachable. He is the independent one who hears and will not bend to your requests. He is the infuriating and the incorrigible - as he aligns himself perfectly with the lineaments of your mind. You and he are finally not to be distinguished. But, to be sure, all talk of identity must be abandoned; he insists. The Other and the One and the Same move in unceasing dialectic. A violent dance. An inevitable rape. A perfection for the night. Then a remembering for the day. And a longing. I am that. You are that. We are gods.
As so language has done its thing again. Repeating reapeating permutations. Nothing new is said. But the saying is as though ever new. The turgid excitement excites. The same god of light is eternally present. Again. So what if analysts analyze and the old thing again reveals itself? The ever young eternally returns. Boys taunt; old men complain. And the full moon always rises. Selenotropic sensings.
Just as when long ago nights and gales rose up and Being itself was seen. So even now words are the home of the gods. The eternal manages to hang out in the fleeting. Boys come and go.
It seems to me that all good philosophy and all good literature is repetition of what has gone before, only slightly modified. And so, for all its great advances, is physics. And psychology and mathematics and on and on. We, like children, like to hear the same stories told again and again. Slight variations are allowed, but they must only be the same thing again from a different angle. Brought by a different angel, but with an angelicity from the same city of angels as always. What the hell was that last sentence? Language colludes with chaos. I collide with a migraine.
3127 When something of God lounges languidly only a few feet from you, or, I should say, when it becomes obvious to you that that one only a few feet from you lounging languidly is something directly from God, is, indeed, the very God you want to worship, then you strike back with either belief or, more likely, offense. Rising up, you declare that it is offensive to the modern mind that an eternal Form should be present as one of the battered and weakened things of this everyday existence. Even that such a heavily subjugated thing as the human mind could know such a thing is absurd. The modern mind knows its imperfection and that perfection is of no real concern to it. Surely any vision of eternal perfection is mistaken. Such delusions are treated with harsh enlightenment by the intellectual authorities. Verbal illusions are shone to be only verbal, nothing at all. The one lounging so languidly is asked to leave. Or you believe and you stand in place.
That you did see and that you felt the need to worship is undone. Or it is encouraged. You must muster up the courage to advance toward it. That one lounging so languidly may not know his own power. He may find you ridiculous for believing. Or he may be himself enchanted by the idea for a moment. And there are some special boys who have been enthralled by the beauty that they themselves saw crawling over their own bodies. They have mirrors. They understand your unease. They too are uneasy with themselves. One sees what one sees.
Yes, mere language, by means of its combinatorial powers and its repeating rhythms, does cause such visions to arise in the mind, but it too is taken and taken over by that extra-language thing. Just as the forms of fleshly beings reveal divine light so do sweet voices pronouncing airy words give us the far music of heavenly places. It is a lovely absurdity when eternal things and fleeting imperfection collide. The heart languishes. The groan knowingly wants to lunge at it.
3128 In a strange introduction to a collection of Urdu religious/love poems (those acquainted with such things will understand) the beloved, which in centuries past was always masculine, a boy, was compared to La Bell Dame sans Merci, of Keats. The wild goddess of the woods, the haunting goddess of the silver moon, the bloody goddess of the hunt, the cause of man's wasted loitering was the boy. How can that be? I suppose it is possible to wrap one's mind around that idea, but what horror! Jesus was even that. He destroyed everything. It was appropriate to us the language of the army.
3129 Those sure, thick King James rhythms have given us a substantial religion beyond mere concepts. And I am relying on the same underpinning to pin down my reader to these fleeting words. Style. Everything is the razzle dazzle of the mirror. My not very perspicuous words are lucid as far as themselves. And then they drop off into mystical nervousness. At best high agitation. Agni licking through my fingers. I write a slick thick deposit for your eyes to stick on. Hot soma. That boy of the wild woods has been cooked. And become civilized.
3130 Just as physics is not a space-time geometry, but the colloquia around it, so that speaking is certainly not a human thing. It is a disembodied thing of gods, and a man is that voice seen floating in a body in space. Then as the space takes over the divinity disappears. Therefore, physics must again become a liturgy lifting us out of space and time. Did you follow that?
Some of us think of "dead" bulk moving about in empty, but well-formed! space, and we call that reality. The strewn pieces. Some of us think of all that within a great speaking of it, call it the Logos. Now, if that logos is merely human speaking, the speaking of a material body, a bulk moving in empty, but well-formed! space, then we are back at the beginning of this paragraph. If, however, that speaking is not human, but something immaterial, and it only visits the human being, then it is not dead and it is an attack on all that. Again, did you follow that?
There are two ways: (1) an outward going extensive passive thing in a kind of slow downwardly entropic explosion and (2) an inward going intensive active thing in a kind of agitated gathering up of heat. A gentle but persistent taking over vs. a violent attack that brings everything to an impossible singularity. How about that, did you follow that?
Is Being a lukewarm material soup or a blanking out of orgasmic compression. Matter without words or words without matter? Where is that that is both?
3131 I have always hesitated to give my writings to academic professors. They seem so overworked and ready to explode. They have no time for the passion of thought, however well written it might be. They are generally good folk, but between the demands of their errant kids and their aberrant students they look askance at anything that isn't absolutely necessary. Their frumpy stoicism trying for the good discharge of nettling duties in a career perhaps badly chosen and the general decline. No, they really do want to help the young of their mother country and they are proud of their school. I hesitate to make their life more difficult with my (he rolls his eyes) otherworldly loves. The cares of the world are great and I am a prick in the side to be avoided. Would you say that I have had compassion on them by staying away? Or have I been a prick by demeaning them as slaves to the system?
The passion of intellectual love is as strong or stronger than that of physical love. Along with Kierkegaard, I have looked for the Absolute Paradox. I have looked for God. For the god of my dreams. For resolution in the eternally unresolved. I have and haven't found it. And on and on back-turning. I will leave it to you, whoever you are who is actually reading me, to finish out the rest of the infinite list of these sublime Oxymorons.
I have thought of giving my writings to others of this lumpen proletariat non-class to which I belong. We have long fallen from the leisured aristocratic skies. Yes, they would understand me, but they would only smile and move on.
Or I could give it to those boys all around me who are the obvious incarnation of heavenly Beauty. They too would understand and they too would move on - grinning.
Or I could give it to poets, and again they too would understand, but they would rise up and try to kill me because I have offended their moonlight goddess of wild places. I have not gently wept with them because of the tragic approach of death. I have not seen the wintry emptiness and cried out ineffectually for the return of the spring.
Or I could give it to some drag queens and hear them cry out, "Oh Honey, it's too long!"
3132 Westerners are better at dissimulation than Easterners because Westerners know how to disguise their lies as truth-telling. Their transparency is near total darkness. We have studied the dialectic and the dialectic of dialectic and, though we sometimes get our feet entangled in it and stumble, we move ahead. Easterners, thinking they are the true masters of Maya, get caught. Overseas, I learned that as long as you keep your mouth shut and pretend otherwise you can safely do almost anything. Don't ask; don't tell. My problem was and is that I love the rebellious act of putting it all right out there in view. I have loved the feel of truth. Like a boy with a frog, I really like to put its secret beating heart on the table for all to look at. It's mesmerizing. And my hand moves gently around his waist. I ablate the text and sublate the dialectic.
3133 In most philosophy books, seemingly so abstract, we are invited to image other writers engaged in speaking to the idea, to image their books lying there read, to see all those things rather confusedly orbiting around each other, perhaps in the Great Philosophy Building (GPB) so visual. The one voice coming at you, the reader, is absent. Have I avoided that? Am I a voice to and for you? Are my words about the form of the boy, his going around, my hand in a still caress, abstract enough to leave only a de-spatialized de-temporalized thing? In passing, I mention the abstract form and leave you hanging in ideal non-spatial space, nowhere at all. Words never stop and they never pass by any of the points laid out in real space. Then to counter all that, because my human eyes want to see something even if it is only an eidolon, I go photoshopping.
3134 " and the earth was without form and void and the Spirit of the Lord hovered over the deep." Once in Kathmandu, I saw that spirit hovering as I spoke to a young man from England. A somewhat pretty, still boyish, party-loving, spirited, summertime escapee from Cambridge. He was all over the place. He studied physics, he said. I asked him what really existed. He told me that under his feet, under all this wild happy phenomena, seeping up everywhere, there was seething chaos. His goal was to have a good time before he fell back in. He hovered, for the time being, joyfully. I feared that the seeping would eventually get into his brain and the hovering would get caught. Ecstasy does not always come from ecstasy.
It has also and always been one of the great visions of philosophy to see the eternal workings of a mighty Will just below the swirling phenomena so vexing us. I suppose that both of these somewhat opposite, basically the same, views can be contemplated in the pleasure of contemplation. The spirit eventually disentangles itself and goes home.
Chaos and the Will. The blind Will. Other names for Love? Today we know that even logic itself is replete with paradox and that philosophers, trying to make sense of it, run about stumbling over each other's feet. Professional ontologists have long since given up on reaching consensus and listening to visiting lecturers is a morose undertaking. So I think about that boy, momentarily beaming, from Cambridge, in Kathmandu, on top of the world.
I think here is where Nietzsche would come on the exuberant champion of creativity. Or whatever. It's a rather tattered, boring idea by now. As is Will and as, though the mathematicians have tried to keep it alive, is Chaos. Contemplation is ever young and fresh, but what is he contemplating and where?
3135 Along with the poets I know how to say I. And with the philosophers I attend assiduously to the impersonal logical form of being. With Augustine that Form of Form fills my mind. That immortal thing has taken over. I am that. As lover is his beloved. Thus, I am not with the poets when they speak the words of death. I do not suffer the shattering.
Am I the same I as the poets? Have I been as destructive to the I that I am as have the philosophers? How can I loom so large before the Lord of Thought and Being. The poets and the philosophers have both learned to let go of their I, but I have not. I and the eternal things cling together. But am I that very I that so clings to those eternal things now questionably mine? The logic can go either way.
The self meets the soul of the poet, which meets the spirit of fine abstract thought, where reside the Self, the Soul, and fiery Spirit breaking out into the open sky of Being coming down on me. The long country white road rises up ethereally. I am all that. Or He is and He is my very I, the I of my I. The gleaming eye of the one I have eyed for so long.
3136 I write in opposition to a philosophy/poetry that I have at times loved to read. And it was written in opposition to what it considered to be the intellectual root of great destructive forces that had taken over the human soul. Platonism and the church had robbed man of life. High-flying faggot abstractionists had tried to deny man a great life-giving sensuality. So the down-to-earth anti-conceptualists spent much of the twentieth century trying to get real. They at times wrote beautifully. They affirmed mortality, the freedom that an acceptance of death brings, the pathos of real destruction. They gave woman her rightful place as the salvation of man. She possessed life and love and depth. Boy-loving priests were shoved aside for the real world. Grand stuff. Unfortunately, like all anti-intellectual writing, it easily becomes over intellectualized and its freedom and real death waft away on the breezes of overly delicate language. Death, after all, cannot be written about directly and in a rough and bold manner. It is gentle. It is less than moonlight. It is the gossamer of the absence of absence. A diaphanous dialectics. A quiet shudder of gothic fright. Purely a literary thing. Lengthy, empty pages. So I have gone back to the lucid, compact, ruby-red rhetoric of Platonic love. To the blood-letting of the Christian sacrifice. To the high lust of the high church. To the intellectual attack. And the erect phallus.
Which is one way of looking at it. These are matters of the soul, however, and nothing is as straightforward, therefore. Those early sensualists, Nietzsche and Pater and the lustful Whitman, were faggots faggots faggots. The church had long abandoned its grand artistic homo-flair and had become bourgeois family-meek; it needed to be kicked. And that so-literary Death was just Platonic philosophy still trying to learn the art of dying and heading out for those boy infested Isles of the Blest. Any ethereal fag hag trying to catch a ride would be dropped off somewhere along the way. The soul can only take so much as it shoots for the Spirit. Everyone felt they should learn to be sensible about life here and forget that old dark mysticism. Not me.
Let's think back to the beginning. The desert sun was hot. The nights were cold. In the cool evening recesses of scorpion cliffs relief waited. The curly headed boy with his cowl thrown back played with fire. And and that's all there is to it. Whole religions were set up on his smooth slender chest. A dusky, musky beauty. Man learned jealousy and revenge, murder and ecstasy. He learned the pure necessary movements of empty abstractions. The sky was broad and gleaming and filled with a cold fire.
From there in a mere four thousand years we have advanced to this sordid civilization. Twisting and turning inside this cramped intellectual space that we have left we cam and crank into the final blast. Great libraries so heavy they collapse. No matter, everything we have ever thought can be put on a chip no bigger than your thumbnail. You could put it on your thumb and someone could suck it out. Then you and he could take off across the sky looking for a hitchhike pickups to join in the search for that first curly headed boy - Adonai.
3137 The material body, in its out-thereness, has a comfortable and respectable distance between it and the mind and a sort of chaste veil shields it from our direct, sullying glance. Abstract ideas, however, have no such veil; their nakedness is shining in the mind and it is our agitation in their presence.
3138 The goal of the dialectic is to reach the existing thing. Just as the goal of love's manipulations is to reach and touch that existing thing that is the body of the beloved. Under the rhythmical movements of the lover's hand, in the dialectical drone of ablation, and the numbness of philosophical nodding, the thing just lies there still. The numenon is to be had.
I manage to get the boy in my room. I lead him into nodding thought. He lies down and I begin to caress him. Strangely he becomes as a dead thing. Love's body. He is just a thing there. Then the object of sexual feelings in me. And the fright is all around. Existence out there as an "it" is an unbearable excitement. It cannot last long. The boy will soon get up, look at me, and leave. But he will come back. Existence is dreadfully alluring. Philosophy is of the other world. The existing world right there.
Existentialists were young students who spent all their time in thought and who wanted the thrill of being love's body. But they saw it as death. They flirted with death. They talked quietly and secretly with Meister Eckhart and Dionysus the Areopagite and San Juan de la Cruz. They conversed with forbidden religious souls. They worked and worked the dialectic trying to get out of their own heads and out of their pants lying still under the hand of a real man. Most of them only found a woman who was trying to do the same thing, and they failed. The less than nothing, the neutered place out there, neither he nor she. That mere thing that they wanted to be, away from mind, eluded them.
3139 Because I have known the exigencies of love and the pinch of Being, the destruction lying round about me is greater. The dance is more violent. And the breeze blowing down onto this high cliff is the most uncontrollably gentle. My shivers are a greatly refined delicacy. Your tooth marks on my shoulder glisten with the digestive perfection of saliva. I have long since begun to come undone.
That is not the worst of it. I live among an intellectual class that doesn't get it. They play with destruction, but they really lie peacefully on constant time and the ever-present breast of matter. They really do believe in the annihilation that awaits them. They are happy in that. I believe in none of it. I walk the sinking streets of foreign cities. High unraveling logic blows about in the now rising wind. I talk to languorous waiters in empty restaurants about the decomposing of the most basic ontological elements. Philosophy breaks on their faces. The boy comes hard.
Time is not the substance of the world. The actuality of fact is itself a long separated out Mood. Being, the transcendent container of all the existing things, fidgets. Ontological collapse cannot be adequately described for the newspapers and it has gone largely unreported. Matter, that long ago discredited thing, is back among the lovers of women. And Mind, so loved by those who love illusion as the stage on which the great show is taking place, has burnt down. Finally the book, the anchor off the prow of collegiate power, has sunk. The center will not hold for anything. And I know most certainly that it will not for my lovely paragraphs. Still, everything is as it should be. Such is love and love's lovers understand.
3150 I imagine a pure philosophical scene. It is for seeing eyes and the receiving touch of breezes on bare skin, only still halcyon movement. And it is gently filled with twistings in the chest that are what love has become. It is almost always a classical scene. Greek and romantic. Pastoral, but with colonnades. The geometry of a young man's body perfectly forms itself in the soft sunlight and among the entwining vines. I have surely seen something similar in the backgrounds of renaissance paintings. Breathtakingly campy. The aristocracy of small town Iowa. I am what I am.
Things distinguish themselves from one another perfectly. All the Forms of Being. And the Nexus of their unitings. Number grows irrationally. Actuality and possibility move in and out of each other. Complete worlds linger for a breathless moment and then leave. Kisses and bare shoulders rush into place close to each other. And vanish. They hang in eternity. Imperturbably. I watch. Boys walk together through the colonnades.
We are the aristocracy of this democratic America. Smooth thighs move together under the deep green branches far away within the isolated groves. These lounging useless boys have eyes only for each other. And their touch onto touch causes unseen waves of ecstasy. The voyeurs sigh.
Dusty roads and a blue sky that is too brilliant. Boys from the wide expanses of the high cirrus. Red bandanas and the blood of jesus float in the air. Cherubim and seraphim nestle low in the corn. White legs and arching slide into pure abstraction and the differing minds mingle. Paperback recountings become brittle and blow away in the wind of what once was and still is somewhere. Heavy romanticism. Scouting for boys I used to love to go camping. Ancient philosophy.
3151 Being is a messy thing. Writing it down is the lovely chaos of opening night. To be is to be seen. I watch myself. I am. From out of the glorious darkness lying wet and still on this stage, I get an idea to describe the ontological relation between mathematics and my dreary feelings on a rainy day and I end up describing a boy lost in a train station. I make do. Words and their attendant ideas float by and I grab and hold until a bouquet is formed for a waiting vase I found while searching for a brick to hold up my bed. I never found one, but one sometimes falls out of bed when things get too rambunctious and it is then better to be sleeping on the floor anyway. And since this is theater and everyone is watching, and the brilliance is all about, I must get it up and get it on - I will do my part the best I can. It's a messy thing. That is the loveliness of Being.
3152 The lover and the connoisseur and the man who gets things done. Because the lover finds his pleasure bathing in the warm sun's rays of the pure Form, he is eventually transformed into a juicy cooked morsel for the gods. I suppose that may make the gods look a little more kindly upon us and so the lover does have some value. The connoisseur, however, is a bitter and tough thing. His distant sun emits only cold rays. He is unsatisfied and unsatisfying. Socrates was a connoisseur for whom even Alcibiades, the most wanted boy of Athens, wasn't good enough. Socrates had the perfection of pure knowledge, which even he knew was a total unknowing. The grand academic whom our own academics follow ineluctably. I have always loved Socrates, because I am that. And now the practical man who actually gets things done. Unconcerned with the pure Form of the Polis or Eros or Epistemei, ignorant of the imperfections in his understanding or simply not caring about them, he manages and manages quite well, well satisfied with the mediocre. Without him we are all lost.
3153 On the tree of life, there sit two birds; one is looking out on the world, the other watches him. That is the human mind; one is aware of all the things of Being, the other is aware of his watching. The argument is about whether or not those two are one. I write and I attentively lay out the subject matter; and I also, however anxiously, attend to the form of my laying out. Content and style. And the argument rages about whether or not those are two or one.
A lover at times watches the form of his loving. He wonders if the words and gestures and indications he gives to his beloved are adequate to his love and he inspects himself. It becomes a ragged thing. Right then love is lost. So it is with a leader of the Polis; if he theorizes about politics and becomes consciously self-conscious of all the whys and wherefores his own ability to lead and he tries to explain himself, his actions are led into intraction in the mire of thought. Another more brash and thoughtless leader takes his place. A lover and a leader with knowledge are kicked out of the garden of life. The half aware, half knowing flourish for a time. I write.
When I write I nod off into words and my putting them down. It is an act full of guilt at my not attending to their correct form. I should be a better writer and pay attention to the instructions given to me in so many writing manuals. I know that college freshmen could pick apart everything I dare to express. They are not impressed. Still, I know very well that if I did attend well to what I wrote I would write nothing at all. I spent many years overcoming that debilitation.
3154 This world is a vicious place where we do vicious things to each other. A report of the sad consequences of our sins is written on the faces of the poor. An intelligent person can hardly bare to look and read. And so some of us, in order to be as gentle as we can with others, retire into a solitude of simple self-sufficiency. Then there are those who lavishly wallow in the excesses of the world. Let us compare the two types.
We will for a moment leave the gentle woman to her country garden and quiet contemplation of artistic things. And we will peek in on the life of the opulent. Here is a man who at work and home spends great amounts of money on food and spectacular entertainment for the pleasure of his friends and clients. Money flows like good wine. His kids are well-dressed and well-driven. Now let's follow just where his money has gone. We will look inside those establishments where his wishes are tended to. There we see hundreds of "servants" working from morning to night, day after day. And those servants are as they always have been they are the poor. Yes, they are poor because their pay is so low and they don't have time to educate either themselves or their kids because they are working so long. We really do vicious things to the poor. The country gentle lady is aghast. And she is thankful she has done little to make things worse.
Let's ask the poor what they think of that gentle and moral lady. No doubt they will look in astonishment at her. They, after all, have not had the good education she has had. And they will somewhat resent the fact that she has done nothing to help them and their families. She has employed no one and they so desperately need work. She is a pure and nonsensical creature to them. Her morality is so fine as to be otherworldly. And she appears a cold thing to them. In truth, she is that. The morally pure are a worthless excrescence of a wealthy nation it seems. I am that.
As a people we are gaining more and more knowledge of who and what we are. It is a frightening thing that we see. Soon we will retire from being ourselves out of shame. And the world will end.
3155 A sense of self and a sense of cleanliness are one. It is the mother's job to create both at the age and time of toilet training. The child must learn to wipe the filthiness from him. He will then learn to be his own being. Cleanliness and a strong sense of self are the highest values of civilized man. The mother has a tremendous duty placed on her as also the protector of that. Thus she must fight in her quiet, steady way all those great opposing forces that would undo her work and they are great and mighty forces indeed. Let us see what those forces are.
What is it in our world that destroys a sense of self? Is there something unclean about it? It is certainly true that there are big institutions in this world in which and in the face of which it is very difficult to maintain one's balance. That vertigo of the self is both threatening and alluring to many a young man. It is always erotic to feel one's center gently dissolving. And it is certainly true that, while the external face of these great institutions has the cleanest lines and the stated code of conduct by those within is of the highest standards, it is quickly seen by those working within that uncleanliness rules. The worker must slap-dash work his way through vast piles backlog. There is no time for slow, thoughtful, conscientious, and neat labor. Time is money. Labor costs are high. A great amount must be done by few or the competition will win. In the little time off the worker is encouraged to get drunk, get stoned, watch tvand not think much about his not really having a life. The self is gone and the young men somehow find that thrilling. There is something erotic about filthiness and the loss of self. How can a mother win out against that? Her son has for a time escaped her demands.
So the mother encourages her son the buck up and fight like a man. The son will, she demands, set up a force opposing the force opposing her. He will organize a pure and clean party of many that will fight for her and the other mothers. And so the son sets about to protect her, and himself, from the great Ogre. Two things can happen now. Either he becomes a ridiculous Don Quixote chivalrously fighting for the fair maiden. Or he succeeds and he really does set up a great competing institution and the troubles start again for other mothers. It's a fight for cleanliness and self. But the sexual lure of filthiness and dissolution of self are strong. What's a mother to do? Her own husband is a lazy no-good, a drunken impotent nothing. Wasn't the son supposed to protector from that also? He, I suppose, is just the shadowy image of the great institutions. My own Mother always told me that it is not a sin to be poor, but it is a sin to be dirty.
I must also mention the great institutions of the Church, Academia, The United Nations, Political Parties, the Entertainment Industry, Art and Music, Publishing, the News Media etc etc etc . and, it turns out, the very act of writing that I am here engaged in. The self gloriously deliquesces into the iridescent swamp.
3156 These writings are, I suppose, logocentric. Though the certain meaning of that word is not here present with me now. They are, it seems to me, filled with my voice and my mind and your inner voice and your thinking mind. And I do have a somewhat stabilized hesitancy in thinking that that may be the meaning. Of that horrid word. So abused by those who do not love it. And the opacity of these writings is also that.
They are filled. Not this, not that, maybe this or again maybe that. The rhythm that would be meter stops and starts with fits and starts and tarts dot the page with ghostly matter, what's the matter? slippage. You know damn well what I mean. He's sitting right there in that chair, though he should have gone home hours ago.
I have a very present nexus. And yours is quite nice, too. There's very little else of substance here. A few old, overused words sadly relenting before the expected rambunctious arrival of the Logos, the bright-eyed boy of your twisted dreams. Well-centered. But you, again, slip right off that bed. Oooops. Schoolboy secrets. Get ready!
Because this is prose and not poetry, you may stop and start, pause and run on, over and under, your voice sweetly rising and falling, wherever you please. But because this is almost-poetry you must not lie there like a bored, never-to-be lover. You must do the work of positioning yourself in interesting lines of coming together and languid, liquid caesura - release. And please both you and me, with measured timelessness.
The articulation is everything. Logical quantifiers. Sentential connectors. Temporal involuting. Spatial exvoluting. Pure form. The well-formed. Giving way. His clothes pile up in your room. The textured text, Tex. Syntax. Oh my reader, don't leave me; I afraid I will fall in love with your absence. Put your ictus wherever you like. These heady abstractions make me forget which is yours and which is mine. The one eternal form has taken us in.
3157 The smooth and graceful form of happy Apollonian beauty in the arms of dithyramb and Dionysian destruction attracts me. I am the destruction. He is the lord I become. A horrible changing of place. A gleeful accomplishment. Within the dialectic of reason's core of unreason.
It was a necessary mistake that Nietzsche made. That separation of Socrates and the essence of tragedy, that ever happy optimism of pure thought and the spirit's passion. Philosophy is a mistake. A misstep and a falling. In love. Into jealousy's incessant analysis. Maya. "Thought without paradox, is like love without passion." Love without passion is thought without paradox. Nietzsche was too cool for his own good. In the end he feared the Dionysian and much as we all do. But he succumbs. And I carefully walk around my own delight. And I think thoughts to myself.
The ordinary everyday threatens. God becomes that. The boy/god is just that. I am that. We have fallen far. To accept that and to find a way to live with that is philosophy now. The emptying and the humiliation of God. And me. The One is now scattered. On the restaurant floor where the nightboy sweeps. Tired streetlights and a long way home. A wild incarnation. Now entombed in that. I am thrall to his love. I help him mop and turn out the lights.
3158 I am a very gentle writer. My words flow smoothly and they are pellucidly lucid. The delicate touch is evident. I smile at the thought of love. I dance gleefully in the presence of beauty. The boy gently excites me into words. I have no objection to any of it. Still, for all that, this is a Dionysian tearing apart. This is a horrible crucifixion. I gorge myself on divine flesh and blood. The Word and the words have mangled me. And I doubt anyone will understand this as anything but rhetorical hyperbole. As manic gloom of thought. But why should I care? I'm lost even to myself. The words have written themselves. I am forced to admit.
Nietzsche, it is now apparent, badly separated Apollonian/Dionysian intuition from Christian/Socratic analysis. They smash together gloriously ingloriously. Lovely rhythms in chaos. He was too amazed at the fact that the fact that this world is perfect is not of this world. This man of Light and Van Gogh's Starry Night longed too much to be understood. But who am I to talk.
Love lifts me up and throws me down. It gives me Plenty, but it fades to illusion on the impoverished desert of unexquisite pain. I know; I know nothing. And in the end Apollo kisses Dionysus sweetly, but maybe too sweetly. And the boy jesus watches like a voyeur. Self-abuse abounds. Molestation immolation, crass castration, in an old gas station, on a far away and lonely road, to the Nowhere of ecstasy. Enchanting stuff.
3159 True philosophical speaking and writing, like all words of seduction, begin casually, more than conversationally. Disarmingly light. Too light. Mezmerizingly nothing at all. Or nothing much. An invitation to play. To the play of thought.
This is territory into which the academic writer will not venture, is forbidden to adventurously peek. Loss of control is so very controlled. But it's such a slight thing. And the dithyramb of the heaving spirit is soon gone.
Seduction, though so excruciatingly seductive, is destruction. I too am wary. I walk the narrowest paths. In the in-between I leave the beloved hanging, wondering if anything has or will take place in that almost no-place. He is then being taken. The rapture is less than the soft down of cheek. The twilight captured cheek. The velvety rose. The beloved of my nights and gales. The storm flags are up! I deliquesce and his odor wafts to a far wakefulness.
3160 The dialectic of ontological analysis has, of course, that is to say, as it runs its course, a form. A right handsome form. Timed and rimed, brimming over, shot through, with back-turning whisperings. Rhythm. Or else there is no understanding to be had of it. It moves in and out of itself. Smoothly deliberately surprisingly. He is with Himself. Neither you nor I have a say in the matter. Just That.
Stretched out beside this god in lateral alliteration and assonance, Oh nanciboy, and your voracious assimilation like military maneuvers moving in, I come to know a thing or two, and enough! Dialectic is only somewhat so contrived. But the attack and the erotics are there. When there comes to be a there there. A perfect fit. With wit. To throw.
Dialectics is maddeningly tight. And, like paradox, may vanish.
3161 I write with style because Being displays itself with exquisite style to us and we must be that. I answer style with style. I climb over the stile of logic to seek Him out. And in that far secret grove, at last, he does not allow the hesitation and dallying of ordinary conversation. No sloven inattention. Tuck in your shirt, smooth down your crease, grease back your hair in the brilliance of the moonlight. Tight envelopings. Close fitting revelations. Until the string is drawn and it all drops off into oblivion. There will be no other answering.
To write with such an exaggerated stylus as I is to preclude the longed for response. The corral is bolted shut, close in, the words are stymied, until Indra strikes with his vajra and the place of There is there. I wait for the other to speak with the agitated stylus eye. ++++++
3162 This is rhythmical prose. Excessively so. I was forced into it by love. It is a laying out of the form of Being. And I am laid out alongside it. It is an exasperating thing. I am pushed down and pushed down. And drawn out. The words come when they will. As they will. Even against my will.
This is the romance of Platonism. The rose through the prism of analysis. The cut of contemplative dying and rising. Up. He's up and dancing. And we are his theoretical watchers. Slain through.
The one thing, ever the one thing. Again and again and again the one thing. The many swirl and swirl and swirl into the one thing. I turn. Over. And catch myself. Up. The instant. Before I fall out of bed.
The end comes right at the end. And in time the cadence falls away, full stop.
I turn and catch myself the instant before it's too late and I fall in love again, gently, in place. And the anti-romanticists puke. Read on! I am undoing the undoing.
3163 I mentioned to a casual acquaintance of mine that I wasn't into food, and she said that she was surprised that such a sensualist as I would say that. And I was surprised that she called me a sensualist. I quickly realized I shouldn't have been. I had recently given her writings that strongly indicated that I was. I thought my words had been misinterpreted. Nevertheless, I queried myself to find out. Am I a sensualist?
I strongly dislike being called a sensualist, but for all that I do like, I am in love with, the fiery sensa of love's body. And I really do like food. It is something else I so vehemently react against. I have worked much of my life around food preparation and food connoisseurs. People who are into food. It was easy money. I always disliked it. And I never thought the food was very good. Why they raved on and on about every little thing concerning it was a mystery to me. I hated the talk. I think that it was that talk talk talk that got me.
To be intimate with the pleasure of sensa is one thing. To talk about it afterwards is another. And there is one more aspect of the whole situation that unnerves me. The endless preparation and cleaning up. If I am in a kitchen, whether of a great restaurant or a simple home, and I am immersed in the busyness and the chatter and the excitement of getting it all ready, not only the food but the lay out and the clothes to be worn and a thousand other considerations to consider then I long so very longingly to escape. I hate the scene. But if I do shunt that all aside and concentrate on the final taste of the prepared, I do like it, sometimes immensely. Forget the connoisseur talk, forget the chatter and the busy excitement of preparation, forget the conviviality and the loving togetherness, go to the one isolated sensum itself then, in the presence of that, I am a sensualist. Later I do not want to talk about how great it was - and just how was that prepared anyway? And wasn't that a lovely plate it was served on and what wine do you think would go well with it and what was that subtle, slightly fruity taste and what temperature was the sauce cooked at and would you hand me that paring knife and on and on and on . I want the one simple taste, nothing more. I don't want to BE a chatty sensual-IST.
Why is it that the ambience of the food act is so attractive to many? Addis says that music is appealing because it seems to fill the space and thus seems to escape space into pure time. So it is with the general hub-bud of dinner. The busyness is everywhere and nowhere. The confines of the particular is overcome. A great complexity has taken over. Talk talk talk, timeless placeless talk. The very Abstract is in the kitchen. Getting dinner ready has become a Metaphysical thing. The mind wafts away on the savory air of food-talk - and how are the kids doing? Everything is in a perfect state of magnificent Becoming. It is always so disappointing to me that the final prepared thing is so very minimal. And the exaggeration of it in peoples' words later is so false.
Which brings me to the act of writing. And its twin, reading. And philosophical dialogue. All of that so easily degenerates into endless chatter. The casual conversational style is so common today in our universities. In academic writing. In college town cafθs. A great decadence seeps into our days. Into our heads at night.
I have consciously and assiduously tried to rid my writings of the conversational style. And yet here I am conversing with you, dear reader, so gently. As I often have. I think, though, that that is a misunderstanding of what is happening here. Some conversation is false, or rather it is too disarmingly, and paradoxically threateningly, conversational; it is an attempt to bring on the numbness that begins the act of seduction. Is that the secret meaning of the mind-numbing act of dinner?
3164 The human being at its core is a beautifully strange and cruel thing. The modern act of trying to make it gentle and pleasingly considerate of itself will fail. Transcendent nonhuman, inhuman, beings threaten and make us be what we are. And the modern mind wants to crush any talk of such things. I have become ridiculous in my even mentioning such matters. Man wants to be alone to nurse his pain.
3165 Parties are made for talk. Human beings talk talk talk. They are thus the most destructive of the very destructive. Love and music and even food are talk, just talk. Philosophy, the lovely god of the philo-logos, is made to lie down in talk, in our taking about him. Philosophy is gossip. He is finally ignored altogether. And he leaves, but no one notices. Politics is talk. Physics is talk. War is talk. Birth and death are talk. Art is talk. Commerce is the talk talk talk of advertising. We are drowning in this ocean of talk. Life is a party. Our cruise ship is sinking.
3166 I came to Iowa City to study philosophy, but I found not the silent walking of lovers contemplating Being, as I had known along the Volga in Fayette county, but bar-talk. I found party time conversation. I never found any philosophy about. So I took to walking along again in the nearby woods and I left school. That casual sleepy conversational mood has continued to seep into the books and dissertations and lectures that would be philosophy. The excitement is not there, except for bar-time conviviality. Still, didn't wine flow freely, even excessively, in Athens? Didn't Nietzsche, maybe rightly, accuse Socrates of leading the others into a light-minded, destructive rationalism? Weren't the cafθs of Paris just the brooding place of so much I enjoy reading? How is conversation the death of philosophy? Why did I run from it? Why do I throw a spanner into its workings even now?
Conversation is the final resting place of nominalism. The flesh, its eating and loving and working at meaningless jobs, is finally a thing to be discussed in pleasant get-togethers. Life comes to no more than that for most. For those without the transcendent vision. A vision to be discussed and thus dismissed so easily as an old thing to smile at. The conversationalists are beyond all that now. They are beyond everything. Pure spirits flitting about the bar. Binge beings.
But who am I to talk? I write it all down. And I'm up one more time. I flit among drunken angels. Word whispers. What did he just say? Is love at hand? Talk to me. Is this the Reality of which Iowa City bars were the dim shadow? Was the conviviality merely not vivid enough for me? Was it the presence of women that brought me down and made me run? Were they there because the conversation was lacking in the rhythm of language, a lover with whom the boys could dance alone?
3167 Who is this boy Jesus that has permitted himself to be in my words for you to read? Reading Harold Bloom, I have been made to wonder if he the Gnostic Anthropos. Neither male nor female, pure uncreated light. An attractive thought. A pretty conceit. Why not? He is that one alone with whom I am alone. So American, I gather, of a sorts. And in whom creation and the fall are undone. Everything is prior of birth, in the unborn. Very Gnostic. And, I cannot deny it, elitist and excessively intellectual. I read.
I watch. And I wait. And I pass by.
But, of course, I am not that; I read and I write and I try to make you see what I see.
And you know very well that I am not that either. Or rather, I am, but I am only biding my time until I'm out of here and I will have become what he made of me. I have had little part in what I am. I endure having to be a part of God. I am finally blinding light.
3168 It is said by most leaders of the great religions that certain acts have no proper place here, that they are not part of the divine ordering for this place, even that they are forbidden by God in this earthly world. As for homosexuality of any kind, they may be right. I think no one would doubt that it has a very difficult time of it here. And many would agree that it is disruptive to the great social order. But is it necessarily so? Let's assume for a moment that it is, as I, in fact, think it may be.
Other worlds exist. Different orderings prevail elsewhere. Could it be that the disturbing presence here of this strange love is a prefiguring of another place? Why not? What is forbidden here is perhaps de rigueur there. Philosophically and historically, homosexual love has been otherworldly. It does seem to me that many things today indicate a coming in of another way. The breach between worlds may be about to close.
In other words, morality is localized. There are many Muslim writers who have divined from the Koran that in Paradise wine and boys are permitted, though not here. This earth may not have long to last and we will find ourselves somewhere else. The shadows and outlines of that place are even now forming. And this place will burn up.
There is no logic in this speculation that necessitates such a reversal. In fact, it seems to me that there are worlds of worlds each with its own manner of being and .
3169 When one group forces its will on another that is called imperialism. That group, through some kind of force, an army or otherwise, demands that its ways becomes the ways of all the others. Thus there is a leveling and a standardization, which, in turn, is the essence of technology.
It is said that the difference between a language and a dialect is that a language is a dialect supported by an army. The value of having one dominant language is that communication between different ethnic groups then becomes possible and the advantages of commerce can be had. We, of course, need to understand the word "language" in the broad sense of the word. A language is any system of signs with a semantics and a syntax. Thus clothes are a language. Each article of wear has a meaning and is coordinated with other articles in a syntactical arrangement. A tie and T-shirt don't syntactically and semantically match in the common prose of clothes. In fact if they are put together, they "make a poetic statement". Still, tie and T-shirt do belong to the standard, dominant language of clothes. Ethnic clothing doesn't. It is the same with world standards in music; some forms have become dominate. Rock music, rap, European classical and certain other western forms are now world forms. Ethnic folk music is not. Today the great battles for dominance are raging in computer programming and the setting of protocols. In fact in all fields of technology, from banking to baking, from headgear to footwear, one group or another is trying to be dominant, to set the international standard, to make others speak their language.
The advantages of this standardization and leveling are obvious, as are the disadvantages. In fact, some righteously say that they are more than disadvantages - they are great evils. When ethnic diversity is destroyed for the sake of the material gain that technology brings, then we all become spiritually poorer, they say. And there is no doubt in anybody's mind that technological standardization destroys local cultural forms, all of which were built on an unlevel, caste, class, hierarchical model. Especially the family, with its distinction between dominant male and submissive female, is under attack. The family may be the last hold out in the face of the standardized leveling forces of technology. The question is Who should win? Should those old, pre-technological forms be destroyed? Or could we, maybe, have a two-level world a technological "upper" dominant level and a "lower" traditional, ethnic level? Do we, in fact, need a common standardized interface between component parts? Do we really need to program the world in an Object Oriented fashion so that parts are transportable and interchangeable? Do we really need to take the Fast Food Nation as our model? Do we need one protocol so the entire world can communicate with itself down to its minutest parts? Is there no escape from the Unified System? Who will win the right of design?
World bodies which set protocol in all the world's languages, from music and clothes to electronics and sex toys, are the ministries of empire today. Fortunately for me, I speak English, the greatest instrument of empire ever. I can go the world over and teach the locals to use this impressive mechanism of imperial dominance and get good cash for doing so. Unfortunately I know little of the other great technological "languages" of banking and electronics and fashion and food. And I most certainly don't know the international language of sport and fitness. My goodness, even desert boys know more about the international semantics and syntax of hairstyles, sunglasses and motorcycles than I. Though I come from the dominant culture that set the standard, I seem not to have paid attention. In most aspects of life, I can't speak the language. I am protocol challenged.
America is still the most standardized, leveled out place on the planet; though other counties are catching up fast. The de-spiritualizing effect of our technological way of life is becoming harder and harder to resist. Insurgencies will all give way as they too become enchanted with the internet and cell phones. Even now, Bin Laden is more of a rock star than old-fashioned George W. And those boys protesting America look so pretty standing up there in their clean and pressed T-shirt and blue jeans. I just know they preened in front of a mirror for hours. As the rest of the world cozies up to the pizzazz of technology, only the old country folk of America will resist. Americans will become the insurgents wanting to maintain the traditional ways.
Using the word language in the broad sense, we can say that imperialism is the overcoming of language differences by means of one dominant language. In its totalitarian standardization there will be one language in every semantical, syntactical system, right down to the way you cut your toenails. You will be able to go anywhere in the world and be completely understood in everything you do and say. One sign that the end is near is that the corporate world has co-opted ethnicity. I don't care; I never really liked "ethnic" things. I am comfortable in the Platonic heaven of Universal Forms. Slick, de-personalized, air-brushed pornography turns me on. With Andy Warhol, I can say, "I want to be a machine." A slick, stylized machine - designed, of course, according to high quality, international standards. Then I can be that walking image of the Eternal Forms of Mathematical Perfection. Transportable and interchangeable.
Are we Americans going to let the banks of Berlin or Tokyo or (God forbid) Bombay set the standard for the type of bookkeeping procedures that are encoded in Microsoft Excel I don't think so! Are we going to let France control world music or Russia control clothes or let China control TV comedy No, only we are competent. OK, we will let the Italians design a few things; they have a flair for cars and shoes and things like that. And the Arabs design good looking terrorist gear and haircuts, but we have better zoom-in shots of the action. They wail better, but we throw better righteous fits. And we are certainly the masters of propagandistic manipulation from any political point of view you care to pay for. The Chinese, without doubt, are better than anyone else at just ignoring the rest of the world. We are best at meddling. Still, for all that, I fear America is about to be overtaken by World Culture. The technological, standardized form, which we championed, will pass us by. Who knows, maybe we will be watching TV from China and listening to music from France. Who will dominate?
3170 As technological standardization levels the world, we will come more and more to see that this is the destruction so beautifully and fearfully poeticized by Isaiah. The fire of intellect is a pure destruction. More pure than the driven snow. More deadly than the far cold winds of Montana and the loneliness of its unenchanted night. Of course, now we have cell phones with global positioning coordinates and no one is cold and lonely for long. The beautiful and fearful poetry of life is gone. An empty destruction. Hyper-destruction. The end of the end of things. Immortality is at hand.
We are mathematical beings. We thus share in the nowhere and everywhere that is the mathematical. Never and always combine to make us an absent transcendence present. The One become the many, just the One.
I cannot write like Isaiah, nor like Homer or Shakespeare. The grandness of their words, the high art, the Incandescence of Being, is gone and there is nothing left for my words to capture. I am left only with the laughter and the silliness of the Dialectic. A boy's toy. The boy himself playing with himself. A pure ravishment of desire. Cock and thigh and candied pixilated lips. Ho Anthropos. The uncreated from the Uncreated. Agni flits and flirts. The destruction is massive. Everything will be burned away. Soon. Come, Lord Jesus, smooth cheeked, narrowed waisted boy. Let me eat and drink your sweet charism. I yearn for induction.
3171 Kant executed a Copernican Revolution in philosophy by taking time and space out of the world and placing them in the mind as forms of consciousness. Deconstruct and reconstruct that is the method of all of philosophy. And science. And art. And love's seduction. Slight of hand. A smooth approach to the real. Something's not quite right! Something, in fact, may be very wrong here!
We are far beyond good and evil in this most serious of games. We are at the essence of what we are. Confusion roils - then Insight and new worlds begin to build themselves from out of themselves. We are the place of the Event. Dasein! Or something like that. It's elementary Nietzsche and Heidegger. True beyond truth.
3172 Philosophy stands in the trenches right outside the heaven of the Primal Simple Things and watches a world being constructed. That is the wretched temple of contemplation. That's all the great history of philosophy has ever been. When the vision comes the watchers are divided, those who stay and rejoice at the strange Beauty present from those who run from the madness of love it brings. The self dissolves. Whether that is a good or an evil is too urgent a question for debate. One yields or one fights the oncoming vertigo.
Surely in this phantasmagoria, in the shops we have built outside the temple, marvelous and dangerous things can by bought with the nugget of sanity that you have. Hoping to avoid the monster at the center of Being, the Being of the beings that are our world, you may want to come only part way down the road toward this place of the image of complete analysis, of that place where there is the final taking apart, where the godhead hovers in the dark places of pure difference.
3173 That philosophical thoughts intend philosophical facts cannot be accounted for by appealing to the same ontological elements that account for ordinary thoughts and ordinary facts. They also cannot be said to be nothing at all, as the positivists tried do. And they can no longer be ignored as simply meta-this or meta-that. Still, the positivists did have a point, it seems to me. Philosophy is a mad otherworldly thing. Its statements really are absurd and they point to nothing here, at all.
If I insist that universals exist, and I have a mystical vision of such, then I am assuredly not then with the ordinary things of the world. If I tell you that a nexus subsists between particular and universal, then I am trying to drag you into my vision. The imagination goes wild. Bad dreams come. You arrive at your wit's end.
To account for the world, you must leave the world. Ordinary things, i.e. the world, are not themselves ontologically identical with the things that ground them. Or if they are, that "identity" is another strange ontological thing.
Philosophers must take that view of the world that is God's view, but that strikes almost all of them as absurd. And so it is, but that what it is. Even more, the stepping back from it all that they aspire to is of God beyond God. Or are those who really can think the far things of Being as few as Nietzsche says?
It's all pretty funny stuff, don't you think?
3174 Hamlet deconstructs into never having been. More than any other character in history he dies into absolute death, except that he never lived. Hamlet, in his intense theatricality, was a creation of Shakespeare and his actors, - and of himself - indeed all those associated with the theater, including the audience and readers of the play. Even I, one who has never seriously read the play, am of that number. We are all Hamlet. He deconstructs into us, and we into him. And insofar as we are that, we share in his total annihilation, backwards and forwards in time. That makes us all transcendental beings of a sort. The thinking-it-through is complicated with complications.
Scholars of literature are that. They have no life except that, and that never really was. Mirrors reflecting only mirrors. And what about philosophy and philosophers? Is philosophy only what philosophers do, and are philosophers only what philosophy is?
I suppose all of life falls into this tortured self-reflecting. Sex and love are only literary creations, after a fashion. But then literature is also a transcendentally real thing, I insist. The unity is too tight and the dissolution too complete. Thought breaks open into Being and Being breaks open into thought. A mirror is too much for a mirror to mirror.
Yes, we are that. The important thing to remember is that it is all so very real. We are gods. We are transcendental beings. Our annihilation is only to this world, which never really was anyway. Or never was well. Philosophically speaking.
3175 Face to face with Nature man becomes an impotent, effeminate thing. Or such is the worry that man has been struggling with for the last few millennia. Must man, a man, always bend to the unfreedom of the laws of nature? Is everything, absolutely every aspect of his physical, psychological, social and economic life to be determined in advance by what must be? By the overarching form of what is? Is there no room for the free man to be as he wishes, to feel the augmentation of his own will to power? Do one's desires necessarily come to nothing? Is great desire a great calamity?
Prior to Galileo there was hope for the free man. Prior to the establishment, or was it the discovery, of Nature's Laws, the individual thing, be it a mossy stone or Archangel, did as it desired. Then no one had any notion of a system of constraints that predetermined the course of a thing's behavior. Rocks fell because they desired to return to their proper place and each fell as its own internal desire or virtue dictated. The individual had no law outside itself. This especially suited the Christian mind, which saw itself as overcoming the Jewish Law in favor of personal, spiritual love. The Church was built out of robust, willful individuals who felt unfettered by law, who wanted the soul to soar. Galileo foreshadowed the end of all that. The world would soon come to be under the sway of scientific laws. Perhaps the Powers in the Church sensed it and hounded him to give up. Even today the greatly weakened Church sees itself as fighting for individual freedom in the face of scientific control. The Church will even accept the evils of personal freedom, fascism, rather than give in to any binding Law of Matter, its old nemesis. It searches for an escape from that old goddess. It wants to find a place where the soul is free of constraint. Perhaps another world away from this prison house of a place. In the meantime it will grudgingly consent to Nature's binding control. It will even lay out just what natural law is for the proper continuation of the species, but it hopes for a better, freer place where we will be as the angels, unencumbered by the demands of race and family ties. The great demand of Nature, the Will of blood and flesh, forcing us all to procreate well will be overcome. We now see more and more that we are under the dominion of yet another, newly discovered, scientific law. Our impotence grows. The great individuals with a strong will to power are long gone. Our "mighty" political leaders are pushed around by little things. The aesthete who loves high displays of power (always the mixing of the benign and malign) finds nothing to please him. Even the mighty American military has been brought low in Iraq. Where is our Napoleon, our Caesar, our Alexander, someone we can love? Where is there a Pope Julius who can plunder Europe to finance yet another Renaissance? Where is the magnificent beauty?
The Will to Power of the great individual falls before the effeminate rule of law.
3176 My first love was mathematics. I loved the feel of pulling a conclusion into place from out of the axioms. And I have ever been so ecstatically thrilled when I have, after long effort, brought a theory of science into understanding. The work and the exertion of thought leading to the final moment was always for me an orgy of delight. Nothing has changed. Just yesterday I thought I had finally understood something about Hamlet and I beamed all over with joy.
For me mathematics was Will to Power. I conquered the darkness of concealment. In the fire of my endeavor I brought down the Flash of Insight.
3177 I watch an old woman pray quietly for her loved ones. Worry fills her. She is powerless except for the god she has. I know perfectly that she is no less than the greatest of history. I think of kings and emperors, of genius that inspires the renowned, of exquisite lovers and iron willed saints of the majestic church, and I can see that she is all that. Her spirit towers.
The Will to Power that belongs to the great worldly masters of our love is certainly a thing in us too. Just as they, we possess the greatest good and the depths of evil within our own soul. Nothing that has ever been done by man has not already been carried to fruition in what we are right now. Self-reliance is the one true way to knowledge of all that we are. We are more than we appear to be.
She commands the god she serves. But what about the ordinary, middle class businessman. A writer cannot invoke philosophical irony so easily with him. The ordinary thing always seems to escape the dialectic. I have trouble imagining him quietly pray for his loved ones. He obviously might, but my imagination is almost too poetic to think it. Is he secretly a towering spirit? I must say, yes. Perhaps, because he asks from us more faith in him and less poetic imagining, he may be Kierkegaard's Knight of Faith. The dialectic becomes difficult and I want to save my attempt at it for another, more energetic, time.
3178 We have a crisis in creativity. One symptom of it is that we don't feel the urgency of the crisis. Should I say it is a crisis of crisis? We have become a terribly dull-witted people. I want to emphasize the terror of it. Received truths are never challenged. We are Nietzsche's pietistic Germans. Let me give some examples.
First, some familiar examples of what creativity is. Let us say it is a reconstruction of the already constructed. You are sitting on a bus and it begins to move forward. Reconstruction you aren't moving at all, the bus next to you is moving backwards. Such an easy idea. It will be my main idea. Obviously, if this act of reconstruction is carried far, vertigo and confusion may set in. The timid and the already unbalanced should maybe stay away.
Copernicus, and others once had the idea that the sun didn't move around the earth, but the earth around the sun. Einstein had the idea that gravity wasn't needed to pull objects from their straight projectory, simply curve the space and let them move straight on unhindered. Our science is replete with such examples of reconstruction. Reconstruction is science. But it is unsettling and the dull-witted have gotten used to things as they are. They fear that we will enter not a gravity-free zone, but an Einsteinian elevator, gravity-filled zone where we are all falling together about to crash! Nothing about creative reconstruction is sure. Being unsure is the most troubling thing for us.
So, should we reconstruct our world just for the fun of it? If there is a point to it other than fun, should we be trying to get the constructing just right, according to truth, more or less - and then stop? I think it is the former.
Take the common description of the Middle Ages as not empirically minded, but as always bending to authority. That is received truth. Obviously if that authority is ever unchanging in its construction of truth, it is uncreative. Let us reconstruct and say that the Middle Ages was very empirically minded and always mindful of the capricious force of the individual other. It would be empirical in that it carefully and intently looked toward what that authoritative other willed. God, having an arbitrary Will, created a world of individuals that were likewise. It was up to each thing, human or rock, to gather up as much individual power as it could to force its way onto the stage of life. This was not the rule of law, but of will. A created thing is an accruing of power. The word "authority", it seems, must also be reconstructed. Today it usually means the unchanging dictates of an institution, not a growing as the root *aug would indicate. The Middle Ages saw every individual thing, angelic or purely material, as an increasing or decreasing of power. That was the only rule. The Will to Power.
The modern world began when each individual thing had to come to submit to an overarching law. Individual power was to be seen as evil, and he/it should/must consent to being shoved around. I am of course always speaking, not only of human beings, but of each and every thing that exists, from quarks to galaxies, from nematodes to nuclear scientists. All things bend to the System, the tortured form of the Spatial-temporal Continuum, the laws of economics, the meteorological need for rain or whatever the perceived, one almighty power is this month. Individual, unruly Will to power is out; the System is in. A God of Will and Might is out, along with any humans who would be little gods; and the System is in. Empirical looking is out; being consistent with the System is in. Truth is a fitting in.
Creativity is an increasing. It is the feel of increasing personal power. By self-willed individuals outside the System. Inconvenient things for the System. The paradox is that it was creative reconstructing that brought us to this impasse.
Now then, the wit of the reader must enter. I have reconstructed, but I have not, thereby and obviously, come up with definitive truth. Of course not. That would be the end of creativity. I have, in fact, found myself deconstructed by paradox. Therefore, what I have said must, perhaps for the sheer fun of it, be taken apart and put back together differently. I await the show. I love this show. "Thought without paradox is like love without passion."
The dialectic of truth and creativity is long and laborious. Their dancing together far into the intellectual night is ragged and tiring. I'm sure scholars and would-be scholars could tell me all about the meaning of the word "empirical" as it applies to the Middle Ages and its science. I'm sure I could learn a lot. I'm sure I would enjoy it. But it's useless for what I am about. The truth of the matter is somewhat irrelevant for this act of creativity. Or its decline. But then again only somewhat.
3179 Benedict XVI has called homosexuality an "intrinsic moral evil". I take it that he is speaking as a nominalistic Thomist condemning Platonism. Throughout the history of the church, such talk has been reserved, for the most part, for those engaged in these high spiritual battles. Mere sensualists are hardly taken notice of. If we use Sartre's definition of evil as "the systematic substitution of the abstract for the concrete" I think we can begin to see the connection. Platonists, ever dreaming of the far away Isles of the Blest, have missed the solid facts rights in front of their eyes. They have failed scientific empiricism, and fallen for wisps of abstraction. They have abandoned our natural material home for the vertigo of the blue sky. They have not been faithful to the maiden of the family hearth. They have taken off with the ridiculous angelic beauty of boys. And because they have tried to fly where there is no air, they have fallen into a very decadent sensuality, beyond the mere. They need to get back to a sensible, down-to-earth Aristotelianism. They need to learn moderation. Platonism is the extremism of the spirit that precedes the fall. I am a Platonist of the worst sort. I and Benedict are at odds, but at least we're playing out our parts on the same great stage. He was such a cute young priest; perhaps he has some knowledge of this he might share.
3180 The Church - protestant, catholic, orthodox, whatever - is today, as I imagine it always has been, for the great majority of people, definitely not a place for high philosophy. Nor should it be. Philosophy has always been for the happy few. Those desert Fathers who had Platonic Visions of emanating intelligences did not speak for the great number of other believers at home in the cities. Nonetheless, there is something about Platonism that describes the mind of many of the most everyday of homosexual believers. I am, of course, not going to lay out right here exactly what that is; I have written a very long book about just that. I simply want to say that the Church, in condemning homosexuality, is not speaking about homosexuality at all, except as the homosexual is the image of Platonism. This is a theological battle. It seems to me, it is a really attacking the very idea of otherworldly, transcendent Forms. Those world-destroying things do not fit in the everyday. The homosexual knows all about their terrible beauty. The homosexual is a Platonist by virtue of his having had to contend with Power and Fire. He knows intimately the drawing together into that One Thing. The Church, for its heterosexual believer, has, instead, wanted to present a homely vision of mother and child; and no one can argue with its wanting to do that. Unfortunately it has felt it had to erase any trace of that other Vision. Perhaps it really has had to. That Vision is too intense for all except for those to whom it is intended. What can I say? The martyrdom of secret love is a hard life. Still, love is love and love is also sweet.
3181 These are the writings of a devout Christian man. These are meditations from out of the tradition, but this part of the tradition has been all but lost in this age when theology is mediated by journalists. In these writings Jesus is the Beloved, an intimacy with no appropriate place in the commercial thing that tries to be concerned public debate. The intimate nexus of lover and beloved has given way, in the media, to the respectful distance of thankfulness and care. Jesus has become older brother, perfect adviser, powerful supporter, concerned and attentive physician, always, of course, deferring to our freedom of choice. A dignified distance is maintained. He is not lover. He is reported to move us with his goodness, not his beauty. Such a view has taken over powerfully. It, I suppose, was always there, but now intrusive surveillance has made it necessary. Or am I just being paranoid? Can Christianity still be the romance of lover and a divine Beloved, even unto sexual closeness? We will see. I have written such a thing. I am not the first to do so. Surely it can still be.
3182 Beauty is just beauty and it announces itself as beauty when it appears before our mind's eye. Of course, hardly anyone today believes that, but I do. They want to reduce that unsettling idea, and the great Thing it is of, to something more comfortable. They want to intellectualize it away. They find it disturbing and ghastly and therefore it must be made wrong. All forms of intellectual reductionism come from a nervousness and a wanting to be left alone. Still, it seems to me that beauty is just beauty and it announces itself as beauty when it appears before our mind's eye.
I think the same about Love and Mind and even Number and all the Forms of geometry. Striking things, each from out of only itself. Each the ungrounded ground of what and that it is. The uncaused cause. Numinous and lordly. The reason of reason. What else is the meaning of A is A? To say that our minds break down into those holy things is to speak the obvious. These whisperings shatter the self. And the Plenum rises up.
3183 The act of writing and the act of reading are both forceful acts. And they must be as passive as they are forceful. The words come. The boy comes to your room. You must let them come and you must receive them as they are, gently letting them lie on the bed of your mind. That letting be is the most difficult. On the white and creaseless sheets of your mind. Tightly drawn. Near the open and windy windows of your senses. Where the curtains begin to flutter.
The fire rises in you. You must read and write the boy. You manipulate the words. The sentences must fit together well. The long sentences must be well divided into the phrases of breathing. The words must resonate in each other. The empty pauses must create the Plenum. The fire flares up. The forge and the hammer and the precise and delicate beating beatingbeating into shape, and the tempering plunge into cold water. Such rough handlings for such frail things. Things of the spirit.
In the Fire, in the forge, in the spinning cyclotron, the elementary pieces become visible and fly apart into Being. In the hyper-fiery Act of Being the pieces forge and the great complex strings of a world appear, the great text to be glowing read by Theopoi. You are that. The analysis, the synthesis; the loosening, the compressing together; the depression, the mark. The very gentle and the tight force into the well-formed.
The fire in the gaze. The fire in your hand manipulating. The fire in the forcing apart. The fiery fire in the uniting It into the informing form. The writing, the reading, the exquisite love making. Hephaestus forges Alexander.
My reader, to only search for meaning and for a unity to meaning in these words would be a mistake. You must also find the flowing unity of breath and its pause and spacing; you must give the proper rise and fall to the analytic fire of your own breathing as you read these airy sentences. The rythmos runs through them. In the Act of thought you are the Unity beyond the riveted unity of nexus in external fact. You ride the agile flames easily.
3184 Thinkers today generally like to think of themselves as the calm and clear-eyed, youthful beloveds and not as ravaged and anguished, aging lovers. They possess and display theSophos; not the shamefulness of mere philo-sophos. They are objective and transcendent; they ride above the turmoil like rich tourists observing compassionately the woefully irrational poor in their emotional slums. I live in that slum with the tortured rags that dare to call themselves human; I sleep on their dirt floors with the vermin, and I eat their stale and polluted food merely so I can touch and taste and become that flesh of flesh that so attractively and beautifully lives there. I am passionate with their passion. The think their twisted logic and I love with their wretched love. I have become untouchable to the practitioners of the pure and chaste Scientific Method.
I have lived overseas in the cheapest hotels, in noisy apartments along narrow and dank walkways. I know the congestion of the spirit that accrues and the slender waist. I have not tried to keep the veil of purity between it and me.
I have looked through dark doorways to find God. He was always easy to find. It never searched long. I also found his passion. And I immersed myself in it. I wallowed in it. I became the elemental stuff of the world. I became the acidic taste on the back of a boy's neck. And his hand relighting his kerosene fire. I became his lost look. And his waiting. I suffered the nearly hopeless days. I slept with him and felt him push against me. I fell on hard rocks. The rain makes everything damp. Motions and emotions swirl in the paradoxes of the spirit. I am far into hyper-intellectualism. Beyond nirvana in the far Transcendence of returning desire.
3185 The essence of writing is the suspended breath between the beginning of the sentence and the end. And the exhaling. It is the directedness and the goal. And the sudden arrival. It is that very still, that very abstract form, shimmering in non-particularity, uncertain and sure. We wait to be where we are. Ever syntactically placed beside ourselves. And there are the words enveloping us in their need for nexus. Breathless wanderings. Because his breath has fallen so close on the back of that exposed neck.
3186 Sartre writes, "Evil is the systematic substitution of the abstract for the concrete." I think with that he is referring to those times in life when we find ourselves growing nervous and uncomfortable because we are increasingly confronted by some quiet awful twilight and its enduring presence becomes unendurable. And citing a rosary of intellectual understandings, we try to spirit it away. In the place of immanent danger, we intellectualize, we theorize, in prayerful contemplation of scientific abstractions.
In my own case, because I have written about Being itself, which for the human mind is frightening when confronted head on, I deal in nothing but abstractions. Away from all support that life's various beings might give, I reel before the very Real. And I know the feel of the abstractness of the abstractions. I intimately know the looming emptiness. And I speak as casually as I can. Pretense and sham fill my speaking. Vast languorous, clangorous stretches of non-thought resound and I repeatedly lie unmoving in my own mind. Slowly those abstractions become the smooth and luscious skin of a lover. The concrete and the abstract coalesce, evil and beauty, the ugly and the good. Boundaries disappear.
3187 Revolution! One group of young, heterosexual males following their charismatic leader against another group of older, women abusing males power grab! women loving - it all seems to be so very in the way things have been, are and ever will be, here on this planet. I am not involved. I am not trying to change things. Nature and its chromosomal patterns will win out. This is the foundation of Society. I come from the other extra-social party.
That above is a type of physical aggressiveness. It has a brute beauty about it. Women and faggots love the show. Women and faggots, however, have their own aggressiveness also written in their chromosomes verbal, i.e. ideational, aggressiveness. (Do you like my quasi-scholastic style of writing?) Women and faggots will attack you at times like bitches out of hell with their torrent of words, at other times they just firmly unrelentingly incessantly push them hard onto you. They want to capture your ideational territory, not your physical space. Each group becomes passive at the onslaught of the other. It's a violent affair. An in-your-face affair. Though, I must say that it is charming the way straight males are so respectful and honoring and gentle with other males of their group.
The heterosexual man is a man of few words. He is not good at expressing himself verbally. He says his few words and then waits for action. Eventually he will simply move in physically and take over it needn't always be violent, just firm. The homosexual man is a man of too many words, a volley of words, always stylish. Eventually he moves back and lets the heterosexual man do what he chromosomally must. It's a magical dance. The heterosexual men are after the women and the gay men are after each other. It's a well-orchestrated economy. Faggots just have to learn when to shut their mouths before they are bashed up alongside the head.
The earth revolves. Round and round and round.
3188 We are tempted to exist. But it is embarrassing. When a drop of oil falls into a great pool of oil, it disappears; but when it falls on your new leather shoe, there it is. We try so hard to blend in with our soft colors and our quiet voices, to fade into the background when someone walks by, to be a useful, efficient part of the great family of things. To do our part silently and then move on into nothingness. To have been nothing in ourselves all along, only a member serving the Whole unostentatiously. Not to bother others with strange ways. Not to be a thing unto itself that calls attention to itself, separate and uninterested in the Whole. Not to be separate at all.
But we feel the temptation to exist. To be that crease that cannot be ironed out of the smooth surface. To be the mole on the clean face. To be outside the great destructive harmonizing of things. To be alone and just from oneself. To be a brute fact. To be the sheer cliff of facticity. To finally be.
I always attempt to write the gently flowing sentence, the smooth surface, the wafting breeze of thought. No rough rhythms. No awkward missteps. The parts clearly separated, but falling into the one thing that is the paragraph completed and at rest. I am not a show-off. I pull my reader into the numbness of blue sky. I write death. I write the disappearance. I fear the display of my words out in the crude abrupt places of the Public. Writing is suicide for me, a blending into the wind. Writing is not suicide for me because I have never really existed. It would have been too much. Only God has the right to be.
My friend wrote this sentence. The very word ethical and universal vertigoed (if its correct) me. I criticized it as unrhythmical and it is, but I now think it should be because it is an existential sentence. The word me stumbles onto the scene ungloriously. The verb is backwards from what t should be and the its has lost its prick. The sentence sticks out. But in its glaring impropriety it is too much and we quickly look away. The whole paragraph almost begins to lie there like an ill-formed piece of flesh. The next sentence I had to fall asleep. - saves both the reader and the paragraph and existence was avoided. Existentialism and its absurd existence, brute fact, a sheer fall into the view of others, unharmonized away, clashes with the seamless gentle blue sky of thought that does not lust after existence.
He also wrote, after acknowledging the battered syntax of a previous e-mail, - I dont know if i will feel sorry for that. I feel that he is tempted to be awkward, stick out and be seen. He is being tempted by existence. I wouldnt be surprised if he soon wears a shirt of bright colors.
3189 Pythagorianism has always been a strong undercurrent of western philosophy. It is particularly strong today and moves close to the surface. That is the idea that all is number existing as spatial pieces from which the world is built. Spatial magnitudes. Repetitions. Intersections of interference. Waves of Harmony. A kind of quantum mechanics. 12-dimensional? The form is thinkable (though not always imaginable); just what bears the form is not (or hardly so). The purely intellectual and mathematical rides above and on an I-don't-know-what? No doubt, on the bare particulars. Or theonegreatbareparticular s h a t t e r e d. It is all so very alluring. As in a child's story, great beasts and beauties rise magically out of the primal Thing. And fall back at day's end.
To which we can say along with Aristotle, "How indeed can qualities white, sweet, hot be number?" They can't. Pythagorianism cannot be the philosophy of an intellectual adult. Though the child in us sweetly fancies it can. One eventually outgrows the poetry and the dark romance of scientific materialism physicalism.
It has been proposed by some who would be realists that, though mind and the world of qualities are ontologically different from the spatial quantum relativistic numbering (dis-)Continuum, nonetheless they are "dependent" on it. They are trying to preserve the child's dream in their adult world. What could that dependence be if not a magical creating? Yes, things associate in our world: vision and memory and the ability to calculate associate with neural activity. But I see nothing more than simple association. That association, however, is not dependence. Still dependence, as I imagine they imagined it, is somewhat better than the Dark arisings and the Mysterious identities that are not there but to which they succumb. How indeed can qualities white, sweet, hot be dependent on number?
Just as the meaning of words rides on the written words but is not the writing; so the things of Being "mingle" but remain separate. That, of course, explains nothing, because mingling, though such a charming word, is nearly meaningless. We all have our romances.
3190 Particularity is more far reaching than the Kantians imagine. They, permit me this rough characterization, divide the world into sensa and concepts. Sensa are sheer chaos without the ordering that concepts impose. Concepts are empty without the stuff of sensa all through them. Concepts are of the mind. Cool mind arranges chaos, the fiery particulars, into a world. Kant has presented us with a vision at once pretty and sublime. Perhaps some of you have also known this pair of adjectives aptly laid on some beloved here. Gentleness and destruction. Reason may or may not be transcendentally immanent in that. Or immanently transcendent. It's a constant battle. Whatever; I'm going to attack the idea of that philosophy somewhat.
The paper or screen this is printed on is white. As an analysis of that judgment, let us say that the sensum of color presented, being just what it is and nothing more, is, by the mind, placed with other similar colors and we label them as white. Then the color white is no more than a label applied to similar things. The mind categorizes and that is called understanding.
The paper or screen this is printed on is white. As an analysis of that fact, let us say that the particular at hand exemplifies white. Moreover, and this is important, the white exemplifies color. White has become a particular thing also. It is a particular Form from out of the realm of Forms. Likewise color is another particular Form from out of the same land of Forms. Particularity has spread. Obviously the Forms of White and Color are not bare as is the first particular I mentioned. Perhaps I should say it is "internal" - perhaps not. The Forms are things of Being alongside the bare particulars. In this philosophy, Kantian sensa don't exist. And the mind doesn't impose anything. It receives. It is presented with the things of Being. It possesses the given. Understanding comes to it in a flash. The battle still rages.
We know the facts that make up this world and we also know the things that make up the facts. The "particulars" of Being are there to behold. And beyond these "unbare" particulars there are entities of the Form of Form that are barely graspable. Perhaps some of you have also known this adjectives aptly laid on some beloved here.
3191 Without the gentle aid of clear and distinct concepts I have gone the to thing itself. This is not a scientific, intellectual endeavor. I have not thought it out well and thoroughly beforehand. I went to stand face to face with the thing and I waited for its spirit to invade me. The words came. Strange choral utterances. Dionysian gatherings. Crawling flesh and the shudder. Concepts don't exist, only that Form out there.
When concepts go they reappear as universal Forms out there. My own ideas are not and never have been; only that thing, those things, from the out there come to me and impress themselves on me. Into me. An unsettling empiricism. I am passive. I have become fem to the Things.
I speak, they speak through me, the utterances of this Chorus narrate the destruction of the world. The Knowing of the thing itself.
3192 Philosophy stands in the trenches right outside the heaven of the Primal Simple Things and watches a world being constructed. That is the wretched temple of contemplation. That's all the great history of philosophy has ever been. When the vision comes the watchers are divided, those who stay and rejoice at the strange Beauty present from those who run from the madness of love it brings. The self dissolves. Whether that is a good or an evil is too urgent a question for debate. One yields or one fights the oncoming vertigo.
Surely in this phantasmagoria, in the shops we have built outside the temple, marvelous and dangerous things can by bought with the nugget of sanity that you have. Hoping to avoid the monster at the center of Being, the Being of the beings that are our world, you may want to come only part way down the road toward this place of the image of complete analysis, of that place where there is the final taking apart, where the godhead hovers in the dark places of pure difference.
3193 Philosophy is not the main resident at the center of the city. He is not the strong, upstanding, trustworthy, established man of reputable enterprise. He is not the pillar of the state. He is a disheveled boy of the marshes.
Philosophy lives on the edge. The Forms are of the edge. They are boundary things. Hermetic things. Bartering and theft. A trick for the nighttime of thought. Kim.
The nexus. So very subtle. Hand to mouth subsistence. Between the Great Things. Consider the Oak and the Aspen. Well-established things. Determinate and known. Consider the Tree, a form that is neither oak nor aspen, nor not that. The Form of Tree is between and nowhere to be seen, and, though perfectly known, now, in these philosophical considerations, felt to be unknown in itself. Surely the Forms of Oak and Aspen were never so well-established as we imagined. These lie between the sub-species, and these species, like the genera, lie also on the margins of thought. Being descends ever between. The Forms are not great and solidly civilized things; they are questionable and lovely things of the edge and the sedge far out away from the city. In the city things are small; out on the edge the boy gets big with himself. A Disreputable Thing. The rejected origin of the majuscule.
The deformed things give the lie to the established, civilized form of things. Those things that do not fit into neat divisions. The unsettling. They reveal the Forms. The transcendent things that, though hardly real for the everyday, are the Real. The deformed are the place of religion and that is why religion is so despised among the established. Pretense notwithstanding. Established religion is no more than a heady attempt to destroy real religion.
Where thought breaks down, where clean boundaries give way, where self is threatened by the not-self, there subtly and sublimely live and exist the Forms, the boy big with Vis crawling up his spine. He implodes in explosion. The ground Imperial Majesty walks on.
3194 In America we build wooden houses, not stone. They exist only long enough for a moment's pleasure and then the workmen come to tear them down. Thus they are like the hut of Kierkegaard's symposium. So it is with the momentary structures of philosophical writing. They are there to draw in the Beloved for one more night of thought's pleasure. Then the destruction. The intricacies of engineering that love requires is a maze of seduction. Subtle distinctions. Gossamer connections. Secret preparations. Lavish truthfulness.
If the delicately balanced dialectic does not attract the Beloved, foreheads do not gleam with the oil of pleasure, no sudden vision of the naked Thing comes, then why stay? Perhaps another day. Still, it does at times require that the participants travel through the entangling woods to arrive at the clearing, and one should not give up too soon. He always makes his lovers wait. And sometimes he sends on ahead dread and despair to announce his coming. Sometimes the red and cruel dress the house before his glistening head nods its presence. The wait can be hard. The insight, when it comes, will be astounding. Deafening. The roar of philosophy is the prelude to silence. And the clasping shut.
3195 The Phaedrus is the book of love and the Parmenides is the book of analysis. They are the same book. Analysis yields the form of love. Love is the devastation laid bare by analysis. Love is finally cruel and hard analysis. Analysis is the giddy presence of the mischievous boy of love. Entanglement in the very living thing.
I believe in analysis. That is the Logos. And the Dia Logos. A night of back and forth negotiating. An army's maneuvering. Dropping, yielding and the entering. Mind makes its way into Being.
The violence of taking heaven delivers up the moon-faced peri from the wild places outside the gentle gardens of civilized demeanor. He grins. And you grin back. Away from both worlds this amorous tryst. The amorphous truth. The willful trump. Make your way back. The dialectic is always an assault along crooked paths. And his crook goes deep.
3196 Those who are agnostics or atheists are those seduced by science. That is, unless he is the one who has been taken by and thus intimately knows the transcendent Agnosia and the Super-essential Gloom of God's hand on the nape of his neck. I am here writing of the former. Science is a common sense thing from out of the everyday world. A little reconstruction of the phenomenal house we live in and life goes on self-contained. No trick for the intellectual night is planned or feared. He hasn't come by for years. The unbothered calm. Seduced by the numbness of love's absence. The pain is gone. Let sleeping dogs lie.
Science is an attempt to get by without the luring blandishments of love. It is a great attempt to overcome the madness. It is war against heaven's amorous war. The nauseating delicacies of rhetoric are disallowed. Objective fact. A ragged seduction.
3197 Philosophy is the Between. It is thus a hermetic thing. Neither of the center nor not of the center, it is the Center that is off-center. Kim, the Imperial boy, is neither of India nor not, always between. The between is always a disreputable thing of alluring reputation. Here in America, I write in English and I am a protestant white male - everything about me is of the dominant center, except that I am an unpropertied, unacademic faggot and I am thus thrown - always deferred in silent difference. I slip away and travel and mingle with the transient boys I find. No one suspects I am what I am. I am not. Everyone suspects. And I write metaphysics. Platonism! I am as base as Socrates. That is live with books and I write in their magical symbols of words makes me Faustian. Grammarcy. Mephistophelean. I am the boy jesus. Eat me.
Out on this prairie, the wind between the busy, bustling coasts. The unrelenting sun and the ringing in my ears of long straight roads crisscrossing cicadae. Lonely places where electrons crash and clash of cyberspace mingling and mingling all through the moonlit nights. Boys mess with you. This is a boundary place no different from every other boundary place in the world. Boys disruptively messing.
3198 Freud has made us so aware that we have a superego that tries so hard to se-sexualize our public appearing and speaking out in the world. Or at least when we are trying not to offend the heterosexuals present. Not being heterosexual, I privately demur from such violence to my soul. I write logic and philosophy right from out of its erotic source, unwashed. The other, more demanding superegos out there, may not acquiesce to my audacity. But then they may be quiet about it, very quiet, suspiciously quiet. Silence.
3199 The danger with talking about focus in philosophy is that it reduces that philosophy to artful composition. Or it makes it a species of interior decorating. Not that I have anything against those two things, but without constant attention to the proper object of philosophy all is lost. One does not focus for the sake of being focused. Or enter a room merely to be comfortably centered in that room. The god of philosophy must command the philosopher's attention or the exquisite shudder does not come.
I write of the most abstract. The first, uncaused things must themselves delicately settle in. The mind must shatter. That than which there can be no greater smoothly tears the mind apart. No one can think paradox and the paradox of Being is a breathtaking rupture in the expected rape. I write a captious rapture. Do you object? Existence exists.
I enter the room of thought and he, well-centered, lounges naked on a big, comfortable chair. Soft darkening, twilight colors. Incipient hues of dew. And doom. The end is at hand. In his hand. And the excretions of bad poetry spurt on the broad epi-glistening-dermal expanses around his equally well-centered navel. Slippage. He falls to the floor. Existence exists clumsily. In nimble antinomics. It is one; it is many; and well, yes.
3200 A strange new form of conceptualism, representationalism, has arisen today. The particularity of the object is grounded by being a piece or area of the Space-Time Continuum (or Space-Time Discontinuum whatever it is in the new quantum relativity). As I recall, even Bergmann and Grossman might go along with that. The form of the object is grounded in a concept. Again, nothing new there. The realists, of course, have universals to do that. The new twist has to do with the age-old problem of how to get the particular and form together in one's philosophy. Still again, finding that to be the place where new things happen is not new. Let me try to explain this thing which I think is finally unexplainable.
Conceptualists have never really wanted to say that the forms of things were of the mind only and not somehow of the physical world, the Space-Time whatever. Remember that form is grounded in, or given to the particular by, the concept. The projected concept? The prick is that conceptualists have felt uneasy saying that mind and concepts are real existing things. What to do? Concepts out there in the world are simply universals. Realism threatened. So how does one have mind-less concepts, not universals, be of the world but somehow not in it? Or, maybe, in it, but not of it? Voilΰ! They are neural patterns! Brain states! The mind "is" the brain. Thought, in the world as brain, is merely a representation of the world, a gossamer, electrical almost-nothing. You can have your mind and eat it, too.
Previously, concepts had to be out there in the inter-subjective forms of language. Now there is even a language in the brain in the form of DNA. The brain mediates between world and thought. In a sense, for us, the brain is the world and thought.
Just what gives form to the forms of the brain is not clear, unless it is another brain. I think that finally we are to become neural patterns watched over by an ever-bigger neural Super-pattern. Marvelous science fiction. Pure and sheer receding nonsense.
As far as I can tell, the attractiveness of this to some is political. It is a guarantee against the great destructive armies that Realism causes to rise up. Philosophies of Magnificence, all of which come out of the rhetorical flourishes of Platonic High Religion, are brought low in the democratic neural soup.
I am a structuralist up to where structure disappears and then I am not. Therefore I somewhat like this new mind-less conceptualism because it does attempt to lay out a patterned understanding to mind and world. And it does achieve a kind of realism by having thought be of the physical things. As I see it, the physical pieces of this philosophy, the Space-Time pieces, arrange themselves into extremely complex patterns, with feedback loops and every other kind of knot you can think of, that is the brain. Great sets of physical elements. Mind is of the sets of sets. Or it simply is that. This, therefore, is an attempt at an ontology of sets a most difficult thing.
Given a and given b, we are also given (a,b) and ((a)(a,b)) and on and on. The setness of sets is mind. It is, of course, close to nothing at all. Only the pieces, the a and the b, really exist. Neutral patterns are the tremendously complex, but very elegantly ordered, aggregating aggregates of Space-Time pieces. There is a certain loveliness to that. We become one with the Great Continuum (or Discontinuum). I suppose the number of pieces is infinite and thus we sink into that Infinity or have I become too mythological? We are here where structure disappears and I become smilingly giddy.
3201 I don't write of the earth and the soft, rough, lovely and ferocious things of our animal existence. I don't sing the glory of the sun on my skin or the fragrance of midnight flowers. Sea and mountain are far from my words. Sweet smiles and country walks are not my delight. I write the electric pain of love's impossible passion and the ever-lingering paradox of incessant thought. I write the ecstatic existence of angels and smooth thighs. I write intellect and the vortex of transcendent Forms.
I write the universal. Therefore the feeling of vertigo sets in. Here in a place that is neither here nor there. A nowhere, in a now that is neither now nor then. I walk down country roads that are of no country. I walk in the wind that is from nowhere. Over a plain that in just the Euclidean plane. The hand going around my flesh is as much yours and his as it is no one's. Only the universal that is without history.
Because I have stayed away from the particular particulars of any here and now, or even of that there and then where you might be, and I have jumped into the Sun of pure Form, I am in the Intensity. Sleepy animal existence dissolves in the rush of angels. Boys who never were taunt you out of yourself. They merely are. These are the wild gardens of paradise. The abandonment of personal existence. There will be no autobiography of this philosopher. I fidget and he has become Him. The nominative case has given way to the accusations.
3202 In this new brand of conceptualism, where the unity of an object is not established by mind but by the brain, the brain itself must first be already established as a unity. That the data of the senses all arrive inside one brain, to be "united" there into the "appearance" of being of one object, could not be, if the brain were itself not there as one material thing- of do I repeat myself? I am stunned by the paradoxes so easily glided over by materialists.
Still for all that I am a lover of paradox. The difference being that I recognize it for what it is. Paradox is a part of Being and, therefore, this materialism is 'true". That very "truth" and truth and Truth and maybe even "Truth" being a lovely swelter. A tryst. A rendezvous of the mind and reason and the transcendental dialectic itself. Concerning the very which, mindful that two's company and three's a crowd, we can expect one to be left alone. Never mind I momentarily forgot we were talking about the brain. It is so easy to become bored with brain-talk. And the materialists just roll their eyes at my paradoxes. They have important work to do. They have a world to save from the likes of me. While I entertain myself with the faded glamour of faggot metaphysics.
I take logic seriously. I believe it leads us up to a vision of Reality. They use it for a while and stop, believing it was a tool Homo sapiens cunningly devised for its evolutionary survival. One must not apply logic to "The Will to Procreate". Theorizing must stop when we are in the presence of "The Mothers". I am hardly allowed to speak the holy names. The brain is the instrument of blind Aggrandizement. Or at least for just-getting-on.
3203 I want to be Kim, an outsider to all, but I am anxious that I am far too much of the very center of things. No matter, that anxiety over and from that place is exactly the outside. I am and I am with the excruciatingly tight dialectic that has controlled us all for so long. Little has changed. Nothing has changed. The boys are still ravishing. The beloveds are still unapproachable and cruel. Love is still, still the only show in town. Kim, the peripheral, so feral, a peri beyond dispute, the giver of disputes to ever disreputable lovers. The chela incorrigible. Quite a fella.
Now let's consider that last paragraph. Is it anything more than a writer looking in a mirror (one more time) and making silly faces? No, it isn't, but so what? Do all my paragraphs have to be filled with a "real" idea? Do any? Have any? Haven't I, instead, just wasted your time and mine, for too long, just looking in that mirror? My face isn't interesting, I know. I am a parody of myself. I am the ordinary of the ordinary. Which brings me back to my great interest the appearance of the Transcendent in the most ordinary boy. Jesus, what a mess.
3204 The new philosophy of neuro-conceptualism might be laid out like this: the particulars of the world (a,b,c, ), unknown by us as they are in themselves, are "filtered" through neural network patterns (F,G,H, ), also not known by us, and the "resultant" functions - F(a), G(b), H(c) - are called experience. Lately the neural network patterns have themselves become more known to us by our experiencing them through the very "filters" that they themselves are. Obviously, that does not leave us with any knowledge of what they really are, only what they are as "filtered".
This could be correlated with Bergmann's philosophy like this: for him the world consists, for the most part, of particulars exemplifying universals. F(a), G(b) etc.. Also, for him, mind, i.e. a thought or experience or awareness, is [F(a)] (why can't Microsoft Word make a half bracket?) The difference between Bergmann and the neuro-conceptualists is that for him the thought is itself a simple (partless) universal itself tied to a particular. The neuro-conceptualists, it seems, see experience, F(a), as a complex. And it is obviously much more complex than this schematic representation shows. Needless to say, Bergmann also doesn't see the universal as a neuro-concept "filter". The universal too is simple, not such a built up network.
The biggest difference between these, perhaps superficially, similar views, is that Bergmann believes in simples. The others don't.
3205 I write the most unsettling, therefore the most unbelieved, philosophy. These people have become comfortable in their material bed. The disheveled here and now is easy. Vast stretches of the Unseen are pleasantly out of sight. A person is his small, demotic, very limited brain, soon decayed, soon, very soon, once again asleep in the bosom of mother earth.
Lord, Protect me from knowing what I don't need to know.
Protect me from even knowing that there are things to
know that I don't know.
Protect me from knowing that I decided not to know
about the things that I decided not to know about.
Lord Lord, (this is important) Protect me from the consequences of the above prayer.
But the Unseen Isn't. Being itself is present and seen directly. The world is. The forms of things are the Great Forms themselves present. The Fire is all around. This night is the Super-essential Brightness. The Glistening Night of Love. The Too Much. There is no protection from it. The Eternal Thing is continuing on and on and on. And on and on and . You've heard it all to many times already.
3206 I look at three drawn shapes: a triangle, a circle and a red rectangle. The field is rich. Among the things I see are: Triangularity and Circularity and Rectangularity. Moreover I see Shape itself that these three are tied to. All of that is there to be seen as already there. Move over, the Threeness of the three is there. All are Forms that have been around for eternity crowd in.
These Forms are nowhere and nowhen. Seeing them now I am looking into the no-time and no-place of the Things of Being. Contradiction abounds.
Seeing that this and that and that are each tied to their respective Form, I note that I also see facts, those three facts and the actuality that pervades them. The field is rich. Facticity is apparent and that complexity is apparently a "simple" thing! It is all there before me in a timeless and placeless There.
Must I again remind you that the bare particulars that are just that and just that and just that are impressively there as the there of their being? Just at you That. Oh well, I know you are brimming over with ontological visions, and it really is too much. The field is so very rich. A more relaxed world of none of this is sometimes called for. Philosophy is the excitement. No-philosophy is the needed rest of a frazzled people. I will have a hard time getting a peaceful enough mind to read me. Much less someone who will delight in my contradictions, aka Dialectic. One more time.
3207 The difference between good writing and great writing is vast. Great writing is not good writing. Great writing, like great ideas, are very easily criticized and dismissed. Think of Platonic realism as an idea and the New Testament as literature. Think of how those two writings have been held onto ferociously and assiduously defended because they needed so badly to be defended. Think loving someone who, you know, acts in a socially indefensible manner, but you defend him sheepishly and loudly anyway. Love and inspired ways go against good sense.
I never trust a critic telling me how bad something is. Thought I may feel entirely the same way, still he is telling me only how our tastes agree, not something interesting about the piece. Show me strange connections, make me be surprised at the wonderful correspondences present. Delight me with the hidden magic of the thing. Why should we just agree or disagree about our boredom?
3208 Seriousness is charming in the young, but wit befits more the one leaving his youth well on his way to being old. Until the moment of the last laugh. And in a moment of glee the two meet and the first things are again as they ever have been.
And romance. And the play of jealousy torment spinning spinning spinning. And the bite and the cut that only the old can inflict. Socrates having his fun.
The irony that the pure beauty of youth lies only in an old man's eye is a mystery hard to circumscribe. But I try. The boy of heaven is wily beyond belief. In this religion of forced and enforced belief. I am dragged to the statement that he is me and I am him. Thought becomes its object. In a very becoming way. So stay, the day alarmingly flits.
3209 Why make transcendental statements in philosophy? Is it to lay a foundation for a transcendental or even an empirical science? Absolutely not. That dream has ended in effete catastrophe. It is to once again broach the topic of love. It is to court the lovely devastation of romance. They are spirit traps. They are come-ons to the Beloved's Come-on. They are tools to pry open desire that begets desire. They make both body and soul rise up. Or have you no feel for philosophy? Do you not long to overcome this place and fly in the Noplace and the Notime of the mind's blanking out? A shot through the head. Fuck it all. I'm out of here. Do you not?
Music can only take us out of space into pure time. Philosophy takes us all the way out. Still wanderings in eternity. Into non-existence. Into the unthinkable. The Unthinkable. Or something like that.
Consider a simple philosophical statement: Green is not a relation. It doesn't look very transcendental, does it? It's hard to see any romantic ecstasy there. Much less orgasmic mind-blowing bliss. Nonetheless, when you consider that blanking out that is the great moving beyond into the non-existence of Pure Being, maybe you can somewhat see that in the bland, laughable insignificance of the transcendental statement that Green is not a relation. Contemplation, meditation, is always onto the simplest of the simple things. Just stay there and let it work its magic. Green is a universal there's another Non-thought out into Super Non-existence. Into the Real. The gods approach. The boy in you languidly waits.
3210 Today, you can jump on one of the roads of the Via Moderna, a Super Highway, and take off in all directions at once. I often go traveling. I am a traveler. Unfortunately, the travail one must endure getting through the traffic jams all along the route is encrusting; you bog down fast. Nonetheless, one arrives instantly at nowhere. The Nowhere. I often go traveling. I am a traveler.
My fellow travelers, the Deconstructionists, these non-philosophers of extreme nominalism, will quickly take you up into the heaven of Pure Forms. I know that many do say that they are merely nervous sloganeers, performance magicians, Rock Stars, but those ejaculations aren't slogans of revolution. They are steps on the Stairway to Heaven. The Scala Paradisi.
Oh, the Deconstructionists. Dynamically subdued (bogged down in subversion), they twist up and for an instant reveal another world. They make statements that are totally useless, scientifically speaking. Impractical fluff - but transporting. Instantaneously, in the all-directions-at-once of academic, anemic (quasi gnomic) gossip. They are true philosophers in spite of themselves. Philosophy really is transcendental madness. I are that.
Deconstructionism, is a philosophy, not literary criticism, or any kind of political, psychological, or social analysis. I know it has to pretend to be that because it so badly wants to not be uncool metaphysics, but, Hey, metaphysics is back in style. Deconstruction is ontological analysis, world-destruction, the opening door, the revelation of Pure Light. A difficult, droning liturgy. The heady stuff of trying to fly in the head wind of the Spirit. Or a stuffy head. Or a fly. Its great subversive pronouncements are bogglements thrown up by these catty mind-burglers to keep back state legislators. I love that stuff. It's like me, a realist, insisting insisting insisting that universals exist. Up-lifting when you finally get it. Anyway, philosophy is a stunning joke made by formerly brainy boys - some of whom now number among those over-weight, feminist deconstructionists.
All philosophical facts, all ontological pronouncements, are transcendent. Or they are nothing. Either way they are useless for the everyday. Man, however, is only half of the everyday. Man is also There, even while he is here. Therefore philosophy, true religion, is necessary. His sanity requires this madness. Boys skipping off to this other world in their minds. The practical minded girls hate it. Platonic, faggot Realism will save Deconstruction from the practical minded Bitches. Now, there's a transcendental fact for you.
3211 What is the difference between standing on a hotel top in Kathmandu and gazing over at the peaks of the Himalayas rising up on the far Northern horizon and imagining that you are doing so. Between walking down a lonely Lisbon side street in the rain and imagining you are? Between kissing that one you saw on the bus and imagining you are? Surprisingly not very much. A few insignificant details may be different. The feeling may be greater of less in one or the other sometimes imagination feels more intense, more real (Pessoa). Some imaginationists, eidetic imagers and expert masturbationists, are so good they can "examine" the image as we would only be able to do with perception. Nonetheless, there is a difference between imagination and perception it's just that that difference doesn't lie with the object or the feelings the object raises up. The act of imagining itself, even a powerful act, "feels" different from perception. It announces itself as imagination and as different from perception. Thus it is as the difference between yellow and blue. Analysis stops. And then there is illusion, where we mistake the one thing for the other. A disentangling of the dialectic of perception, imagination, and illusion (not to mention judgment) requires that all three be separate things and clearly seen to be so (when clearly seen). The important thing is to leave the mind-warpingly difficult ontological analysis of error out of the picture until the lesser ontological, or perhaps phenomenological, labor is finished. Make the subtle ontological cuts and then nicely9 hang the excised pieces on their proper hooks in the metaphysical structure, the Juggernaut of Being.
The brain mediates sensa. We really are intimately one with them. We can also imagine sensa and that we are one with them also. Real sensa and imagined sensa are hardly different at all. Sensing and imagining that we are sensing are two not one. But are there two kinds of sensings one real and one imaginary? No, sensing is sensing even when it is the object of the act of imagining. One will perhaps be more vivid and "solid" than the other, but which is which is different for different times.
3212 Boys don't cry. That's especially true in academia. Emotion has no place in critical analysis. Hard, unrhetorical, stumbling syntax, but precise, reveals one's worthiness. And so the schools, in order to overcome the disruptive pain of being a living thing, work assiduously to psychologize the ever-intruding rhythms of love and sex into the unrhythmical terms of needs and the economy of bartering. And the domination of the body politic. But it's like trying to swallow a string.
No doubt, this is the work of the super-ego. Keep reason and urges within tight linear bounds. None of that crumbling at the edges. No consideration of things at infinity. Look straight ahead toward the goal of the task at hand. Never, but never, become self-reflective; mirrors are the bane of control. Go to the market, get tidbits of meat to throw at the weak evil of the flesh, just enough to satisfy it for the while. Rise above. Enter the dispassion. Clear reasoned analysis is as gentle and refreshing as the evening breeze in a shaded grove. Deep relaxation. .. And then it turns dusky and twilight desire sets in. And panic. Pan. Wake up! Back to reasonableness!
In these writings, I am super-reflexive. I live at the infinite edge. I am where crying and pain become dispassion and gently tortured reason. I write desire and the sexual orgasm so controlled. I dominate my being dominated completely and perfectly. My rhythms break rhythmically. Always this for that. I am a sly businessman buying the boy of the back shadows in this off place and time of the market. The mercurial, hermetic one. Feral and deferring. The super-ego is the guardian of the esoteric.
3213 I don't know if I have or have not, in these words, been trying to agitate the public with one more philosophy of revolution. I think not. I think I have simply written up my delight in the Boy's transcendent mischief. And I have, therefore, tried to raise up in my readers the Platonic Pleasures. Or maybe that is the oxymoronic Platonic Revolution itself. Eternal change and the Unchanging are at each other.
In this very capitalist country we are washed over continually with talk of revolution. Every system, every ordering, every established comfort gives way to the New. The future is coming in fast and nothing stands in its gale. But, if you can but trim your sails and adjust to the wind's direction, you can survive. Otherwise, all that you have will go to another. Change! Change! change! Tear down the old, capture its material goods and set up the new! We are trying to love this monster. But resentment also sets in.
When Time comes and takes away every thing and every possibility for happiness, some of us, or rather most of us, lash out, trying to stop the wind. Systems of still, enforced order are imposed. A religion of eternal things is set up. Violations of the ordering is severely punished. Time's great exuberance is brought low. Rigor mortis and the dead collude. Platonism, it is said, has done its dirty work.
But that isn't Plato. Just as Nazism isn't Nietzsche. To read both Plato and Nietzsche is to be immersed in the heady stratosphere of high, encircling oceans. Thought grows large and boys play. Eternity outruns time.
3214 It is a principle of Platonism and, indeed, of Aristotle, himself a Platonist, and of the NeoPlatonists, so theatrically Platonic, that we become gods by lifting our minds up the contemplation of the pure Forms, eternal and unchanging. All the while being moderate and ethical in the polis. Dangerously stuffy stuff. Where's the madness of love that Plato said took us up to heaven? Today's universities are not where it is found. They are places of theory without the messiness of Eros, for sure. The heart of Platonism was ripped out so soon. Two thousand four hundred years of a lifeless body.
Those of the passion of Christ, the sufi, even Nietzsche, tried to resuscitate it, but they too succumb to a show of moderate sensibleness. And the mad were just mad. Whether or not I have succeeded is debatable. Or maybe I obviously haven't and debate is pointless. Still, I tried. Read these words as though success is mine.
As I understand the madness that Plato described, it is something imputed to those who have been blinded by the brightness of the Forms and now cannot find their way in the world. No doubt in that other world they move with sight and certainty. Why would I want to capture that charge of madness here, when in fact I was the most sane There? Why not just leave or at least move out to the country away from the crowd? What's the value of madness? Why make it mine?
Is it love that takes us to heaven or the madness of love? Is love madness? Μηνιν αιδεω. Moderation in all things, except love. Love is madness, albeit a divine madness but what is that? It is super-intellectual sailing. The contemplation of the Pure Forms is not easygoing stuff. We are here near the Absurd. And the show begins.
3215 Jesus and the New Testament are full of argument. That's why I love them. That boy is not only an arguer, but also a complainer. He is real. The god of love, so erotic, leads us down the path to dialectic. And the tearing of its sacrifice. Theological, philosophical, ontological argument is the Glory. Bring it around. Force it. Drive it to the perfect Point. Stand in the Fire. And feel the cool breeze.
Your arguments that this is absurd will crumble before his desire.
3216 This is Philosophy, not Not-philosophy. I have not tried, as all the others have, to destroy the old thing and substitute science in its place. I have gone all the way with philosophy; it is here full-blown. In the Ancient Wind. We will rise up, in the forgetfulness of every this and that, into the contemplation of those pure Forms, the ever young, the shimmering of ecstatic existence over the gods. A frightfully alluring love. This is surely madness. This is the reason science is demanded by so many. But it may not be what you think it is.
For us science is the illusion of Magic. Video games and hallucination drugs. Science is imaging. Neural manipulation. Fantasy with no reality to support it. It is Maya. But Philosophy is the Real.
The existing thing pushing on you. The logic of the logic working it way through you. A just That. None of that is fantasy or magic or illusion. The Real is at you. You cannot conjuring away with scientific formula.
3217 I have walked and walked and walked miles and miles around and through and deep into Bangkok and Istanbul and Cairo and Bombay. Megacities. At such times one is impressed by quantity, and not quality. It is always tiresome, but the walking continues. These cities are not alluring or beautiful or revealing of any mystery. They are just big and packed. I continue because I am taken by the great quantity of it all. They are absurd cities. It is the sublime incoherence of that. I will return. I have written a very long continuing work that is the same.
Just as it is impossible to give you a little piece of any of those cities - to show, for example, some older, delicate beauty - and still retain the absurd, great feeling of that city, so I cannot excise any smaller, more manageable part and pretend that I have been accommodatingly comprehensible. Philosophy has become, for all of us, and is a huge thing that is too much for the human mind. Walk around in what I have written and refrain the best you can from trying to sum it all up in one more page of final paragraphs. That, in fact, is what I have been doing and it has come to nothing except the quantity now more like an avalanche or tsunami. There will be no adequate, academic analysis of that Wind.
3218 I've been wondering if I have some sort of Platonic or Socratic dialogue going on with my reader, but it hardly seems possible. I should say that the style of my writing hardly seems so. Nonetheless, in my own head there does seems to be at least an argument taking place. It may be a gentle conversation. For sure I am always trying to second-guess my reader, You my Friend. And you are friend, not opponent or mere interlocutor. Still, it's a deviant type of dialogue/conversation. It's a mono-dialogue. But what is that and what good is it?
Or I am talking to myself. I am my reader. For sure, I have insisted that I am not the writer of these words. I am totally surprised at what I write and have written. God did it to me. That sprite. The mischievous imp. Kim. Or I am talking to him, Him, him. The aporia is here.
I feel like a slave-boy in a great house and I am talking secretly, furtively with the son of the Master, the Father. An illicit love affair, a strange union, is taking place between us. I have never been able to call God, Father. I have been able to call the son, lover. As a slave, I have a freedom that the son never had. I led him down; I introduced him to the un-cosmos of our dissolving into each other. We talked. That talk is philosophy. The highest, most orderly tight with the lowest, most free. Thus a dialogue that has become a monologue.
3219 The church is the ordinary. It is the inert mass of the mass. It is the log the fiery flames dance over. It is the hometown audience the traveling theater of spiritual delights leads to the precipice. It is also the ordinary. It is also the mass. And therefore it is also the log from which the stage for these transcendental epiphanies is constructed. Across the limelight, on the boards, in the regalia and Pomp, priests dance with altar boys around the sacrifice of Christ red blood, torn flesh, immersed in the twilight of holy substance. Commotion argues out a grand theology. Wooden eyes watch. Revolution brews. The mash and the mess for the soldiers of this War God.
As a boy I attended church camp. Lovely mornings on the lake. Ladies making breakfast. Bible readings and gentle prayer. On long lonely walks in the nearby woods boys would carve their initials in hearts on old trees. For Jesus and each other. Surges of puberty had come into their beds over night. It now rode on the breezes of dawn. And timber pollen. The water lapped at their smooth thighs. These well-behaved, primly-dressed boys contained the clamor of heavenly war. They never had much to say. Their sighs were barely visible.
3220 The dialectic is a constant wandering; it is a planet among the stars. Like gentle conversation it seems to be a wild, that is to say, uncontrollable thing. The way of society's deviants. But the logos in dialogos is following tightly onto the lover's certain path. Around the blinding, burning sun of luring Uncertainty.
I write not knowing where I am going in the always-dark night of thought. Thought thinking itself is my guide. I even return to my former steps and redirect them and the end already arrived at is other. It is the erotic. It is fit for true pedagogy. I lead the boy. But then, he is leading me.
To teach is to lead your students down the primrose path. And because that is always an act of love, in company with Eros, a holding back between student and teacher cannot be. Make sure you want an erotic tie to your student, and he to you, before you begin. I fear that true education will be rare. Few will want to be led out into such wild places. Places where, in the dark, a sense of touch is the important thing.
3221 Gay aggression is always done for the sake of an intimate coming together. There is always a moment of yielding in it. And the going toward is a going into and becoming. Likewise, gay gentleness is gay violence. Boundaries are overcome. Divisions disappear. The one thing spins. Words are spoken.
A night of physical lovemaking is accompanied by talk. Back and forth, the words have meaning beyond themselves. The two coalesce. A middle ground is found. The opposing force is taken as one's own. Dialectic snaps into place.
3222 It could be that I am a closeted solipsist and that I have that fact hidden away even from myself. And dear reader, that you are no other than my own self. I think it is very strange that these writings receive no, absolutely no, response from "outside". I have sought it strenuously. I only get tired. There is no one there. I hit the void.
I know God. I don't know of Him or about Him, I know the Thing directly. It talks Itself to me as Himself. And I am that. Solipsism is easy after that. The world is in God and I am nothing other than that Sarco Fagus. Any response I receive would be no other than that.
3223 The American sense of religion seems to have turned around the older ordering of spirit to body. If I understand history correctly, the male was the principle of good order and steadfastness of character and the female was an emotional inconstancy. The man had to husband the woman. She, when properly controlled, was then his helpmate in his giving form to the social world. Today everything is reversed, at least here on the American prairie. The male here never grows up. He is always a playful boy. He is the freeborn son of the open sky. He likes his mechanical toys. He is a quiet seething of emotions. He needs a good strong woman to make him settle down and she will bring order to his life. Here, it is the woman of the prairie who has been the steady center of the society. She has done the work of making sure the kids are fed and educated. She has kept the church going. It is she that has kept the family's finances in order, while her man has been out with the boys getting into trouble. It is she who tends to his needs, not he to hers. She is the ordered steadfastness and he is the emotional inconstancy. Likewise, since raising a family is the main function of the couple, he has become more of a helpmate to her and not she to him. He does, in the good times, manage to bring home a little money though she has to keep him from spending it on his toys. Women keep it all together.
I think this is because our view of the relation between spirit and matter has changed. Woman is still the material principle. And man is still spirit. And spirit is still intellect. Intellect, though, has come to be something else. It has grown up into a flying, paradoxical thing. It is a free, playful thing wanting out of its bonds. It goes where it wants. It creates fantastic things. It is always changing itself into something else. Spirit is spirited. It becomes wild. Woman, everyday material weight, makes spirit come home at night and settle down. And when he goes a little too wild in his dreams, she domesticates him. This wild horse is broken and corralled and made useful. Such is life on the prairie.
Against their inner desires men here have become materialists. They have come to see themselves as, not only out of control, but the cause of all the trouble that is about. Women are the principle of good, men are the principle of dare I say it? evil. They are, here on the prairie, a little too boyish to be such a grand thing; but, nonetheless, boys in their night dreams worry that they have become that. Women give life, men screw it up. Heavy matter brings spirit down from flying too high, too near the sun. Matter is real and spirit is only a beautiful dream. God, apparently, created woman to bring settled order to a man's life. God uses women to domesticate men. Such I have learned out on the prairie.
I, however, deviating from the norm, am a philosopher. A high-flier into the heights of pure thought, here on this Platonic Prairie. I have escaped from being corralled by matter and I have entered onto the High Road to the Sun. Or I have become mad. The prairie wind is sometimes a tornado of confusion. I track the spiritual Beauty of God into illicit places. No matter, I am beyond the law. Or do you think I have become presumptive?
Theologically speaking, historically a strange speaking indeed, I follow the lead of Plato and Aristotle and I head for the separate Forms. In the high stratosphere of the soul, into the thinness of the Spirit, the self is not longer tied to the material senses. It roams among the disembodied intellects we call angels. Here one dies to matter and is born again in the Ethereal places. And God becomes beloved. Here the rush of love is free of the sluggish animal. Huri and jinn beckon in His eyes. His kiss sends the spirit into that night where thought transcends itself into the Itself in the Oblivion of Super-essential non-existence. And the girls here roll their eyes and say, "What in the hell are you talking about, Honey. It's time you get to work."
I walk away and I don't come back.
(Did you like my capital letters?)
3224 That was an interesting non-conversation we had on the street yesterday. Let me presume to describe you to you. I, of course, know next to nothing about you, but I will pigeon-hole you anyway because you might actually like the clothes I dress you up in or whatever. Let's say you fit the mold of Christian fundamentalist. (You no doubt will spill outside that mold, but I will ignore that messy part of you.) My friend, who was with me when we talked, is always so upset that Americans don't know the constitutional principles on which this country was founded. He is most decidedly not a Christian fundamentalist; nonetheless, you and he are the same in one way principles and fundamentals are the same thing. Both of you want to get down to the foundation. It is on that that the house will be built. I have no interest, time or inclination toward such grounding. I am a magical high flier, which I think I told you about, far off the ground. I look for the Beloved and the uncertainty of Christian romantic love. God is my desire, not my building contractor.
The problem with foundation seekers and their need to set everything else down onto that is that, trying to get away from the already built-up slums, they always enter into the desert of reductionism. Singing their song out on those vast stretches of dry hard sand they are Johnny-one-note. (Do I have my metaphors twisted up here?) And the problem with that is that the desert, they eventually find, is populated with the most fantastic spirits of madness. Not love's madness just madness.
I most certainly don't reduce Christianity, or any other kind of love, to principles or fundamentals or any set of earth-bound certainties. I do not try to deduce a great imprisoning structure of security and call it heavenly freedom. I do not make a contract or covenant with God. I wait to be ravished by him. I wait for rapturous delights. Even now the clamor of lovers on the street is rising up because the Beloved approaches. In the end only that Face will remain.
Fundamentalists, of every stripe, are children of the Enlightenment, that time when reason wanted to lay the soul down on a bed of sure axioms and certain deductions of Truth. Romanticism came and blew them all away, but now they have almost made their way back, and they are going to take over and bring order, blessed order, to the world. They even feel strong enough to take on the Deconstructionists. I, however, am a Platonist, from a time long before the Protestants' dry reason.
3225 Maintaining a clear view of the object-act distinction is essential in this latter-day time of doing philosophy, but it is easily overlooked by most in the sweltering constriction that is the modern poetry of physiology. That thought-phusis, that unsightly growth, that cancer, has taken over. It is now almost impossible to speak the old hard-won ideas without being interrupted by those wanting us to wait until the Cat scans are completed surely by next Tuesday we will have a better idea of the physiology involved. The involutions will account. For everything. Our world, that is to say, the earth and the whole universe, is "schematically" at least, represented on the physiology of our neural network and that is what we it is here that the object-act distinction is lost. Should I say that we know/see that representation or that we are that representation? Am I my brain or do I use it as the medium of my knowing. Is it the schema (hardly anything at all) that is "between" the world and "me" (again hardly anything at all)?
Thomas and the Aristotelians had the same problem with regard to the Informing Forms. For them, I think, the form of some material thing, after it was detached, "became" me and you and any thinking mind. It informed the immaterial material of the soul. They did, for the most part manage to maintain the distinction between the self and the form that it became. Still, I think the idea, though true, is so confused that I haven't tried to "fix up" my explanation and description of it. You have read books about it and you know in the somewhat of all trying to know. Abstractions of abstractions become tangled.
Physiology, because it is grounded in presumably sure, fixed, solid principles and observations, will not get tangled it is thought by most. Nonsense. It is the headiness of adolescence thinking it can take over now and do it right in a sort of tough-mindedness.
Finally, thought gives way. Principles lose their principalities to the wind and solid foundations crumble leaving impregnable fortresses to be impregnated by boys running around and jacking off on the strewn ruins. Under the blazing Sun. Philosophy, at its utmost, in the extreme, cannot be done cleanly. That love of the Saphos, the clean and clear, is messy. The object-act distinction is overcome. Unity is achieved. The boy's physiology moves over you at night.
The cleanliness of science is unclean. That is its only saving grace. Thought moves on uncontrollably. The Wild Boys and cut-up angels.
3226 Up and down are one. Inside and outside are one. Light and dark are one. Love and hate are one. And on and on. Heraclitus said it mystically, and the darkness of his saying has drawn us ever since. That unity of opposites is madness to thought. We all feel that it is true and that it is somehow not true. In this philosophy I have always sought the nexus that unites, a thing external to the two to be united. I like the feel of a well-ordered construction. The opposite of this philosophy of the external tie is that of the internal. First, let me ask the philosophical question of why up is not one with inside and down with outside. For the non-philosopher that is a strikingly nonsensical question. He would reply that it is simply "in the natures" of up and down to go together and the same for inside and outside. That "in their natures" is the idea of the internal tie. It is usually named the "doctrine of internal relations". Such an internal thing is no existing thing at all, the believers will insist. Natures, likewise, are not existing things. This doctrine is not really a philosophy at all, but an attempt to stop the absurd search for things to account for what we clearly see and feel. Up and down go together and you cannot have the one without the other. Thinking stops. That dark mystical feeling of non-philosophy, of non-thought, of life's dream, is the "doctrine of internal relations". An almost religious belief. Still, I must admit that there is a strange coming together of their and my philosophies when I reach the cataclysmic, orgasmic end of ontology. Well, let me quickly jump down and say that they are one and they are not one.
3227 The middle voice is the instrument of philosophical dialogue. As the words talk with themselves and generate from out of themselves the idea they are, Being comes to be, the Logos of understanding understands itself through itself, in itself. From out of themselves, the things of ontology appear in the self-appearing of pure appearing. These simple things that ground the complexities of the world are themselves ungrounded except from themselves. Thus we are back at the philosophical idea of a being that must exist. The meaning of the Ontological Argument holds sway.
3228 What is cause and effect? It's an infuriating philosophical question. There are at least thirty-six different theories by now, none of which seems to capture it. Something is missing. Perhaps it would help if we separate cause from ground. By having an ontological ground for ordinary things, the need to have "something more" may be taken away from cause-effect when it is seen as a nexus between to separate things. But then again, I see that it is shoved over into the something that makes an ordinary object be more than its ontological ground. That latter idea, though, while it makes ordinary sense, makes no ontological sense in that then the "more" would be an ontological thing and regress would set in. What to do? Ontologically, one cannot get at the ordinariness of ordinary objects. Ordinary objects have a complexity that the simple things of ontology cannot capture. Still, I think ground, aside from cause, is a better place to look for that extra thing, if only because philosophy has time to waste on such matters.
That rupture is not only my theme, but philosophy has always been concerned for itself because of it. Ontology is madness to the complex worldly mind and the philosopher is stunned. He deals with it. Caused, grounded, whatever, the world is there. Or here.
3229 This philosophical writing is, like Kim, in an in-between place. It is perhaps prose-poetry. Or poetry-prose. Prose and poetry both fit into its feel somehow. It most certainly should not be read in the dry, unrhythm of analytical philosophy.
3230 By searching out the simplest existing things, ontology tries to account for what appears before the mind's eye. No definition of this doing of philosophy is adequate, but that will do. Ontological statements will be the most general statements of ontological fact - three of which are the ones I have tried to capture in those three sentences. More sentences, aligned with more ontological facts, will follow. Let me call these ontological facts the transcendental Forms of Being. Empty of the everyday, but replete with that philosophical feel. Useless, except for meditation. Religion hovers about.
So I invite you to contemplate the absence of these facts from every locale. The ground of all the things that are is not here. Being itself and the Forms of Being are nowhere. That absence, ontological Absence, is, in ontological fact, one of the Forms of Being. It too is an entryway into the vision of God. God nestles down in Absence. God being one of the Forms of Being. And the One that is the Scattering in Absence. Lovely intellectual things. Pointless.
3231 By searching out the simplest existing things, ontology tries to account for what appears before the mind's eye. No definition of this doing of philosophy is adequate, but that will do. Ontological statements will be the most general statements of ontological fact - three of which are the ones I have tried to capture in those three sentences. More sentences, aligned with more ontological facts, will follow. Let me call these ontological facts the transcendental Forms of Being. Empty of the everyday, but replete with that philosophical feel. Useless, except for meditation. Religion hovers about.
So I invite you to contemplate the absence of these facts from every locale. The ground of all the things that are is not here. Being itself and the Forms of Being are nowhere. That absence, ontological Absence, is, in ontological fact, one of the Forms of Being. It too is an entryway into the vision of God. God nestles down in Absence. God being one of the Forms of Being. And the One that is the Scattering in Absence. Lovely intellectual things. Pointless.
3232 We must not forget that Socrates was an old, ugly, fat pedophile. By his own admission, he was base, even if he did pray to have a fair soul (I suppose so that he might the better attract the better boys). He is a frightful thing. And the more frightening is that the better boys yielded willingly to him just as he was. Beauty and the beast. That ogre is inside all of us and we love him with a strange love. Deinos.
Socrates turned philosophy into an erotic, intellectual gymnastic. A rough loving. The thrill of rape. Until transcendental Rapture. Deinos.
God is the beautiful Son. He is the hoary old thing. He is the hair-standing-on-end Spirit, the black-faced whirling Night. Deilos. That is the life of dialectical reason.
3233 The abduction of Ganymede is one of the few mythological stories that have retained their truth through the ages. Quite aside from being an erotic favorite, it describes our relation to that classical world now itself raised up into myth. An abduction is an abduction. A rape is a rape. That it was carried out by a descendent of the Tyrannosaurus Rex indicates the roughness of it, scales and spiny feathers, fang and beak, claws, terrible things for the soft flesh of a young boy. The truth it describes is the fact of pedagogy. It describes the necessary act of domination of student by teacher. It is sexual. In this high ideal, the boy is taken out of the everyday pleasures of home and given over to a demanding stranger. He is molded into the forms of grammar and rhetoric and logic. Geometry is forced into his mind. He is given no choice but to assiduously practice his mental exercises. Then, by means of these daily spiritual gymnastics, he is pushed into the nearly impossible dialectics of Platonic philosophy. He is forced into a rapture he never wanted. He is educated out of this world into the timeless Other. In this high ideal. The now mythologized classical world. Our students, in sharp contrast, are now much more lax and flaccid - and free.
3234 I pass over the boy and I watch. I caress him gently. I bring him, in the thin air, to the summit. I leave him there and I watch him pass over. I am the shiver up his back. We return down the mountain and I become my rough self again, clambering about. There is something velvet and dark around his skin.
I am that Whitmanian kind of thing. The hovering spirit. The watcher. The one desirous of desire. I am desire in-going. The burning prairie.
3235 This book may end up being read only by nerdy, gay intellectuals - like me. I can't imagine anyone else taking the time to read it. The thinking of this book combines those maddening philosophical puzzles made even more maddening with the erotic extravaganza of a mystical breaking out of here. This is Platonism, the classical home of the gay spirit. Religion crawls about. The urgency of intellectual argument abounds. Soon the vision of That comes and out-of-sight insight lights up. A thing not only of the mind but also of crotch and sparkling eyes glancing. The shivering thrill of dusky otherness. This is way too much for the sedated of ordinary society. Nerdy, gay intellectuals have their secret pleasures. The mind walks in strange places. Ancient beings lounge.
3236 Jesus was Ganymede idealized into the closest intimacy with the God of Terrible Love. An abduction from which we have always tried to avert our eyes. An earthly boy, the son of a ragged woman, himself a nothing of the street, chosen, adopted, and made to have always been the eternal, blinding effulgence of God. In an instant nowhere in time. His closeness to Him became and then was from eternity complete. The logic is as tight and ragged, as is that raptus into divine gloom.
These gods ever return. The Forms are always exemplified before the mind. Nothing is or can be lost. The terror and the delight are with us without let up. The thing here lifted up and the lifted up descending into our schoolbooks, and we again fall back into the reverie of the Real.
3237 Philosophers, trying to be as humble as they can, trying to avoid being a part of the common show, wanting to be only a vanishing speck of dust in the vast intellectual luminescence of divine effulgence, or at least not wanting to be noticed as a candidate for dismissal from the dismal order of like-minded thinkers, have marvelously succeeded in taking all style and charm from their words. I suspect that they, from childhood, have been marvelously suited for such a bleak undertaking. They have ended up writing only for each other. And the others read them only to see if they have been outdone in the blandness they call scholarly objectivity. Which is not to say that I don't learn something from them now and then. Even if they can't get the hang of the rhythms of Being, they do snatch, at times, pieces of ontological cloth from the dancing god. And I do get hot at the prospect of spying a little more of His moving skin.
God has style. He is the best dancer. He is the captivating show. Why others don't or won't pay the price of admission is a mystery I have never tried to fathom. Admittedly the price is very high - one's reputation is totally ruined - but such delight!
A complete analysis of Being requires a laying out of its rhythms. Being moves. In the eternal instant, it becomes the completed turn of the self-moving mind. The breath-catching perfection of his spritely step. A twinkling in the eye of his pounding gaze, suddenly still and at you. The philosopher must work his sentences, force them into repetition and the timed leaving off, and the taking up again.
Being is in and of the Chant. The quiet monologue timed by the beating rush of blood. Even to the place when the meaning of the words as other than He leave off and only His droning presence is so comfortably present. I have somewhat learned the methods of this way beyond, but a greater science of it will surely come after I have written and danced so shamelessly for you. My sentences move. They are conceptually unstable, as the male body, so up and almost flying, must always step out and arrest its immanent fall. I am ever waiting for the next instant of being caught by the up-draught of Being. The words come; I ride them. Others will sing them.
3238 The mythos of Ganymede has traditionally told, in a useless telling, of a spiritual love. The boy is raptured away to transcendent places. It is the counterpart of that god's earthly love of women. It is thus a part of the dualism that is Platonic philosophy. Heaven separating from the earth, the gods standing apart from the giants, philosophers keeping out of sight of the builders and makers or material things. The Act that is an end in itself. Entelechy. The way there is fraught with danger. Blood flows. Sacrifice is close. The violence of true pedagogy appears for an instant - and vanishes. Unspeaking speaking unspoken. Secret pleasures. The sufi cup is passed. Lip and finger. The intellectual arguments are difficult.
3239 This beautiful boy god Jesus, who walks with me and sleeps with me, this god of the American religion, the passerby taking me with him, confounds. Well, yes, a frightening spirit. A degenerate, sneaky thing. An imp. My goodness! The prairie is not a nice place. The gentleness covers a killing thing.
I write so gently of that terrible thing called ο δεινος. The holy. The self-caused. I pull myself into my own existence. I write my own writing. I see my own seeing. I am Being itself. The logic of my logic is impeccable. The God in the Boy is smeared all over me. I think Him into His own existence. And I am the other of his being other. My Form has always been me. I will be no other. I am Him.
The prairie wind blows gently through his hair. Into the eternity in his darkly flowing blood. Uncaused. From out of himself. The groundless ground of things.
3240 To do philosophy, for or against its traditional ways, it is necessary to make a shift in one's thinking. In philosophical intuition, the ordinary object is, rightly or wrongly, usefully or maliciously, broken apart into its ontological pieces. Whether this is merely a matter of conceptual abstraction, far from the really there, or it is a revealing of the really there, overcoming the confusion of the everyday, is the very substance of philosophical argument. Everyone agrees it is an entryway into the eternal gods. But many see the gods as no more than the beginning of illusion and insanity. Again, all agree, the madness is there. Whether it is divine or malign hangs in the air.
The question of the existence of universals, of the Forms, of essences - call them what you will - is central within the essence, the Form, the universal thing that is philosophy.
3241 Differences disappear into that One Thing. That Thing is strong and full of presence. The mind is passive to its force. This is the Really Real. Finally. Aside from this there are only the philosophies of fading differences falling off into the nothing at all. The One Thing is Unsettling and Demanding; the well of slipping differences seems to offer relief.
3242 We live in harsh times. The gentle and the civilized, the cultured and the cultivated, the well-read, the well-spoken, the well-wisher is brutally shoved aside. His soul flames and burns. Until his better nature asserts itself again. He tries to understand. His understanding somewhat accommodates itself to the world as it is. Nothing has changed. The gods and the giants are at it ever again.
Along with Socrates I have to say that I am both noble and base. I force an understanding. I am the sheep dog boy out on the edge of the city. Tangles and brier. Dry creek beds. Corydon after Alexis. The hot sun. Vain hope. And then rocks thrown downhill into the night.
The boy leaves with a statement that quietly shocks. Liquid fire softly, slowly flows. I whisper. I float. I try to think. This, the origin of thought, yields little when pressed. Its uselessness and ineptitude rile me. I will have being. And Being! I pass by sorrow without a word. To a place I know well. I sweetly sweetly know this very rough and very gentle thing. This thing cultured to the place of decadence. Into the city of destruction. Fine philosophy. The poets spit.
3243 I have decorated these pages with reclining nudes. I think Michelangelo would have understood the importance of that. They are Aristotelian Entelechies. Useless leisure. A contemplation of the Forms that ends in itself. The End of my contemplation of the Eternal Forms. The beginning to which I return after the oblivion that takes my words when I enter the One. Philosophy, at its peak, reverts to being the philosopher once again being just a boy lying on his bed in his Uranian undertaking.
3244 Jesus, the historical Jesus, was most certainly not the cosmic, metaphysical Jesus of later theology. He was, no doubt, an ordinary guy looking to free his people from Roman occupation. Probably a type of Pharisee. A good Jew. This worldly. And in the end a failure. He was eventually dead and gone. Then came along Paul, likewise and by his own admission, a failure. Together they brought on the modern world with a grand synthesis of Judaism and the religions of the rest of the world. Even today the Jews are scandalized.
3245 Jesus is God. The historical Jesus, the one who would be messiah, was nothing of the sort. The cosmic, metaphysical, transcendental, mythological Jesus of the Eucharist is. The King of the Jews, the spiritual insurgent, the would-be destroyer of Rome, the earthy religious Pharisee, the revolutionary, died and is no more. Both are true ideas. Jesus, as all non-monophysite believers know, had two natures - the divine and the human. It is a mistake to cancel out one in favor of the other. Well, no. The dialectic is complicated and not all that easy. That boy glittering star, faggot queen of heaven, beloved of all, did manage to be both, but at great cost. His destruction and rampage have leveled the earth. Ground in his grinding, I become him, the immolation, the scattered sacrifice, the starry night, that keeps my own destruction at bay. Destruction staves off destruction. That adolescent plotting rebellion has me in thrall.
3246 All the interconnections give way and the one thing remains. The socializing stops and he is there well-formed. Tight in himself. Thinking his own thoughts. Looking. Watching. Taking care. He holds the world delicate and balanced. Aside from all he is himself perfect in himself. He is an object of art. I gaze at him. The world has disappeared in his eternity.
Well yes, he is hardly human now, but then human boys always have something inhuman about them.
3250 This is an extreme philosophy. Philosophy itself is always extreme. The god is here. This god has always been. His lovers, those who know him directly, are transported away. The others read about the strange disappearance.
Excess. Excess and obsession and the lure. The predicament. The predicate. You have become no more than a fleeing form. Entangled and released from matter. And entangled. His locks. And his key.
Socially speaking, there are those who have fallen out of society. Alone in their rooms, they are hardly shadows of what they might have been in the world. Their spirit has gone to join the heavenly Socii. Rags. Litterateurs. Dandies. Mental onanists.
Discovering the self beyond the self, dying the death of the ordinary victim, precise, they slither along the skin of heaven's Beauty. The god is commodious. They are closeted in the vastness.
These lovers are the dialectical engine that careens society through the night of time. The secret impulse. The place never left. The constrained conjecture.
3251 I am writing political theory. A vision of the heavenly City. Uranian glistenings. Buggered noddings. Perhaps I am writing no more than the band of Entelechoi. The Governors. The unmoving movers of the Polis. The Ecclesiastics. The ungenerated. The ravishers.
My idea is this - we have to protect ourselves from them! We have to become so busy we don't see them. I have shoved them away under the, conveniently provided, shadow of God. We are not alone. God knows he kills inadvertently. We know but we know enough not to know.
The boy is the tyrant that rules the world. The Boy is Tyranny itself. The Idea. The Shining. It has long since consumed us. We look, in the time being, for the perfect denial. But God will not be killed by us so easily.
I am writing a textbook for the time after. For the drunken seminars. The lulled colloquia. On the topic of the Impossible Conjecture.
3252 Gay philosophy has always been Platonism. It suits the gay spirit well. It has that intense concentration on the one thing that defines the gay obsession. That essence. That glance. That sweet oblivion.
In the erotic vision the swelter of external relations all give way to the absolutely alone. In the heat of passion there is only That. At the final moment the one word is uttered and It is there. The Thought beyond thought. The Presence directly seeping in. Salvific catastrophe. A philosophy beyond the particular into the universal.
3253 The Platonist, in his silent contemplation, utters the word and the Thing appears. He sees the exquisite Refinement beyond space and time, beyond this and that, beyond all coloring and shape. Toying with existence he falls into the nothing at all. Held by the sheen of perfection he glides into difference. He spies himself up ahead. Syntax is the transforming itch. Autumn heat. His ears stand tall. He listens to himself. Down into himself. The out there overtakes him. The one thing.
3254 The intense, gay Platonist is perforce driven to poverty. Taken by the Beauty he sees, he becomes unconcerned about his personal property. Madness, they say. Unfit for society. Surely they are correct. The Form in him, he comes, at that end of thought, to himself, an entelechy. Because of the intimate becoming he has with the Form. He disintegrates in the Integral One. He is not his own. Beauty is strewn about.
But we are dealing here with the separate Forms and this philosopher's poverty is only Poverty reflected. He is poor and he is not; who can disentangle the dialectic of that? The camel's eye glares and dilates.
3255 Though worldly society tries to be a gathering of selves, each master of his own and respectful of the other, the erotic, questioning, analytical faggot invades and destroys the self in favor of Beauty, or would do so. The self is a substance. The Forms, allowed to be, supercede and the self must recede.
Society is a divine abscess. Selves from the Self, forms from the Form. Beauty pustules decorate the faces of the boys here. Until finally the necessity of making one's break. And the repulsion. And the pique. And the clean break is anything but clean. You loved him too close. Respect gave way to wary circumspection. Of the cutting round. He was too big for a polite gathering of selves. He set in motion commotion on the street.
3256 When a real boy is present and his beauty makes me stop and I want to lead him up and away, then to achieve purity of art I must sacrifice my life and his. Discipline is destruction.
To stay alive I go to the strewn body of the Beloved. I drink his blood. I eat his flesh. I am a good Christian. I substitute his destruction for mine. In the Forms of Being we are one thing. I, the dark and old, am the twilight glisten on the boy-god. He is my very self. I am a good and proper Christian. Thus I stay alive and I, at times, prosper.
I enter into the strenuously exact. Flow and line always intact. The permitted consorting with the licentious. Never falling one way or the other. Chaste touchings. Tasteful tastings. Ammon. Perfect destruction. Beauty and purity are finally oblivion.
The Beloved, the first undoing, undoes my eyes with dew. I have seen what it is not lawful to speak of. Stoppings and invadings and evenings in a windless city.
3257 The humanists want us to stick with the human. They want no conjectures and speculations about an otherworldly God. They do not want any leap into the unknown and the unknowable. Stick with the humanly conceivable. On which we can use the human stick of control.
These humanists don't stay true to their goal. They quickly admit, they are eager to assert, that all we know is the human and that is only the effluvia of the mysterious brain. They are materialists and the material world in itself remains always beyond our conceivings of it. The God of pure Intellect has given place to the Goddess of Matter, which finally becomes the unstable Void. These humanists want to love their having arisen from the dark womb of the Primal Mother. They are close to singing hymns to the hymen so ingloriously broken for them.
I too want to stay away from the mysterious beyond, but from the beyond of the dark Womb, the decentering pain, the sticky mass. Religion gives way to religion. I choose the darkness of too much light.
3258 The word is uttered in my mind and I understand. Without any specification or particularization, a thing is there in my understanding. Thus the phenomena of understanding. A syntactical structure of subject and predicate is uttered in my mind and I understand. I somehow know the most bare, subject particular and the most refined, general predicate form together. These elegant pieces of understanding are simply there. To give account of that we must hold the platonic separate Form. Even the Form of the particular itself.
I watch myself understanding. I faintly see the almost unseeable. The pure Form is there. The separate thing. The unattended. The directly on me. At a There that is nowhere. Dasein. I become that - for a fleeting instant - and I remember in the lingering scent.
Thus I am enchanted by beauty. Separate and chaste. Alone in his room.
3259 The tortured simply there. The simplicity of the One is sweet pain. I pick at the viral mole. It is the difficult and the twisted complication. Childish contradiction. God will not be had.
Can we really forgive each other for what we have done to each other? Being ourselves for ourselves, we are offensive. The seeing was sweet but deadly. The presence was too direct and invasive. Militant angels plying each other. Dematerialized light. Light beyond light.
3260 How does one make the jump from the ordinary to the transcendent? How does an accountant come to see numbers as of Number, as of the divine Essence? How does a scruffy face boy, so unconcerned with refined abstractions, so far from the thin ontological vision, come to be Beauty's appearing? What kind of mind, what kind of invasion into the everyday person's mind, must there be to permit such a rare and mad vision? What turns ordinary sex into transcendent oblivion?
First, we must be clear that such transformations (or deformations) do occur. They occur with such frequency and power as to define who we are. Consider how we turn an ordinary sound progression into near ecstasy. And word marks into great meaningful revelations. And a placing of the mouth as love. Need I go on? This change is the sum and substance of life.
The only explanation that works and makes sense is to say that there is the ordinary and there is the transcendent and they mingle. An absurd mingling that is surprisingly full of understanding. Finally perfect understanding.
3261 The ordinary things of the world obey the perfect orderings of mathematical form. They delicately yield to the knife of ontological analysis. They give way without remainder to the extra-ordinary. And in return they are the complete and total presence of the godhead. A fusion that is a bewildering confusion. The calm understanding of the perfect vertigo. The philosopher reduced to blatant nonsense.
The given is given in luminosity. It is the cut of the holy act, the ancient sacrifice, the magnificent awareness of destruction. We are clothed in its desire for us. We give our death over to it. We eat our own extension. And we glisten. We know.
Young flesh tastes good. The old God is hungry. We will serve it to Him uncooked. The wild for the wild. The lascivious One.
3262 This is the philosophy of Being and the One as Beauty. It is unspeakable transcendence spoken in broken thought. Beauty oozes. Frail, pale, baleful jailbait. But wait, it has always been so. Beauty is desire for beauty is suspect. The world frays. Oh, if only I could write long, complicated sensible sentence, instead of bursts of light! I am the simple and true for the few. The dew of dawn, I yawn and the fawn is beside me. I will get up and write.
Beauty and eros exist only in words about beauty and eros. The boy of desire is real only in the mind of the possessed. The world is empty of doing. Silent entrapments of thought. Intensity grows.
Beauty is not a calmness before an agitated lover. Beauty is the calm agitated lover beloved entangled. A perfect absurdity. I write it as often and as blatantly as I can. That One did a number on me. Not to worry; he never stays. Who pays?
Broken involution. Exit the inverts.
3263 The intentional object, in its definiteness, yields to the fusing conflagration of the thought. The magnificent complexity slides into the oneness of the One. The world is many; the mind is one. And it's done.
Lying there extended, he is gathered up into the simplicity of my awareness. The delight or the fright of that, the sweetness or the repulsion, the freedom or the tediousness, all sing the tight bright light and the panic of the consuming night. He is unaffected.
He is simply a given. It is the Illumination itself that gives. In gentle fear and eager boredom we are constrained to let it be. The world will not be laid aside. We are laid down beside it. The world is there.
The burning mind sublates itself.
3264 He says, "You are being eristic, not erotic". To create love's loving love leads love out into the difficult places. On the embattlements of the empty plane it will be or it will cancel itself out. And if completed it will do both. The ordinary mind will balk. The blithely gay will walk the walk and talk the talk late into the night. Philosophy is a delight. With frightful might it yields. In the brambles.
The self is a substance that must be maintained, but it is ontologically untenable. In this anti-substantialist philosophy of mine I must constantly rush to shore up. The levee breaks. The flood of Being threatens. I figure the heavenly logic. Oblivion. And I'm back. Magic boy joy. As far from nothing as is the first derivative from division by zero. Boggles and brambles of thought.
3265 There is nothing lush or voluptuous about the beloved of ontologic. He is the slight presence of the treble voiced. He is the thin, balmy air of a stormy night. He is the cut of contagion. He is contact just as that. Hard. The thought that jabs. The silken resoluteness of the incorrigible. The uplifting lightness of an itch. A moment's passion and then a leaving off.
The thing was perfect in itself. Need was not there. He toys with you. He could not not have been.
3266 Early on I fell in love with equality and substitution in mathematics. That two different things are one is the intensity of love. The word love, here, is not too strong; it is meant in strength. Pure mathematics and love are equal and one substitutes for the other.
Of course love's body is shapely and has mathematical form. It moves in and out of itself, always one always different. Smooth and with the smoothness of perfection in difference.
So I write the constant deviation of difference in sameness that is philosophical prose. And as mathematics and love are true so is this philosophy.
It has always been a problem for Philosophy that his lovers have at the last moment rejected him as just a dream. They have done ontological analysis and come up with marvelous fire, but when they have gone back to ordinary life they have extinguished it. No doubt the ordinary demanded that and if one is to deal in the ordinary one must renounce, or at least hide, the love making of the night before. Too bad. I have not closeted myself so willingly. I show my love scars in public and I do not make excuses.
Ontology finds the things that ground the ordinary world, but the ordinary world does not finally remain supreme. The things of ontology are more Real that the reality of the ordinary. Commonsense yields to the madness.
3267 How can I keep my readers from finally deciding that I have written only myth? Philosophy at the last perfecting minute jumps into what looks like myth or has the form of myth. Thought fuses with its desire. The philosopher and Being intersect without remainder. The victim is totally consumed and forgotten. The way back, it seems, it to deny it all. To forcibly assert commonsense. To avoid looking at the boy you took home last night.
The things of philosophy are real. They are not brain fumes, or mind babies, or epiphenomenal webbing. They are eternal gods - which I know sounds like much the same thing. Being is magical and there. That has been my gay activism. That love must come out of the closet and public announce itself. Alas, it has proven harder than I thought. The everyday world and that magic do not mix well, if at all.
3268 Nietzsche willfully tries to will the Will. But no, he fails. He is a dandy floating above it all. He loves Greek beauty and the boys of the blessed isles. He never succeeds at being butch. Just as a lover never really succeeds at becoming his beloved. But perhaps, at the final moment, in God, we all succeed. How could we live unless there is hope of that - therefore, it is true and we will.
3269 The gay spirit is always in contention with the "bar scene". Which is to say that the spirit is always in contention with the lusts of the body. Or it thinks it is. Rather it is in contention with the nihilistic spirit of comedy. There are two types at the bar. Sometimes these two inhabit the same body at the same time. The first type is the one that would ridicule the body, sarcastically or humorously. The second type reverently elevates the body to the appearance of a god, the god of beauty. He pants after him. The first type laughs and runs in fear of becoming such a pathetic thing. The "bar scene" is the high and the low of what we are. I am almost always of the second type. The name of that type, opposite the comedic, is the ironic - I use the old meaning of the word. To see the world ironically is to see the world as secretly divine, the spirit of ridicule having been banished. Inside the old and frayed body is the young and fresh eternal self. Away from the confused there is the light of perfect understanding. Or do you laugh at such presumption?
Those who see gods all about and even inhabiting their own mind are seen, by the worldly, as immature children grown old. They do not have the robustness of the tough-minded. They do not know how to make their way about commandingly in the world. They will never get their beloved. The former see these who consider themselves so tough as just rough and crude of spirit. The battle of the giants and the gods rages.
The gay spirit is not really in contention with the bar scene, rather it is in contention at the bar and it is quite a scene - Honey. The Sufis knew it well. The Saki-boy is still about, but in modern guise.
3270 There is one saying of Socrates that is hard to accept, but felt, alas, to be true. He says that the pure Form of Beauty exists in the mind of the lover, not all along the form of the beloved, who is only a faint image of that pure thing. Therefore, those old men standing along the edge of the room ogling the beauties as they move about are the holy temples of the god of that place. It makes one shudder to think of it.
Both the young men and the old faint at the thought of the god that hovers about among them. They both know it, or him. They are all as in a whirlpool falling inexorably toward the center, the black hole - of Light! Blinding light. Which is the darkness of perfect darkness. Beauty and the beast. A certain lusciousness. The irretrievable sacrificial victim. In the grime of the bar.
I never go to the bar; I have enough to contend with in my books.
3271 Again and again and again. The eternal return of the same. This religion, this philosophy, this obsession is all there is. Being from Being, just Being. The One is the One is the One. One, two, three - back into Being. Recursively running around like a cur. Growl and grumble you way back home. Howling in the night. "I saw the best minds of my generation ." The One mind splayed out ingloriously. It's a job. It's a blowjob. Blowing in the wind. The self with the self as other. The Other! No one is safe. Lord, save us. Same me. I want it one more time.
This is an absurd philosophy of quantity. I have nothing to say. The transcendent, delicate Nothing. Thoughts in a boy's head. Receiving head. Heady stuff. The stuff of thick translucence. The given is given again. Daimon. So close there's hardly enough air to breath. The spirit is thin here. Ammon. Blue-eyed babe, come on!
3272 In China they are setting up enough factories so that they will be able to manufacture everything the world needs. No one else will have to work. Or be able to. Capitalist over-supply. Now the wage-spiral downward just to compete. Marx was right. Soon the workers of the world will revolt. Except that they won't revolt. We need a new system, but no one has any idea what that might be. Maybe it's back to the future with high-tech, craftsman piecework. We'll let the Chinese be standardized and stamped out over and over again. China dolls. We will be unique.
I too am the over and over again. But there is nothing standardized about my words. Except vaguely so. I do say the same one thing over and over again trying for the same one blanking out intellectual orgasm. It does come. Just as every boy does come and all boys are somehow the same boy. The Boy! I raise his standard. Over me. I will be the downward revolution.
The ever new. The ever fresh. The dawn of down on his cheek. It has always been so. You will be that again, My lovely china doll. My manufractured piece.
3273 " for passion paralyzes good taste" and Tadzio is here in spirit and, though my topic will be the thin logical connectives, I am sure I will try to insinuate you into my chaotic love of the god they reveal. A passion for delicate beauty. I am the beast. I am the base Socrates. I will manhandle this beloved thing made from fine, gossamer matter. I will act as a typical academic.
Not to worry, the delicate god is the instigator of this too. This summer goose has a big dick. You will in the end be goosed. And ontologic will have its way. Be careful of this fine web as you walk in the thicket of life.
Everywhere there is this and that. And you wonder if you should go this way or that. If you do this then that. No, not that. This and that and that or that finally lead to the same one thing as that and this and this or that. Difference and sameness. Identity and otherness. One and many. Simple and complex. And, or, if-then. Thought is manhandled. The not-so-gentle manipulations of love. Finally nothing at all and the lights are turned out. Tomorrow is another day. He comes again.
All of this exists. With the even finer and more elegantly refined act of existence. These movings about in the sheer and the diaphanous are the breath catching touch and slide of Being's love. Of you, my darling. Or they are surely nothing at all. You choose. Without doubt, my good taste at least has been paralyzed. Perhaps even to the point of the criminal. But I have cause.
Even if this is poetry and a hymn, it is of Being and it is of the really there. The draw string awaits your pull.
3274 These finespun, almost fastidious, neverthings of logic, the connectives, the chiffon of thought. They are of that that holds together our world. They are the form of Being. The doubling and the waywardness. They are the One ingoing and the solicitous wonder it feels at its own beauty. They are the pale, delicate boys that cannot make their way far in the rough talking of the world. They are the soon undone. They are close to dying a tortured death.
Crude academics love to trample them down. Come, play with us, they yell. The chastely brute for the brutally chaste. Breath turns to long threads. He chokes; he is strangled. Being is as nothing before these tough-minded giants.
One more sacrifice completed. Life stumbles along. With our perfect logic we undo the world and we live in complicated complications bogged down. The connectives flame and make demands and, in spite of being banned from existence itself, finally control the mind of man. The victim terrorizes and turns the knife wielding analyst into his own victim and Being smiles his pretty, satisfied smile.
Being, and (exasperatingly) the Logos He makes of and for Himself for His own cross-eyed pleasure, while away those of us who would (seriously) study Him and His and try our best to be good. What's the use! The Forms of Being are eternal and whatever. Blinding and pointless points of light.
3275 A slight shift and Being drives on faster and higher and more intimately. Driver and the driven losing their place, each to the other. Differences coalesce. The cold night blazes. And we finger the stick to shift even higher.
To do philosophy, or be done by it, that shift must take place. A mental shift, a spiritual shift, whatever, it is a shifty thing. From the merely beautiful to the philosophically beautiful, that is to say to the Sublime, to the destruction of the ordinary world. Ontological reduction back to the origins. That are anything but ordinary. And, at times, an ordinary boy leads me there. Changes take place.
On stage, in the grand theatricality of the place, the ordinary actor is changed into the Archetype. The sounds of ordinary wooden and metal instruments change into the sounds of the far off celestial things. On the lit up night street, an ordinary face and waist, slightly done up, are up into the appearings of literary angels. And literature, common words in common syntax, speaks of trans-worldly Forms. The poignancy of the prick annoys the analytical mind. Until it too undoes itself and all else.
The shift. The change of ontological gears. The apparatus of philosophical intuition. I much too intimacy for a nonviolent examination. I write the rite of violence. Nothing survives with ordinary life. Victims strew.
3276 The ordinary material world is out there. We seem to know it as though in a glass darkly. Some material intervenes. A film, a veil, a shroud, a watery thickness, - something causes us to see the things there as though indirectly. They are mediated. They are extra-mental. The adjectives proliferate throughout history and nothing is resolved concerning it.
The shift, and the vision is more direct. The things present are clearer and stronger. The fright of closeness increases. The light begins to blind. And philosophical danger approaches. The safety of night's cover is lessened.
Between the mildly ontological things of subject-predicate Being there are nexus of various kinds. But as the analytical mind moves on to other areas of Being the nexus disappear and the things there have an intimacy that is unmediated by any such clear and distinct thing. Always thought and the objects of its thinking press close. A set, a gang, a bevy of boys, no longer a mere collection, vanishes when torn away from its intimacy with its members. And existence with the existents is confoundingly close. So with Difference itself as itself which never was very fond of revealing itself in intellectual light. And so the veil and the indirectedness are useful for living. Intimacy must be left for the solitary places of philosophical love.
Here is one who thinks that maybe thought, the set, existence and difference are the very intimacy of the nexus. Or the thoughtness of thought, the Setness of set, the existence of existence, the difference of difference from difference are all just that. Love's conjecturing.
3277 Here, trying to speak philosophy with the Vedantists who, after they have adjusted their mind to the non-dualistic Mind, insist on having understood me before I understood myself, I try to give their idealism its due. It ain't easy.
I inform them that Aristotle himself said, "The mind is one; the world is many." And I will agree with them that the facts of the world gathered so tightly into a single thought of those facts is indeed one. One thing exemplified by the particular of that thought. The facts themselves as themselves are not simple things at all. The world is many and the facts that it is are complex (non-things?).
The Vedantic Idealists have seen mind. In that they have seen more than is revealed in most philosophies. And they have felt the extreme intimacy of mind with its object. But, not being very good at intimacy, they have mistaken intimacy for being literally one thing. Lovers, I suppose, can understand such seduction of thought. Embarrassed at love they will not quiet down and let the beloved thing be as a thing before them. Their shyness is world-destructing.
3278 The Vedantists, such nervous non-dualists, and the Monists and even the fashionably sophomoric, insist that Being is One. Sort of. It takes a while to twist one's mind into the vision. But if you ask them to define the number one or just number, they look at you and go on to something else. Number is a mind-boggler. Some Eastern philosophers have momentarily taken a jab at ontologically grounding it, but they have always come up with some cockamamie notion that no one paid much attention to. Paryapti as distinguished from vyapti. Even Bertrand Russell gave up. It, finally, is not a second order set. Bergmann et alii said number was a logical quantifier like some, all and none, which they say do exist; well, maybe it is but there is something unsatisfying about that answer. Something more is required. The essence of Number sleeps in our mind.
3279 Well yes, philosophy is the mathematical plus the erotic, but not just a get-it-on get-it-over-with kind of erotics; it is that eros that is full of the trepidation of first love, of romance, of love's anxiety. It is the sure uncertainty about your ability to pull it off. It is the faint light of not knowing which way to go - until you find yourself having gone a long way down the tortuous way already. Perhaps you can reach the omega point after all. Or he will leave before you have had a chance. It is, of course, easier on your heart to avoid the whole thing all together - or at least until you're ready. But I write on undaunted. I am Love's fool.
Let me say a thing or two about this magical act of pulling an ontological rabbit out of this tattered hat of words. In the process I will also say something about physics and mathematics pulling a whole universe of matter and numbers out of the supposed Nothing. It is still true that Nihil nililo fit - nothing comes from nothing. From the so-called vacuum of space or of my mind, the empty set, any arising must still have logical form. All the logical quantifiers are presumed. That ain't exactly nothing at all. And what about the very arising. If in time as times moving on, then time pre-exists. If as deduction in sequence, then logical form and that ontologically mysterious thing of Order is again waiting. If from my mind, then mind's form of eternal movement is already there before I am. Those who would draw everything from nothing overlook the great part of Being - if not all - as the transcendental Already There.
What arises may be thrilling and beautiful, but Beauty and the Thrill and the Arising are gods that have always been.
Even if quantity is everything, Honey, Quantity must already be. And I am under its spell in these writings.
Still, for all that, logical form is not the something of everyday life and things, in time, do "appear" from nowhere and nothing - sort of. Or is it as Nagarjuna says? This world, when fully examined, is and remains nothing. A nothing that never arose from nothing. Maybe in spite of transcendence. The fullness of substanceless trepidation.
3280 In jealousy's fury I uncreate myself and I become the Uncreated recreating myself. Surely at my death I will cease to be and only God will remain and I will have become that. Self beyond self. Existence through and in oblivion. The fire the ashes the end of time's ever having been. The logic is tight. Air-tight. Winds blow bellowingly. So very alluring. Boys driving fast and recklessly in nighttime romance with the Night. Lover lost and found. Two become one.
Adolescent and cocky. Enforced dreams. Literary bunk. On the upper bunk. Far to fall. Cracked head. The air vacates. Peer reviewers hover. Start again.
Out with the Uncle Toms of gay love and social respectability, the house niggers of passing as straight and getting along, these are the uranian heights. Victims of Love's sacrificial cut. God's meal. Prepared by the priestly hands of the Xhurch. And the black preachers that betrayed us.
3281 Our government leaders just cannot understand why the principles of liberal democracy and enlightened reason are not enough for the peoples they have occupied and are genuinely trying to help. Our academics, who hold the same principles, but who suspect the government of subtler insidious reasons for the invasion and occupation, are likewise baffled at the persistence of illiberal religion among the people. They suspect them of stupidity. I suspect the god of love of having set blaze to men's minds. There will be no reasonable reasoning as long as he is out and about. He operates at the paradoxical, transcendentally critical extreme of reason. He violates every principle out of his tyrannical desire. He loves the beauty of his creation too much. God and love must be held in check or we're finished. Thus government.
3282 The vacuum has recently become the glamour boy of physics. So wan, so wanting. So vain and evanescent. So vaunting and then he's vanished. The wasteland, my devastation. The vast sky overhead. This god of pure form.
Empty space-time. Just Form over the most ethereal, diaphanous particular - lightly just that. Shattered into the infinite. And so, alas, with all the paradoxical ungraspableness of pure loveliness. The yet unthought.
The vacuum, the looming emptiness of beauty, the pain of its sheer absence. The shock of its reckless presence come back. Suck, suck, till you're sick. There's nothing of importance there. Erect and pointless daring. He comes. But the god will not be had. Transcendence has in place its critical boundaries. And your foundries of love's fire cannot make a sword tempered enough for his ire. Dies irae! Dies irae! Call in the Buddhists to make the nothing a thing of joy! Seasick sweetness swells. The vacuum tilts so gently.
3283 The vacuum is not a thing; it is the absence of a thing. It is thus a contradiction, a flat out contradiction - and thus highly unstable. Everything of this world and all the possible worlds flows in cock-eyed deduction from such a non-thing. Or so it is said. Once a vacuum is present and Bang! worlds appear the mess is difficult, to say the least, to clean up. I think, since God is the principle of identity and thus, indirectly, of the contrariness of contradiction, we should let him be responsible and deal with it. Gently. And why are we stuck with this name that always brings to mind the most unpoetic vacuum cleaner? Or is there some poetic justice in that? And what would that be?
Perhaps a vacuum is a bare particular not exemplifying any form. Sucking up to the possible worlds. Or the Form unexemplified vanishing into something more presentable. Of the blue-sky daydream.
The vacuum is also the love that cannot speak its name. An empty-headed social restriction, but then it really is a terror to throw one's pearls before swine and have to listen to the grunts and groans and snorts and holy sniveling. The vacuum is the rabble unraveling.
3284 The daring, the almost flamboyant method of philosophical flight is my intended style; but, I fear, I become inevitably staid and explanatory in my almost stoical meanderings. And then again, I wish to be solidly academic and precisely explanatory; and I, I fear, with a fallen would-be lusciousness, become giddily amorous. The flamboyant, would-be, serious scholar and the staid, academic, too-rational idea queen - manquι. Or maybe not.
I am certainly not a traditional academic. I wander the world reading philosophy and looking at boys. And I write the old extreme eroticism, high literature, right out in plain view. I am not worried that the state will take away my license. I talk my way through the strait gate. I well, maybe I am a traditional academic after all. They, none of them, were what is usually imagined of them. A strange lot. A lot of backdoor stuff. And mind fuck.
That Mr. Aschenbach, who died so famously in Venice, so high up in the non-Bohemian world, a convert to chaos, would understand. Mr. Mann may not. Academia has never really existed. It was only a high-flying Platonic Form. Nor has the Neverland of Queendom - but then its decadent fallenness is its essence.
This is the perfection of writing - and nothing more.
3285 I have read that, except in the wild excesses of Sartre, no one today writes seriously of the paradoxes of the being of non-being. It is left to the mathematicians to dispose of. Mere word play about nothing. I do write of it - obliquely. I, however, don't "solve it" in order to overcome it, but I dissolve into it in order to be Paradox - sort of. That itself is a paradox and thus isn't true at all. What more can I say?
Non-being doesn't exist. Nothing can pass into non-being. What is is. What isn't cannot be - or become. That is the end of the philosophical story. We have to learn to live with it. Double meanings aside.
The eternal return. The Forms are eternally return exemplified by this and that. Nietzsche knew and wrote of the great difficulty in dealing with that. The Sun that cannot know the gentle nighttime. The non-believing rabble that will always be. The glorious perfection of it all from the highest to the lowest. Being is the Optimum, which, of course, is the best of all possible Worlds.
3286 Philosophy begins with a calling to mind of the most fundamental differences within Being. Differences that are the most vast. And in one lustful act of writing, thought and word are fused with the lustrous mechanics of the spirit. The cool breeze is engineered into a great bravura. And the calling swells to another calling here again. Heady amounts of energy are required for such setting up and fixing of Difference. This is the going up.
This act of doing philosophy leaves the finery of rags and tatters in its trail. Destruction. Your Dasein is cluttered and noisome. An artist's studio. Uniting is first a tearing apart into the entrails before creation becomes a recreation. Surely, to create the world our Pleno-Urgic God had to first do vast amounts of pillaging and razing of the Perfections within Him. The pre-time of putting it all together was, no doubt, The Most Unsightly. And now I work in the unseemly. Even in the remaining annoying ennui. My energy ebbs and flows. And you lethargically watch.
3287 If morality means working to keep oneself and one's friends strong, and strength resides in the pure and the pure is the intellectually transcendent, then, insofar as I have tried for that pure and transcendent thing in my thinking and speaking, I have tried to maintain a moral stance. I have been as hard on myself as a human can be, but in the presence of my friends I, speaking the words, have failed to be uplifting. To such an extent that I now cannot speak to them of it. I did for a long time try. But it became painfully plain to me that my words were meaningless to them. The blame is, of course, not with the pure ideas themselves, but with my approach to this high enterprise. Today I have become almost a lush of the flesh. I work only to help them with worldly academics and perhaps a to obtain a few of the body's necessities. I wish I could once again speak to them of transcendent things. It's hopeless.
Now I write for someone far off, someone I am sure I will never see. Maybe my words without me near will succeed. They weren't mine anyway.
That is my weakness. I am not moral. I am immoral.
3288 Nothing ever gets accomplished in philosophy. What is done is undone. Every act finds its inverse that takes it back to the beginning. It is a narcissus doubling. It is an obsession of useless pleasure. A formal, though elegant, extravagance.
Just as with creation; finally nothing happened at all. And any love affair that took place was at a noplace and did he really feel anything at all? Was he really there? Whatever, he will, no doubt, come around again tomorrow. And all the tomorrows of tomorrow.
Philosophy is the nothing that when applied to life changes nothing. It is the identity element. It is the useless God. It is pointless beauty. It is the very substance of all our mathematics. A power so ethereal. Even after the ether has vanished.
3289 Just as, when studied objectively with a serious brow, so very little happens in love making, in the act of philosophy, always a slightly obscene act, a subtle change here and a slight deviance there, a smooth caress and an quick inversion alters the world out of existence, in the instant, oblivion. Truth is given perfect form, the simple truth and it is finished for another time.
Swirling words in cumbersome syntax. Bed sheets tangled. Harassed. Fall on the floor. Just lie there. Harassed. And harassed. Then fall asleep, the heavy pneuma against you neck. In the dream of thought light will come. He is not himself. You are always being obligingly harassed. Nothing much else is required.
Oh well, freedom is not what philosophy is all about. Exaltation! The aethereal obsession.
3290 One more reaching for the heights. I'm an ontological junky. In the terrible fiendishness of high romance, and low forgetfulness, I prepare a lure of words for you, dear reader. I catch you; you catch me up. The intrigue intrigues me. Your evil-eye and your delight invites me. Baited. Hated belatedly. Finally sated. I will be gone soon enough. It's no use.
A corrupt exaltation? A broken intellect. I'm broke; I have been for quite some time. All my life. The boys took it all. That god of the Failed One-night-stands had his due. I slashed the throat of bashfulness, I let reputation drain away, but the boys were too pure. Or so they thought. The eucharistic bread is inevitably broken. The poor poor jesus. Corrupted co-raptor.
Not to worry, I'm only a writer biding his time. The boy should have come at one o'clock and it is not two. What to do? My literary self wants to entertain me.
3291 Is beauty an extravagant and wasteful thing, a moment of squandering nature's treasure, of cruel denial to those left out? Is nature itself a profligate explosion? Is all the work of generations merely meant for one moment of glory? Should we guard ourselves against beauty?
It is undeniable that beauty here is fleeting and a heartbreak. It is so impractical. It is unreasonably demanding. It is inattentive to the pain it causes. And when we demand, in spite of it all, that it stay and not go to another, it is deaf. The one with whom or on whom it dwelt for that moment is left in desolate and common abandonment. Still, because of that, it is a god. A god many reject and guard themselves against.
Will beauty become Beauty and lead us out of here? We have no other hope. Without that hope life is not worth living. In spite of what the spiritual moralizers say.
3292 The continuous; the discontinuous. Smooth skin; abrupt red lips. A sigh; a piercing glance. The mathematics of love. The love of mathematics. Beauty is beauty. As flesh or as number it is one thing. The swirling complexity or the simple azure of the ether. Lovers' argument or of logics. The subtleties of fine distinctions or the arguments of jealousy's flare.
3293 Beauty and pedagogy are twins. The older leads the younger. Age leads beauty to Beauty. Aside from that all is in danger of falling into the abyss of the flesh and mere earthly knowledge. The dialectic is difficult. To deny the flesh to deny Beauty itself. To forget that the flesh is the mere reflection of transcendent Beauty is to miss the Glory.
The ascent is steep. The abstractions are at times barren. The solitude is cutting. No one survives. At last this is a religion. The god looms large into the only God and then the Face is all that remains. But until then the rich extravagance of coming to know is sweet seduction. Beauty entwines with the leading out of education. Out onto the broad and windy plains. The most terrifying.
3294 Lovers speak to each other of transcendent things. The knowing is attended to by the syntax of sententia. Fine threads of thought weave a cocoon around the evanescence of beauty. Until it emerges to shoot out again into the white void. Or so I have written and so my imaginary lover will read. I write perfection. I have missed out on the clamorous one here, but only momentarily. It all comes back. The eternal returns. The Form is once again captured by just this one. I will grab and take. Again. And then the solitude of writing. So refreshing.
3295 Philosophy cannot be separated from the moving on of elevated rhythms. The sententia lift us up from the crumbling, collapsing matter. Jump up! I will speak to the boy of still, eternal luminescence. Of the perfection of pure form. Mathematics will stop. Its coming together, its whispered glow and the heat of the final things. Realities will be named. Love's idols pierced and the far Entelechies will quietly fall about in his mind.
Words will be spoken.
3296 I have walked the world. I have felt the weight and thickness of language and lane, of foliage and falling concrete, of twilight air, of soft sooted trains, of passing boys and recumbent books and on and slowly on. I have let is ooze through me. It's more of an intellectual intuition than a sensual thing. I hope, I think I have somewhat captured that in the liquid pondering of my paragraphs. On the smooth buoyancy of spirit. The holy thickness of water. Where the sheen and the luminescence of thought weigh heavy.
3297 I talk to him of perfections. Well yes, now he knows perfection. In the Instant, he has come to see perfection. Now it is all his. And he must go back and live in imperfection. The Impossible has come to him. It surges. He reels. The perfecting of perfection. I do not know the end of it.
In the illumination of pure logical form, so easily attained, Beauty itself, the delightful magical god, never giving himself completely until he is gone and proven impossible to have, I see this deranged boy, just myself. I sleep. Dreams twist. Early morning headache. Daylight anguished writing. Your momentary burden.
It is easy to draw out the moving logic of Platonic ontologic. It has been written up so very many times. The sheer weight of it has made it unbearable. One longs, I suppose, for a lighter truth. For a more difficult philosophy. Lovers recognize the problem. The perfection of beauty is ponderous in body and mind. He lies heavy on me.
3298 So are the Form and its image at war with each other? Yes, but war is also the form of love. Without my idol I cannot, for now, see the Form. And without remembering the Form I find no idol to entice me. The thought of sacrificing the sensual world that I or my boy might approach the Form, God, more closely is useless. That strait gate is illusory. The war must be engaged, not subverted. Christ came in the flesh. The flesh is our food. And the blood of war will spill down into us.
Still, though I do not sacrifice the here and now for the sake of heaven, this place will, of its own nature, disappear without ever having amounted to much. And I must be on my guard against the onset of resentment. Surely it will come again. There is no end to these ever-returning endings, perfections of so many beginnings. A flash of orgasm that was hardly anything at all. My delight and my anguish. A gentle war.
The truth is that I have not been a very good soldier for either side. When I could have had the beloved I so longed for, I did not work long and hard to get the money and place where I might regale him as he wished. And when I should have spent the late hours studying until my eyes hurt, I, instead, lay down and despairingly longed for love. I was not good enough for either side. I have written what I have written and received the love I have received only as undeserved, shared booty.
3300 Philosophy began with the first line of the Iliad. Sing, Oh Goddess, of the madness of Achilles. From that sacred scripture came the tortured thinking of love of the Sophos, the god of the bright and clear forehead. If you are a true lover and you know the violence of love's jealousy. If you know the dread and the anxious plain. If you have felt the dry constriction and the tight headache. If you have felt about in the empty well of tears and you have stared into the jaundiced light. Then you are ripe for philosophy.
Useless writhing and hopeless attempts at existence finally lead the soul on to the Halls of Dikei. The upright thing. The formula of thought's ritual are pronounced in their precision. Hard perfection appears. The pain is transformed.
Transcendent purity comes after the suffocating immersion. Baptism in the hard water of thought goes to release. The beloved thing roars.
It is that transformation that is so difficult to understand. No doubt, because it is so frightfully easy - as are all the profound things. Still, it is the job of philosophy to try to speak it. The Word is everything. It is, of course, a dialectical transformation. It is, therefore, a slight almost nothing, a questionable thing, an uncritically disreputable thing. It is the very substance of philosophy. Philosophy has always been the alluring, lovely mistake. Nothing else is worth the price of admission. The philosopher will try incessantly to do and undo it.
The origin of philosophy is the fright of Eros. It is the panic in the obsessive thought that inevitably follows. Prayer. And the slight turn that is release. One little word slightly shifts in meaning and it is all clear. The clear-eyed boy is walking arm and arm with you. Until once again the cutting into the one Form. The great Rising-up.
And so I end up in the language of Hebetude and hymn. Or love words whispered in heavy breath into the ear of that beloved lying so pressingly close. The constriction that is also the unity of Being. Of him who rued his formerly rude ways.
3301 As a boy, I walked about in nature obsessively. I rode my bike no- handed down long yellow gravel roads with glee. I knew the sun. I climbed old, crumbling limestone cliffs. I became entangled in brier. I drank from lichened springs. I saw that nature was decay and destruction. I felt the tingle of revulsion. I was an inverted romantic.
The itch was almost mantic. I masturbated in the shade. I stripped and exposed my bare, white skin to the air. I ran. I plotted escape.
Perhaps I have had an over-sensitive awareness of the giving way at the end of things. Branched break and I fall. So I read or rather I gazed at my mathematics books. I saw the eternally still and full. I jumped up and away. I was thrown far beyond the first order of logic. I knew the nature of natures and of Nature. I watched myself watch myself watch myself the infinite collapsing into itself. I knew theological argument.
All about me is a ruin. I do enjoy walking about in ruins and old rubbish heaps and with unsated satisfaction I watch the deterioration of grand structures. The world is that. The world is all that is the case, the fallen. Entanglements. And beyond, I see the stillness. I see the perfections silently staring back at this seeping rot and parched sucking in the burning sun. I watch their implacable gaze. The cause of this undoing.
This platonic heaven I saw was not itself without pit-falls. In the perfections of logic, the same coming undone in inevitable. Logical is, at last, illogical. The ruins of twentieth century philosophical thought is also my delight. But it is a perfect stillness. The Eternal Collapse. The One is other. I am still riding my bike out into the shady places. And the breeze of the spirit still tingles between my legs.
3302 Throughout the long history of the universe all the conditions for its arising have been gathering. Eons of quantum fluctuations, jolting spatial expansions, very discrete atoms collectively streaming in great unseen cosmic Flares, the Great Bear, the quiet nights, the secret coding in the doubling helix, the I cannot continue. I have here tried to lay out a piece of the cosmological hymn; but cosmology, its mathematical liturgy, requires a poetic mind to sing its ever deviating scales. I, alas, work differently. So again, after all the infinite conditions have been set down and made real - behold, the red Rose.
So now we have philosophers of the "conditional arising" kind rising up and telling us that we and they and the rose are nothings made of just that. We are all the being-together of the all, the thought-breakingly many things. Stunned no-thought at all. Our illusory self without a self - cosmic emptiness. More poetry. Hopefully restful love of the sublime nothing. Or so I have read.
That is all of the ontological Genetic Fallacy. There is no rising up. I and you and the Rose, and maybe even they, are things in our own right. Existing things. From out of the eternity of Being. Eternally returning. Here and gone into the not-here. There is more to existence that any here and now.
With the genetic fallacy, we believe that purple is red plus blue. That its derived lesser being comes out of those two more basic things. That it always clings to, hangs on, them, those two being both more basically derived. Dependent, conditioned arising. Madyamika sunyata. No philosophy at all. So now, in this philosophy: Purple is. Red is. Blue is. That's the end of it.
At the other end of the philosophical universe, there is Aristotle's Final Cause. In that telos, we find the perfect thing, the Form of the Rose, that calls the ordering of conditions into existence. That is also lovely poetry. It sings of the Somethings. The nothing is banned. This is all, therefore, more to liking, but I write differently.
3303 Aristotle speaks of the Form just as Form, by itself, and enmattered form. There are dialectical difficulties with that - of course, there are. The third man may or may not cause trouble. Whatever the case, jumping into conceptualism to solve the issue will not do. Enminded form will not free us of the problem any more than enmattered form. In fact, embedding it in anything at all - time, will, language, God, Being, the One - fails. It's embedding that is the problem. Embedding weakens and suffocates. The Form must be allowed to be free of all else and be just itself. It must be absolute. Or the world is lost.
Likewise, the Form cannot be embedded in a definition. It cannot be so reduced. In the same way that the ordinary object cannot be analyzed and still be. Analysis destroys. The precision of analysis is the sacrifice of the precious victim that gives us knowledge - but not life. The world is lost. The ordinary world, just as Form, must be allowed to stand just as itself, i.e. non-philosophically. This dialectical dance of the ordinary and philosophy, of God and the ordinary flesh that is Jesus, of divine love and hot sex, is my theme and my contorted obsession. Still, I will not reduce the one to the other. It takes two to tango. The Form cannot be defined away by means of a structure of ordinary things.
3304 I am writing out metaphysics. No, I am not - I have been true to Wittgenstein's orders. I am literary and poetically erotic. I am writing metaphysics - I am a Platonist who, true to his nature, has jumped into the sun. Must I make a defense of this kind of writing? I am not an apologist. I am not a scholar looking for precedence. I write metaphysics from out of itself.
There is no conclusion to the puzzles of philosophy except magically in erotic oblivion. It is not my style to simply forget them in a calm, clear contemplation of the ground floor of life. I find no pleasure in staring at my feet. Your well-turned foot, my dear, is, however, another matter. There can be no defense of such an undertaking. It is a well-known and ancient thing. It has come again.
I am a high-minded ass. I assiduously mind my highs. Do you mind? Rapture and rape of the clock. Time stops. Oblivion rocks. The boat docks. The priest defrocks. Here come the cops. The boys are here and gone.
3305 Beauty. The revered. The much maligned. In Platonism it is the ladder to Paradise. In anti-Platonism, so poplar today both within and without the philosophical establishment, it is the entryway to the Pit. Your call. I have chosen, or been chosen by, the first, the Uranian exaltation of soul. Anguish, though, belongs to both. The first awakens to the painful flush of flight into the Too-much. The second finds only disillusion in a dreadful lessening toward the never-reached final emptiness.
The insistence of anti-Platonism that beauty, true beauty, is intense moral concern and gentleness of heart, is its fear of the senses. Heaven is exhausting. Laboring for the good of others in practical works is rest to the soul. The madness of Beauty is madness. Simple cleanliness and efficient productivity are to be the watchwords. Beauty will become that, only that.
This high spiritual endeavor of beauty's denial, enchanting sensual beauty, is the return to the common man. Humble purity. Simple people doing simple things. Gardening. Raising children. Peacefully burying the dead. Sleep. An exquisite nihilism.
Thus Platonism is the love of boys in their fleeting, otherworldly, heart-ravishing, world-destroying moment of starry beauty. It is for those few who have eyes to see. For the anti-Platonist, the enduring charm of hearth and home is enough. We are made differently. The few, forcibly cast out, arrive at last at a distant place, in a different spirit.
3306 Functions and conditions as causes exist just as rocks, stars and rock stars exist. But they do not ground the ontological being of anything at all. Blue plus red is not the "being" of purple. Sunrays plus intervening object is not the "being" of a shadow. Line joined to line joined to line is not the "being" of triangle. Being released from pain is not the "being" of pleasure. Sound waves striking the ear and going up to the brain is not the "being" of sound and music. And on and on. The color purple, the shadowness of the shadow, the triangularity of triangles, pleasure and sound and music are all things in themselves aside from their being ordered to other things in this world. To think otherwise is to commit the genetic fallacy. A thing is not ontologically one with the process of its generation.
3307 It is said by some that time is the substance of the world. I suppose time is as good a substance as any, but the very notion of substance is ontologically stifling. Substance kills all other ontological things. It leads to pure nominalism. It is death to philosophy. Which, I suppose, if fine with those who would gladly kill philosophy, but I am not that. We are what we are.