Volume One

 

 

54  Being is a majestic thing, lovely and terrible.  We are made from its substance and we have its properties.

 

We are set apart and frightful things.  Like Him, our desire is overwhelming.  Like Him we Know.

 

We are down, in absolute bondage to That.  The angels too are in love with us.  We are the locus of the revelation of Beauty.

 

Through Him our flesh is becoming His.  Who can imagine what we are going through?  This place is so sweet.  Kisses surpassing wisdom.

 

Our contact with the real is direct.  We are not of those who have merely heard about it.  This is It.  This is Opening Night.  The Light coming out of the darkness is all around us.  We are glorious.  Swoon before our Power.  The Thighs of this Lover will irresistibly draw your mind.

 

This is the land of danger.  One wrong move and you are entirely undone.  Who is going to hold you in existence?  Totally appealing existence.  Who's going to save you?  You are so pretty, who do you belong to?

 

Who's going to protect you from all the Forms of Being?  Who's going to immerse you right in them?  Who's going to look at you and see how beautiful you are?  Who's going to help you understand what terrible, lovely thing has happened to you?  This is no time for humility; we have to dare to say what's really going on here.  The heart is waiting for a hero bold enough to receive it.

 

 

 

55  I want to write this plainly and directly.  I can't help but use the words 'Forms of Being' when I talk about philosophy.  It's an ancient formula.  It's the substance of our philosophical tradition.  They are words that are charged as the word God is charged.  They are in fact God.  They are Wisdom, Beauty, Truth, Unity, Otherness, Sameness, Change and Rest.  They name any property of any thing as it is in itself separate from the thing.  It is a name full of the questionableness of such a thing.  It is the Circularity of circles.  It is Number itself separate from all the numbers.  It is the Betweenness of a thing that is between.  It is Love itself prior to anyone being in love.  It is the Idea of Color and Brilliance as they were in the mind of God before anything was created to be colored or brilliant.  It is the Sweetness of lip and the Soft Down of cheek you knew before you were born.  It is the Thrill and Frenzy of existence that was before any night carnival appeared on any street.  It is the Confusion and Intoxication in the Eternal Tavern of Being that was before any philosopher tried to explain things in any classroom.  They are the Things in Themselves prior, in, and after the things in this material creation.

 

 

 

56  Philosophy is a falling in love.  Eternal Forms dancing all around you.  Capturing you when they appear in someone's eyes.  Hiding in some little movement that only you can see.  Doing gentle violence to your heart.  Making your hair be out of place when your love appears.  It's Eros.  The perpetrator of this torment.  The oldest and the youngest of the gods.  The lord of the house.  Still walking the streets.  Still sleeping on doorsteps.  Still able to enchant you with words.  A ragtag boy.  Pieces of clothing here and there.  Bits of color.  Unordered.  Breaking dishes.  Beautiful in spite of the fact that you think he isn't.  Your confusion.  Just stay with him.  No one else can love as he loves.  And know for sure that when he's by himself, looking at himself, he shows himself his own refined form, enjoying a self-confidence that he knows goes with perfection. Knowing it's all impossible.

 

I write these words to make you love me.  I and they are nothing.  I must rely on the intervention of grace.  Poverty and plenty.  Sighing and divine sorcery.  I set it up, and I tear it down.  He may come.

 

 

The Form itself is present right before your eyes.  If you look at that boy you see Beauty itself.  He calls you.  He comes to you.

 

I touched Beauty with my hands.

 

He's looking at you with looking eyes.  What's to be done?

 

I want to get rid of logic.  I want to do philosophy instead.  And I don't want to do science.  Nor do I want the rhythms of poetry, nor the unity of an essay.  I want to do philosophy and do philosophical writing.  It has an essence and a style all its own.  Philosophical truth is not ordinary truth.  It is inspired writing and can only be done in the spirit.  It is separate from life and has nothing to do with the way the world is.  Philosophical things are to be contemplated. They stand there in cold perfection.  An asensual, mathematical love like that you have for the winter sky.

 

I don't want to search for definitions.  Being is to my words as the Northern Lights are to the stars.  As the hue of his skin is to the geometry of his waist.

 

The Spirit of God makes my hand to follow his form.  The invisible form that guides my unmoving hand.  In stillness, in perfect movement, in the being of perfect circles. A touch too delicate to be seen.  Then the logos touches my mind.  The touch of love.  Ideas come to me from outside time.  I stand beyond time to view them.  I stand in a changeless world. So close as to touch the changing matter, a timeless touch following the form of God.  A form that is nowhere extended, always one, with itself.

 

 

 

57  Everything must be done quickly.  If the words are going to be inspired, they are going have to have the form such as they would have when you quickly write down an insight that comes to you in the middle of the night or when you are on you way to doing something else.  A few quick sentences hitting hard and to the point.  Nothing worked and reworked, but as though you go quickly lock all the doors and windows in your room so an angel can't get out and then you quickly throw up pieces of furniture around the light trying to retain its form.  It's all very crude.  But the angels love it.

 

Later we display our crude words, hoping the angel will come inhabit them.  If it doesn't work there's nothing left to do but just get mad.  Throw off your loveless ontology.  Being, with all its logical connections, is just too much.  Throw it all away.  Blow it up.  Break off the love affair.  It's too much.  It has become idolatry.  Sickeningly sweet.  Get out of it.  Love turns to hate.  Jesus help.  We are on the way of the cross.  Let us speak in tongues.  Save us from Hell.  Save us from the worship of the daemon.  Free us from all this.

 

I fear I'm nothing but a bad writer who has had a common mystical vision.  O Lord, fill my emptiness with your spirit.  It is true that I am very crude.  Fill me as you filled Anselm's proof of your existence.  It didn't work either until by grace you made it work.  As you fixed up the bad carpentry of Joseph.

 

I had to do something.  I dogmatically assert the existence of Platonic Forms. I say it and hold on tight.  I have to stand against the logicians.  But I read them and know my system is crooked.  I can't get to the boy.  But if he does come I will have somewhat cleared out a grove for him.

 

When you write philosophy and you look all around the subject, suddenly you've written truth.  It appears.  There's absolute understanding.  It is finished.  It has written itself.  The living angel is there.  You are not it.  Philosophy is entirely separate from the philosopher.  The philosopher can't get at it.  He sees the flaming sword that guards the Garden of Eden.

 

 

 

58  It all began with Parmenides.  From him has flowed our great intellectual history.  He drew the line of absolute separation between Being and Non-being.  He made it intense.  He made it so there can be no halfway commitment.  Philosophy burst forth suddenly.  No time for consideration.  No gradual development.  It was there full blown.  Perfect and well-formed.  A sphere whose center is everywhere.  The oneness of two lovers.  Each curve and movement revealing the whole godhead, color identical with form, a hand sliding over the tight roundness that is the shape and image of love.  Each thing one thing and each inwardly Being itself.  A perfect fit.  It couldn't be otherwise.  You must accept it.  In this way.  No questioning. Philosophy has come to be yours.  You now have everything.  In you is the energy of what we are.

 

I ascend to pure intellect, the motionless, simple oneness of Parmenides.  I am it.  I am in it.  Everywhere I look, it is.  It is what is.  It is bursting pleasantness.  I am with it, it is me.  Non-sensual, pure thought.  Here I am what I am, not separate from myself as before.  My thought is my being.  Therefore I am, because I think.  I am there.  It is an Idea, a perfection, therefore it is.  That which is the Perfection of perfection.  Pure thought.  I feel its Presence coming over me.  My senses shout at its coming.  Look everywhere, it's all there is.  Unchanging Perfection.  No separation.

 

What is, is.  What is right, is right.  God is bound.  The statement has to do with our safety.  It protects us.  It pierces us and wounds us.  It overwhelms us.  There is nowhere to get away from it.  Nothing, no god, can circumvent it.  We stand secure in the face of the most willful, tyrannical power.  It is our advocate.  It is spoken.  It shall be.  It cuts through all falsehood.  It cuts down everything unreal.  It is the refiner's tool. From the Fire of Being only the upright remains.  At the Origin logic is Fire.  It surrounds us.  We are immersed in the Fire.  Being is what it is, and not what it is not.  It is tightly bound in itself.  One and not many.

 

 

 

I am not a scientist.  I am Science.  I am not a logician, I am Pure Logic. I am in God.  I am in bondage to Him.  I am the Necessity of Being.  I am in the unity of love.  I am in the fire.

 

 

 

59  He has found philosophy.  At last he has found philosophy.  The end of his journey.  And around this beginner angels know to gather.  He's as light as air.  He rises. He sees Being itself.  He contemplates ontological things.  He's out there with them. It's all very direct.  He's bound in Necessity.  Angels around him.  He falls back; they hold him.  In flight.  Girdled and swift.  He's in the extreme finest fire.  Subtlest logic.  To him has been revealed the meaning.  He's in the Halls of Dike where Parmenides was.  He now knows.

 

The beginner learns Heraclitus.  He knows the oneness in the agon.  Hot and cold are one.  He knows the Logos revealed through change.  That it is the changing.  He alone reveres the statement that you cannot step into the same river twice.  He is pushed down when others say it without the fire.  He tries to show them.  He desperately tries to tell this secret he has found.  No one hears, though they listen to him.  He sees his own madness.

 

He looks for one lover to speak to   He has to speak, the Logos is the Speaking.  He longs for a friend.  He would touch the boy's forehead with secret knowledge.  They would be within Love.  This is the ground of romance.

 

This is the origin of Plato's academy.  Socrates had showed them the god within him.  They followed.  The Logos, words flowed.  But they talked the language of love.  Dangerous.  It gets out of this world by destroying it.  They learned to die.  But oh, the agony.  The fire.  The beginner learns desperation.  He's just a boy, he moves in commotion.  Twirl and twirl trying to get out.  Thoughts so sweet and easy become so hard and tedious.  He hates himself and everyone else.  Then he cries.  And cries.  Until it's over.  His god has come and touched him.  Now he forever wants the peace that has suddenly appeared.

 

Socrates' philosophy is a boy's philosophy. Boys fall in love.  And scholars are very uncomfortable around it.  They're afraid of the sudden.

 

But we all also grow up, and we all become scholars.  We are no longer beginners.  We have had to learn a way to stand in the midst of all this and not die.  We develop great systems to reach this God.  To shield us from this God.  To hide from ourselves the fact of our own already accomplished death. Deception.  A trick.  Dialectic.  Our Aristotelians end up as St. John of the Cross, and our Hegelians and Kantians as Nietzsche.  Passion.

 

Philosophy began in passion.  Rising up.  Going out.  And even until today the angels are ready to catch the philosopher when he falls back.  We still have the spirit of certainty.  The logical mixed with the divine.  Brilliance and Fire.

 

 

 

60  The young boy trying to think and trying to explain to his friends the visions he's had in his head, trying to take the boy he loves back to that mystical mansion he has found, trying to hang on to his own existence in the face of all that power is enough to make our own super transcendent God fall in love.  The boy and God moving in each other's direction.  They will meet in that mansion, that air castle.  God is a spirit, He is wind.  He will lift the boy up.  He is the powerful Eagle lifting up the new Ganymede.  If your philosophy isn't just air castles, it isn't philosophy.  Air is the substance of the world.

 

The air is never still.  It is always moving and swirling.  It caresses.  The stars are never at peace when seen through the air.  They shimmer.  They tremble.  And when standing in the presence of heaven you can't just stand and be.  The power of it will always make you shake.  It could undo you at any moment.  This is the fear of God.  The wings fluttering.  A touch and your heart pounding.  The stars shimmering before God.  His beauty revealing itself. The air caresses your soft skin and the touch sends flashes all through you.  The one becomes many and the infinite numbers appear.    You have no place to stand.  You are in mid-air, supported only by it, only by your trembling.  The cut, the wound, the caress, the blood.  Your senses fall into oblivion and only He remains.

 

 

 

61  You can't do philosophy by yourself.  It exists only in dialogue.  It all comes back to the difference between our everyday world of facts and the things in our philosophies.  The whole of metaphysics blows up.  Everybody sits there very uncomfortable, wanting out.  The tension, the irreconcilable tension, becomes unbearable.  What you need is someone who doesn't even know what you're talking about.  Maybe you could sit him down and begin again.  You could talk about things he's never talked about before.  Being would be fresh to him.  You could watch his emotions soar as he discovers philosophy.  Or maybe you wouldn't tell him anything and just get into his world.  He'll know though and he'll want to talk.  He'll give you the words again, just as he did when you first began.  He's still out there, still walking the streets. And you'll be in love again as always.  And you'll talk.

 

 

 

62  Speculative philosophy can lead you right up to the most sublime heights.  Ecstasy. All truth is yours.  God has appeared and loved you.  Later you can't remember just how it was done.  You examine the very words used at the time and try to figure them out, but they're just ordinary words and maybe trick words.  They lose their magic in the glaring light.  The magic is gone.  The heights don't exist, but you want to see them again.  Sooner or later they do come.  Another magician comes to town and we're all excited to go see him.  He enchants all of us.  Our life, our being, is different.  Socrates proves with the most ordinary of tools the most extraordinary of things.  We fly on the wings of Pteros, and we can't remember what it's like back on the ground; the ground has disappeared.  Back at home we can't find our wings.  We were fools for believing.  We can't stand the pity put upon us.  Oh, if only it were real.  Against our will we go up; it isn't so bad.  We were wrong.  We can prove it exists, we really can.  Give me a moment and I'll find the words.  What was I thinking before?  I can't remember now.  Wait.  Of course, this here is true.  It was here all along.  God stands right before us.  He was here all along.  He never left.  Those on the ground are pathetic.  Let me tell you how it is.

 

I'm lost in your love.  I look within you and I see the whole world.  It has no boundaries by which I can get my bearings.  I just tumble and tumble on through it forever.  The air is made out of thought.  I am amazed.  I am lost.  I can't keep hold of anything I think.  I am thought within Thought.  I don't know what I'm looking at.  I am a seeing that has been taken by Seeing.  I am held up for a moment.  Hold me.  Hold me for a moment longer, for I know I'll soon be losing it.  I shall soon be back on earth.  But I'll be back here.  I want to come back soon.  Don't forget me.  I'll forget, so come back soon.

 

 

 

63  Philosophy requires a sense of the intimate and the delicate and a very sensitive awareness of touching.  It likewise requires a toughness, the ability to ride roughshod over everything that isn't philosophy but pretends to be and which begs for your attention.  Science wants you to believe that it holds what you want.  It is true that science is beautiful and can be very pleasant, but in the end it has nothing to offer.  It makes promises it can't keep.  It is essentially incomplete.  Finality  belongs to philosophy.  The division has always been there.  The world of appearances and the things in themselves, you know what I mean, call it what you will.  But when you have fought your way to the place you want to be, then you take off the battle gear, and you put on the gown of a lover.  You change the lights and your way of speaking.  You gesture now with hesitation.  You might easily offend the god present, or at least you are afraid that you might.  You're embarrassed by the scars you got in the battle, and you try to cover them up.   You want to run.  It's too hard to maintain.  There's nowhere to run to though.  You've made an enemy of everything else, and you're unwelcome.  If you do stay, believe me, you shall be rewarded.  Philosophy will come to you.  He has to go around all day putting on a show, pretending to be science.  He is forced to talk loud and gross, but he's not all that good at it.  He has to sleep with the public attraction, but he makes a bad lover.  How strange and turned around.  He doesn't even know what's wrong.  You have to be his mirror and show him that he has natural beauty other than what he's trying to do.  Philosophy has to be a little narcissistic.  He loves you for what you've done.  Suddenly he's above everything else.  So maybe it does go to his head and he becomes a little whore.  He can hurt you badly.  The love philosophy gives you pains a lot, but you know you wouldn't give it up for anything.

 

 

 

64  I met a boy who beckoned me then snubbed me.  He was a tough pretty boy with cocky ways.  And I was done in by the sexuality of it all.  Rejection and hostility have always been a part of sex.  I tried to talk to him, but I couldn't find the right words.  Somehow I have to find a way to outdo this type of boy, or the pain will be too much.  All I have is my words. I have to learn to use them as weapons against this.  And yet what I'm talking about is love

 

I want true ontology with sharp edges and brilliance like diamonds and the penetration of stars through the blackness.  I want this thing to hang around me and fight for me.  Restless logic.  Self-moving motion.

 

The hostility of Being is its sexuality.  Because of its sexuality, Being is my lover.

 

The Forms always come to us in a playful, hostile way.  They are aware of us and we know it, and we feel very uncomfortable because their perfection makes us laughable.  We know that touching them in that certain way is forbidden, but they seem to want to be touched.  Maybe they lack something too, something we have, but then they move away.  Sometimes they appear so involved in triviality and so unknowing of things.  Then again we see them as all there is worth knowing.  They don't have to know because they are.  They're helpless and perfect all at once.  They are ignorance and intellect itself at the same time.  They're unworthy of any high honor because they have endured nothing to be worthy of having it bestowed upon them.  Yet they are the favorites of God, given every grace.  They own nothing, but everything moves at their whim.  They can be so cruel.  And so tender.  They're not above giving gentle love to the ugliest of creatures, nor above ridiculing anyone only slightly imperfect.  They seem to feel no guilt, but they can cry in their dreams thinking they are the fault of everything that goes wrong.  They are rough and tough, always bruised and dirty, but no matter how disheveled, they are always prettier.  Delicate and tough.  Beckoning and pulling away.

 

Our battle is with the desires of the flesh.  It is lovely.  Naturally we desire the lovely.  A pretty boy showing you his pert little ass and leading you on is irresistible.  That's the way the world was created.  If sexiness and flirtation didn't exist in the world, we would be a dead people.  But, as it is, it's a quickening surge that goes right through us and it comes just the smallest distance away from tearing us to pieces.  Naturally we fight it.  It's just self-defense.  If you don't want to be slowly pounded into your grave then become religious.  You will find the same thing there, but then your lover god will make your dying sweet for an eternity.

 

Boys were put here to make you uncomfortable with the world and make you take that leap away.  After that you will find that they were images of the beauty of heaven.

 

 

 

65  The Form of the boy is not sensuality but the escape from sensuality.  His skin is soft and his legs are smooth and his hair is fine and his eyes dart around, but his spirit is flying and there's no material support to his appearance that he could offer you.  He wants you to fly with him.  All those sensa rest on nothing except numbers and circles within his mind.  He's too much of a god to be touched.  You see it in your madness.  He's independent of you.  You can't transgress the limits of Being to get to him.  His beyondness is his true form.  You can see it in the way his appearance suddenly is just a part of the knowingness in his eyes.is skin is soft and his legs are smotHis

 

 

 

City nights

His lips are red

Boys wanting boys

Artificial lights

Unnatural love

 

A little poem.  A little titillation.  A long way from the seriousness of academic studies.  It's not a great poem.  It's a little thing.  A kiss.

 

This is of the unformed Poem itself.  It's prior to all serious poetry writing.  It's an original beat of the heart.  A trivial thing.  As trivial as boys.

 

 

 

Out of the night.  Out of that which was before being.  Still no time.  Absolutely pure.  Only a tease.  Someone knocked his crown sideways.  Now he's dejected, but there's no use crying; God isn't there.  This is all before Being.

 

Blond hair falling over one eye.  Out on the street.  You're so establishment, but he wants you.  You must take it while it's there.  Substance doesn't exist.  Only nothingness.  He has a nice apartment.  Pictures of young men all over the wall.  He's from the other world behind the appearances. He is substance.  He is essence.  You're in love aren't you?

 

Must I remind you that love is of the type of Beauty called the Sublime.  This is something terrible.  From out of the Source.  Close to the One.  You're about to come undone.  Your nighttime.  What if he turns out to be you?  Honey, you are the nighttime.  You are nothing.  You're a faggot.  But you're a pretty one.  So close to God.  He knew you before anything existed.  Then you were with him.  Honey, what happened?  God is.  God isn't.  Substance is.  Substance isn't.  Love is.  Love isn't.  Only the One.  All alone.

 

 

 

66  Subway faggots.  Lights on even in the daytime.  Under the city.  Under everything.  Subjected to everything man has made. Perfect submission to the artificial.  Boys under the abstraction.  The hard concrete of thought.  They look at each other from station to station.  Going down.  Under everything.  The boys of philosophy.  The world is real to them, coming over them.  Their world, not that of those above, but a place where nothing grows nor is born.  Things just are.  Always the same.  Immutable heaven.  Going from station to station.  Each the same.  Each boy the same.  The abstracted form.  The proper object of those who submit.  The uncreated for boys who never lived.  Outside the time of the world.  Not boys as we know them, but the essence of boys, the Forms.

 

 

The ancient gods.  Unchanging intelligences.  Stuck today on old walls of the cities.  Not human.  With the necessity of logic.  In places where men can make love.  The smell of sex.  Direct.  It turns on one thing.  Only the essential thing.  That always has been.  That one thing looked at in the glaring light of the mind.  The pure form.

 

 

 

God created the night for Truth.  A place of illumination.  The home of the gods.                                                                                                                                                A place of sharp distinctions, the nothingness of clarity.  Here are the Forms.  Individual differences disappear.  Only the archetypes are left.  You can't understand them.  They do things on you.  The only thing you feel is guilt.

 

The beginning and the end are the same.  At first there is only darkness and confusion and crying.  At the last there is the shining Appearance, a God like flaming brass.  But it's all Otherness to us.

 

I go into the universal.  It is at all times and places.  It is the being of innumerable individuals.  By grace I go with it.  I am one with the logos.  The simplicity of the Forms themselves.  The image of the source that is beyond existence.

 

He calls me.  The smell of his hair, the illumination of his skin, the curve of his shoulder.  All things that were before creation.

 

He is the necessity that binds all things together.  The Nexus, the mingling of all things.  I am overcome.  I am falling into oblivion.

 

 

 

67  The prospect that the church holds out – that God may be just as banal as the church – is a terror that gives a prospect of ecstasy to all turnings toward reform.  God against God.  Love beyond the impossibility of love.  Speech that is greater than sighing.  A metaphysics that overcomes the unreasonableness of the presence of non-being and the non-existence of Being.

 

It's finding a city where living on the streets isn't hard.  Where being old and being reflective aren't signs of decadence.  Where teacher is openly valued more than motorcycles.  Where Paul and Luther won't run scared from the freedom they felt called to preach.

 

It's all because the people of the church don't really believe what they say.  They don't have eyes to see.  Love really is patient and kind and giving and selfless.  But it is a two-edged sword bringing nothing but unrest to the world, dividing father from son, lover from lover.  The sweetness of love is a terrible thing.  Decadence.  Banality itself.  In the end the whole universe will become nothing but a bland uniform lukewarm soup.  Old.  God really is banal.  The church is very boring.  Everything is all wrong.  Do you see the dialectic at work here?  I'm dancing.  Everything is God.  Absolute oneness.

 

 

 

This is the age of grace.  The concealing and the unconcealing.  Under smooth, white surfaces is a Hydra of wires.  Inside logic books with clean white covers is a maze of intertwining logical paths.  Inside designer jeans and feathered hair is blood rushing away waste and convoluting grey matter.  Smooth, shining surfaces cover hanging entanglement.  Everything appears graceful, the awfulness is out of sight.  We appear to be a graceful people, slick and shiny.  We dream of a heaven that will be only surface with no ugly material mess beneath.  A heaven of pure thought, a world of pure spirit, without the flesh, without the slimy biological ooze that makes sex repulsive.  Until then we will pretend the body is not disgusting, and that computers have no insides, and styled bodies are not getting old.  And we will all understand Being without years of scholarship.  And my writings will fly free of the pit of flesh out of which it grew.

 

 

 

68  Now I can write about joyful play.  The quick glances.  Hell is nowhere in sight.  Only the sweet crying of love.  The trembling and the trepidation.  Soft light around his face.  And sparkling in his eyes.   Running and light freedom.  The place of grace.  The beginning of glory.  Finepoint beginnings.  On the verge.  In the night made for love.  So close to Hell, but in the arms of the Lover.

 

When Hell breaks though.  And underneath the gentleness appears shouting.  And guilt reigns everywhere.  The horrible Sudden.  Becoming your flesh.  Descent.  Pray to the Light.  Close the opening.  The two realms must not relate.  Absolutes.  And yet close by.  The thin Light.  So fine.  Too delicate.  Slips right through your hands.  It is, but has no substance.  Nothing.  Emptiness.  Too beautiful.  We cannot get at it.  We are the flesh.  Reach.  The floor gives way again.  Repeat it all again.

 

The Sudden is nothing but the appearance of perfection.  It is the Forms come to us.  Our Hell and our Heaven.  It's a philosophical moment when the Absolute, the Unrelated is there.  It was an invisible light that shone.  The Doxa.  In it we have no substance.

 

He has no right to touch you.  It is not justified.  Therefore it is not a necessary thing.  The boy is pure contingency.  He comes to you, but when you reach for him he's not there.  He has no right to be there.  This is the flesh.  This is just time.  It's kisses amongst the logic.  It's logic itself.  An unnecessary thing.  It is the form of the mind reaching to touch the world.  Sometimes it finds that thing it loves, sometimes not.  The mind doesn't necessarily know reality and yet when it does it does seem that it necessarily belongs there.  There is a necessity to love, but it's always forbidden and even finds its life in crossing over with its right.

 

 

69  All fine art is dredged up from the pit.  And the fact that it is from there is never removed from it. After it has been scraped clean, that musky essence subliminally reminds us.  But as with all memory it is idealized.  The boy becomes refined, groomed, and still he smells like a boy.  It becomes pure sex.  Make an angel out of him and that smell still clings.  The name of that smell is oblivion, swoon, the essence.

 

The secret of fine art is that the more the object from the pit of our senses is formalized, abstracted, simplified, forced into geometry the more the smell delightfully obliterates our spirit.

 

 

I do this for you.  I give it to you.  I love you.  I do the supreme act – I give myself to you.  Please take it.  Until you do I'm out there ready to fall.  Nothing's holding me up.

 

I have given you my body.  That is, I've tried to make myself do it.  But I'm afraid you will be disgusted by it.

 

You don't want it.  It falls.  I become just thought.  I become pure thought.  Beautiful and brilliant.  I'm still before you.  Your rejection is constant.  More than that, it's eternal.  Absolute separation.  I know pure emptiness.   I am a god.  I'm not human.  See what you've done.  I didn't ask for this.  I didn't want sanctification.  I wanted human warmth, human pleasure, human joy.  I found light and rapture and ecstasy.  I am among the stars.  I am genius.  I am spirit.  I wanted sex.  I became pure.

 

 

 

He is a lover.  Therefore his soul is dead.  Passion has burnt up into nothing.  Too intense.  Suicide would be redundant.  He will pretend the human virtues of friendship and caring and even love.  His face will be a façade.  I can see behind it.  I too am a lover.  I am cold and still and intellectual.  I can see his spirit hanging frozen.  I have preached at him for being what he is, but why?  I complain that he has mistreated me.  Of course.  But why should I put on a façade of my own in front of him?  I'm ashamed.  I will not abandon him after all.  I will understand.  I will not reject him.

 

 

 

70  The dialectic.  The walking around.  Analysis.  Turning and cutting.  Form appears and is lifted off.  It is the unity.  It is good.  It gives being.  The Cut and then the One.  Beyond Being.  The place of contemplation.  Our End.

 

We proceed all the way through philosophy then cast it off and fly away.  Words that can't be spoken.  The dark side.  That is, unseen.  That which is prior to everything.  Beyond God.  Into the wasteland of the godhead.  Where it is not lawful for anyone to go.  Supreme mystical attainment.

 

Philosophy falls apart.  We've made a mistake.  Sin.  The worthless teacher.  The Cut that is the scourge.  Eternal crying.

 

Analysis has cut us too.  We're walking around in a wasteland.

 

Around and around in obsission.  Until the frenzy and the nervousness of dialectic get tighter and tighter and finally separates off into being a little point.  We're free of it.  Philosophy is.  God for us.  The First Emanation.

 

 

 

I couldn't be mad at you for long when you took my money, because I've loved you for a long time.  The thought of you makes the feeling of boundless love arise in my chest.  Even a hurt is a form of your presence and thus is pleasurable.

 

You are a boy, only a boy.  My love for you is a boy's love.  My words are boys' words. I speak them and I make the movements of faith.  You are there for me. 

 

Boys believe in the world, in life.  Love is real for them.  Realism is the philosophy of adolescence. It is embarrassing for an adult because it has to be spoken in high-schoolish words.  It contains no pieces of clever imagination.  It's just a feeling in your chest and thoughts of being held.

 

 

 

71  Fact, the individual, prime substance have always been the hard part of philosophy.  But they're not really of philosophy.  Philosophy has been built above them.  They're the ground, beyond the bottom floor of that air castle.  The individual has no being.  Its being is entirely borrowed.  It is less than nothing.  A lover will understand.  Nothingness is better that what he feels.  He's the nausea philosophy has tried to talk about.  The end of love.  Just fact.

 

The whole thing was an accident.  It could have been entirely different.  Everything could change at any moment.  Anxiety.  Pure contingency itself is felt.  The lover knows Being and the categories of Being by feeling that they aren't him.  He's in love with them.  They describe his beloved.

 

Love and ontology are opposites.  They whirl around each other.  The ontologist above all must stay away from pitiful love.  Ontology must be rigorous intellectual strength.  The canticle must not be the writing style for ontology.  Dispassion, not passion.  Distance, not involvement.  Cool, not hot.

 

But, alas, it won't work.  The writings of all the great philosophers are a mess.  The more they run from passion the more their writing looks like the strange inconsistencies of love.  They hide their inability in length.

 

I will embrace disorder.  I will invite the spirit of Chance.  I will be soft and intimate and hidden and fleeting.  What I have to say will be seen only in traces. I will be direct and inverted at the same time.  I will pull off a marvelous union of opposites. My work will be pointless.  I am the lover.  I will show you the labyrinth that is my mansion.  The snare, the trap.  I am outside intellect.

 

But I am in love.  I participate in Love.  It is my whole being.  Love is my tie to Being and to Intellect.  I am an individual within Pure Simplicity.  I am the complex within the One.  Love ties me to it.  I have no choice.  Love can't be denied.  It itself is the tight bond of necessity.  I tend to my beloved. I am intending intentionality.  Between the mind and fact is the tie.  And you see its necessity. 

 

But I am in Love.  I am not something separate from intellect.  I am nothing at all.  I don't have being enough to be anything separate.  I and my beloved are one thing.  Any lover knows that.  I am just a fleeting gleam in his eye.  I am dancing on his cheek.  I am a little nothing over the surface of his smooth skin.  I leave no effect upon him.  I am a slight nothing within him.  The act of the mind includes the world.  The essential includes the contingent.  Soul is the union of the body and intellect.  Philosophy swirls.

 

 

 

72  Where's the answer?  I do have moments of ecstasy.  An intellectual high.  I am philosophical difficulty.  In wild dancing to hard beat music, I am the harshness and cut of philosophy, the terrible love of God.  God is the impossibility of philosophy, of the ens causa sui.  God is the questionableness of the Ontological Argument.

 

Aesthetically I can feel the Cut.  I am crucified.  Ethically I affirm it.  I fall down before God.  But it always is so intellectual.  That's why the passion is so great.

 

Let me teach you how it's all done.  I'm talking about submission.  If you approach a philosopher and listen to his words, you must completely submit.  His words are perfect.  There can be no argument or thought of argument.  The spirit when speaking truth is infallible.  You must be its thrall.  The philosopher is inspired.  His words are no longer his; they are a god's, speaking through him.  Your will is bound.  It's a boy's love for his hero.

 

Philosophy makes no sense except to the philosopher's lover.   In bondage and submission to the Absolute.

 

Likewise the philosopher must not shy away from the Philosopher Absolute in him.  From his will to power over his thrall.  He too must submit.  And share the humiliation.  He must be nothing, even sin, so the grace can work through him.

 

Thus at the same moment the philosopher is right, he is wrong.  Perfect wrongness.  The Lie.  Demonic.  Disgusting.  Disguised lust of the flesh.  His pretty words of purity of mind is distraction from his hand.  He's pathetic.  His grand style is a sham.  Not a true scholar at anything.  He's no genius.

 

But he was lovely for a while.  He was like a boy who no matter what he did his beauty wasn't marred.  Cry for him.  Pray for him.  Hold vigil for him.  His power might come again.

 

 

Close along the form of his arm.  Bound.  I am held within a descending slope.  In red light.  Sinews.  The tie.  The framework of love.   

 

The unity is important.  Everything must be held together.  The threat of soft chaos.

 

Hard connection.  I am lifted up.  I rise.  I am held.

 

Arms flying.  Arms forced to hold tight.  Close along shoulders.  Descending.

 

Old ways.  Ancient Forms.  Rough stone.  Soft skin.  Smooth shape.

 

Nothing has changed.  We are at the beginning.  Man.  Form.  Bonds of necessity.  Anache.  Nexus.  Love.

 

 

 

73  Kiekegaard's attack on Christendom is his gathering quietly, getting ready to spring in the instant upon mediocrity.  Getting ready to leap to the Absolute.  His all or nothing.  Either/or.  The moment of just taking his beloved.  No ordinary love affair.  No agreement reached. No marriage contract.  In the instant, consummation.  From holding it in to everything being out.  He didn't say anything then he spoke.  He didn't say anything for a long time.  He had to gather.

 

Gathering and the sudden.  Take by surprise. Perfection appears. After giving up – putting it up beyond reach.

 

But first you have to study for a long time.  Understand it, at least try to understand it.  Believe in God as the center.  Everything comes back to God.  Try to hold on to the roller coaster ride of the dialectic.  You're moving around in a whirlpool.  Going down.  But suddenly, there's the center.  The Still.  The Quiet.  Nothing.  You're there.  Suddenly.  No place is more perfect.  In a clear opening.  At the center of your thinking, of your self, of your world.  Going inward and inward and finding an open place.  Pure, free, outness.

 

Kierkegaard studied the New Testament.  He went around and around the dialectic of the spirit, through all the both/and.  He gathered and gathered in melancholy and gathered and he dreaded the instant.  The wild, horrible thing.  Then the thrust out.  Out into an open, clear, pure Christianity. Separate from all the other. Separate.  To either/or.  A leap, a spring to perfection.  All at once.  The beautiful attack that frees.

 

 

 

Oh beautiful Kierkegaard, why do I love you so much?  You're so far away.  Is it that you seem as alone as I am?  I can feel that you were never sure that you belonged to God. I don't know about myself either.  I also am close to the erotic.  And like you I can't actually get to it.  I hope you are safe now.  I hope I will be then too.

 

 

 

74  In this world we can't seem to make desire and its satisfaction be one.  That's the inadequacy of this place.  The closest we can come to that eternal unity is repetition.  Again and again we call up the images of our lover.  This and then that until we again shoot off into space.  Over and over the same thing.  Oh, to get to that One Thing itself.  Impossible mystical unity.  There's obviously something missing here. And I hate the way the feelings of love are strongest in jealousy.

 

 

 

Your lover is all dressed in black. You are a teenager.  He saw you during the day when you were shopping.  Oooh, that hurts.  The contrast is too much.  It's exquisite.  A lovely shudder of embarrassment.  He was obviously your lover, going to be your lover.  And he talks so sweetly.  So comforting.  And you're so nervous.  You go home with him.  You can't help yourself.  Maybe God can help you.

 

A bookstore on Michigan Avenue.  Art, poetry, the classics, philosophy. You're a long way from the streets of Athens, from the garden of Academus.  Black leather.  But your brothers from that place would have understood. Nothing has changed.  Nothing can change.  It's a priori.  And your brother the young monk.  The thin-faced hirsute watches him.  Run from it.  Run right into it. 

 

God and Satan.  Why do they have to be so close?

 

 

 

It's so strange how a Form from Glory can momentarily shine in what is surely one of the least of things in this world.  In the space between the branches of a tree.  On the corner of his mouth.  In the way he touches his eye.  In the glass of a broken window.  In his trying to write.  Perfectly there.  I would stay there with it, but I'm distracted.  I go from it.  I will later write philosophical proofs of its existence.  The proofs won't quite work.  But I'm hoping the not-quiteness will be a proper thing for it to rest in.

 

 

 

I want my words to be smooth and delicate like a boy's legs.  To have a graceful, soft curve.

 

 

 

75  He is pure animal.  He is pure sex.  Philosophy's escape from sin.  He's mystical.  He knows he is the beauty of the intellectual heaven, and he is aware that the old philosopher is looking at him.

 

 

 

Tight writings, like tight clothes, reveal the sexuality beneath.  Aphoristic clothes.  Revealing words.  Everything done purposely.  A feel for the right word.  You have to feel in the dark. Who knows where a writing comes from.

 

Night boys with glaring sexuality.  He's looking at you.  He's asking you to perform.  You said you could.  So now the judgment.  But he's outside you.  Your dreams you can control, this you can't.  His awareness of you is what makes it impossible.  He's too much, Honey.  But that was his game. That's the look of sexuality.  An overcoming.  Exasperation.  This is the instant of Existenz.  When the inward becomes the outward.  When you openly become your secret weakness.

 

We are a sublime creation because we are so weak and vulnerable.  We are made out of images.  Nothing direct.  Only words and clothes and glances that reveal what's beneath, just out of sight.  Our seeing is darkness.

 

Don't worry, you are just like that boy. You were attracted to his need.  It's just like your need.  You are the same.  Behold each other's beauty. You are both delicate creations.  You are both in one essence.  That one thing that overcomes the universe.  You are flying just as you wanted to do.  The simple form.  In Love.    

 

 

 

The whole work of a lover is to keep his beloved from evil.

 

 

 

76  A pretty, pretty boy becomes sexual and is overcome when his grace in an instant, for only an instant, disappears and obscene flesh appears.  Then he's frightening and without mind, without smooth intellect.  Just flesh.

 

Beauty and Corruption.  I am a philosopher.  I move around in the dialectic.  I try to catch it in flight.  To freeze the moment.  I try to make Flight be.  I can't.

 

The boy was perfect.  I spied a malformation of his mouth and the brute took over.

 

My words loose their grace.  I am overcome by sexuality.  The boy seems to be able to control facticity.  He works well in the world.  He doesn't have to perform well sexually; others do it to him.  He has united himself to his body. He has become the overcoming.  He has consented to humiliation. He has given up flying.  He invites me to give it up too and come lie with him.  But I can't.

 

I can't have the flying and I can't have the not flying.  I am between.  Neither.  A shadow of both.  Just anxiety.  Nervousness.  Pure contradiction.  I can't write philosophy like Sartre could.  I must be God.

 

 

And you Sartre, an atheist.  I also know the impossibility of God.  And I also don't have any answer to your question about how we are to live without Him.  Like you I think about Him all the time.  I respect you.  I've gotten no farther than you.  Forgive my use of your ideas in my believing philosophy.  It wasn't something I thought out beforehand.  I'm bound by the same philosophical spirit you were.

 

 

The important thing is to become one with your lover.  How else are you going to keep him?  Such worry you have.  It's going to hurt, but transference of being is always painful.  Cutting yourself apart from yourself.  A perfect dying to yourself. You die for your lover.  And you've died many times.  Unfortunately, your lovers have all been too crude to recognize this thing you did for them.  They left you there without being.  You just hung there as nothingness.  They took your being with them when they left.  You've faded into nothing.  Back into the oneness of God as you were before you were created.  And He creates you again.  As He has done and loved to do so many times before.  You're here again and a new lover has caught your eye.  Maybe this time he will take you and let you be him.  The pain.  The becoming.  You're a boy who knows.  You know the holy pathway across.  You have found the way through the emptiness that was before Being.  From here to there.  Moving across. You are the perfect lover.

 

 

 

77  His beauty is that he has wholly given himself over to his lover.  It is his power over us.  He has done it. He has sacrificed himself.  He makes us be silent.  He is a totally dependent being.  He has bowed to Existence.  He has become His.  He is the perfect lover.  One Being.  In the dependent, independence shines most brightly.  All the Forms of Being, a continual thinking of Being.  They are infused with Being.  And the Form of the Forms is their dependence.  That which unites them to Being.  The surpassing beauty of God's lover. 

 

 

I am a gentle person.  I write gentle philosophy.  I am afraid of a sexual, young male.  He is crude strength grabbing me.  The push of flesh.  Extension.  Graceless.  I long for him.  I don't want him to leave and not be cruel to me any more, to hurt me any more.  I need the substance for my insubstantial universals.  I need this fear.  It is joyful.  I cry when he leaves.

 

 

Once again.  It's as old as anything that exists.  It comes again.  From somewhere else.  A place in Being.  In itself.  It descends into this creation.  It trembles and descends into time and becoming.  Pain and confusion.  He's here again.  The boy is in love.  Once again.  Eternally returning.  From beyond time.  Therefore ever young, ever new.  He's in love again.  He will tarry here for a while, then go, then come again.

 

I have no purpose in telling you this.  You will be true to your nature and you'll cry and you'll walk the streets looking for your home and men will be broken by your charm and you'll fly away probably singing and dancing and playing, thinking how much fun you have being yourself.

 

 

 

Can't you see him over there, working as a waiter, waiting for the time to go home?

 

 

 

78  I am a lover.  I am a delicate lover.  "Delicate" is a horrid word.  I am of the land of Truth. "Truth" is a horrid word.  I am a believer.  Fine mental images are with me.  God breathes over me.  Everything is fire.  I am as nothing now.  Beauty bows in my direction.  But evil is approaching.  He beckons.  He offers me something Truth never did. He offers me a solid touch.  Real strength.  Presence.  Being.  No more to be nothing.  No more lack.  No more delicacy.  All that that did was hurt me.  He offers love.  Strong material love.  Solid mater.  No more fine intellect.  And in return I am to give him something equally solid. Money.  No love there.  The real for the real. Love is a joke.  Get down.  Get cock is ass.  Get hot.  Get sweaty.  Pounding rhythms.  Real.  Hard matter.  Having this is what it's all about.  Don't stop.  Don't give me your delicate love now.  Honey, you're a fool believing in that.  I don't want it.  I want hard cock.  And then I want hard cash.  I know I said love at the start, but this is love .  I am real.  I have accepted evil.  I only tolerated your fine things.  Now I am the Lie.  I am stronger that your truth. 

 

Stop.   I, the delicate lover, must interrupt you.  Your power is powerless.  You see, I wrote this.  The whole thing has been my game.  I've played it many times.  It's how I live.  Sorry.  In the story I'm a puppet in our hands, but I wrote the story.  In the story you kill me, but I wrote the story.  Honey, I had to do something; you were so boring.

 

 

The butterfly is made up of its many appearings arranged in a series forming sets and sets of sets.  A progress that is one thing.  One thing inside of which we look and see the many appearings.  The butterfly transcends space and time, which are but its appearances.  Here is the paradox of philosophy.  It is one simple thing in which are an infinity of things spread out.  In time it is one.  The many are bound together.  A miracle.

 

 

 

When I'm with boys who aren't mystical or wonderful, I change.  I'm educated and articulate.  Then I don't speak metaphysics.  Only wonderful boys understand.

 

Hook,  "Boy?"

Peter,  "Yes"

Hook  "Ordinary boy?"

Peter,  "No!"

Hook  "Wonderful boy?"

Peter  (to Wendy's dismay)  "YES"

 

 

Philosophy is the never-never land of play.  It's the escape from the seriousness of the everyday.  It's like God's eternity, which never was, isn't, and never will be. 

 

 

 

79  This is the Land of Truth.  Here nothing is covered.  We have no mysteries.  No riddles.  No secret names.  Our God is the Logos.  Intellect.  Open Brightness.  He is the Idea.  The Seen.

 

The world is the lie.  Covered.  Hidden.  A sick mystery.  Riddles and secrets.

 

Everyone knows the first principle of truth.  It isn't hidden. Being is and non-being is not.  It is the Lie to say Being isn't and non-being is.

 

And yet few know the first principle and fewer understand.  The apparent thing seems to be the lie.  The world is everywhere with us.  It is mystery.  The Seen is unseen.  Openness is a secret.  We are blind to the Brightness.  God with the world?  Where is the redemption?  Who am I to do anything?

 

I am a philosopher who openly writes about boys.  Look at him, it makes no sense to see him as a creature of hidden, covered parts.  He is naturally naked.  Seen form.  Everything out.  But he lives in the world, and the world has covered him up, or tried to.  The anxiety of the world is that he might suddenly just appear and reveal the lie as it is.  The boy threatens to make the secret suddenly appear to everyone.  The darkness is afraid of the light.  But the world knows that in the middle of its nighttime he will suddenly appear and call.  He will do it on the street where everyone can see.  The boy will make the nighttime visible.   The world will know its own darkness.  These are the boys of the night standing out there visible.  It's your nighttime.  Their light.  It's an invitation to come out.  He calls.  He will show you the non-being of your night.  He will show you the emptiness of the mystery.  Your chains to it aren't there.  There was never anything there.  It never was, it couldn't have been.  This boy of philosophy, the Logos, lights up the night.  He is clarity, pure and simple openness.  Well-formed.  Light rising up away from the grossness of matter, too fine for the senses.  Only the intellect can see him.  He is to be known.

 

I write about him.  I speak plainly and without symbols, without riddles.  I am from the open prairie, ordered, with the plain speech that arises from it.

 

 

 

80  Sex and cum.  The clinging smell. Cohering.  Wafting essence.  Everywhere.  No escape.  The stickiness of Time.  Just going on.  My body is just pieces stuck together.  I am in the stickiness of it.  I think like that.  The sticky, muskiness between his legs.  Dirty underwear.  This is what I am called upon to love.  Where I have been put.  He stuck me here.  He gave me oily hair.  I slick it back as a sign of my manhood.  I will not try to escape to heaven without it.  I will put oil all over my whole body.  This shall be my coherence.

 

Receive me.  If you hear my words, please receive me.  I am giving myself here.  This is my body.  These words have material form.  A form for you, my lover.  The form of Incarnation for you.  Feel my voice.  Hold my incarnation.  I am the form of formless matter.  Look, I speak so intellectually of the cohesiveness of Flesh.  I am in a precarious place.  Feel the vibration of my words.  Their stickiness.  Their too-closeness.  My intellect touches.  Close.  Moving inward.  Spreading through.  To the end.  All through you.  Holding you together.  We are put together with paste.  That's all we are.  Before God, just such things.  Our confession.  What God saw fit to make us.  In his Wisdom.  He is in love with us.  Sex and cum.  Through Him I see this form.  I am lifted up to form.  In Him I love myself.  Simple pieces stuck together.  I see the parts.  A vision going down into words. Vision becoming clinging words.  All over me.  They are a seeing.  Me to you.

 

 

 

81  He's a Des Moines boy.  He is television and barbells and tan and no shirt and blue jeans well below his waist.  He is the world of nonsensual technology.  He is action.  He is appearance on the open prairie.  He is one of the children of the new world, a glistening child, a spiritual child.  He is only surface, beneath which there is nothing.  He is without substance.   Insubstantial light.  Just intellect.  He is nothing.  He is what he is not - he is not what he is.  He is among the first who exist only as consciousness.  The eyes can't behold his beauty.  His beauty surpasses the senses.  They become stricken and break. They can't stand before the pure contradiction of consciousness.  His beauty is too much. He is always beyond himself.  His own senses are breaking.  They come undone under the power of pure consciousness.  Nothing works.  The tension is too great.  He has become a god.  He had no choice when substance left.  He knows everything.  In the dialectic of contradiction everything is explained.  Others call him arrogant, see him as proud, this child of the going beyond, but it's the power of mind itself and he is having to learn to handle it.

 

I am a sexual writer.   These pages are an opaque, troubled passion.  Obvious references to other philosophers.  Disorder, maybe sweet disorder.  The whole philosophical world mixed together.  Nausea.  Am I nothing of myself?  Jesus, come hold me.  I am confused.  And I am hidden.  Undress me.  Look at me.  Give me an appearance before the world.  Hold me up into naked existence.  Protect me from the cold, but not too much.  Gentle, cool breeze for the garden. Flowers.  Suspension of the senses.  I am letting myself fall into it.  It's coming.

 

 

 

Nausea is contradiction.  A philosophy of paradox is nausea.  It's nervous tension.  It's perfection.  When perfection arrives it seems that the universe should end then, or the whole world should stop and acknowledge it, or at least a bell should ring.  Perfection is too exciting.  This is Platonism and it's the sickness of love.  There's no way out.  It's Hell.  It's eternal.  It'll go away.

 

 

 

82  The only thing the intellect knows is existence. It knows it as pure existence. It touches this existence.  The senses don't know anything so fine.  Naked like a lover you've had when you've gone to his room, existence holds intellect and offers his caresses.  Existence is irresistible.  Without any sensual qualities it is like an angel, an otherworldly angel.  He is your lover, your only lover.  The only one pure enough to enter into your soul.  He is a breaking of the senses.  As a dry branch breaks, as a raw north wind breaks your body.  You spent the night with him and in the morning he's gone.  Then there's only the hardness of the streets where he was.  A hardness that is him.  A door standing open.  The beginning of nausea.  Pure Being.  Fact.

 

Honey, I don't have to tell you about this unseen, unheard, non-sensual thing.  You know it already.  You run from it constantly.  That lover that would be your death.  I don’t have to tell you the meaning of the word angel or prove to you that they exist.  You know already.  You know Being.  You hate it.  And your anxiety is that it suddenly appears and reveals your vanity, reveals to you that you are it, you belong to it.  The reason you don't understand philosophy, the reason you find it so confusing is that you want it that way.  You don't want to have to face this thing.  And you get angry at philosophy because its power might win.  The reason you feel uneasy about boys in philosophy is because their sexuality, your confusion, is the image of existence. 

 

I say things directly and abruptly.  The sudden change is the Sudden. I don't afford you the comfort of slow proof.

 

 

Philosophy is lovely and fair and delicate.  It is juvenile and believing.  Philosophy requires a not too refined eye, but only after a very refined separating.  After analysis is complete it must be held at bay.  Delicacy is lovely, but it is sharp.  It is primitive, which means it is at a distance from fact.  Philosophy is separate from analysis, logic and metalogic.  It is rough.  Sophistication is sophistry.

 

Kant sits in his study writing his critique of pure reason.  Playing outside is the boy Wisdom.  Later he will appear within Kant's writing, and then people will say it's all very disordered.  The people not knowing what Wisdom is.

 

Dream dreams of going to him.  Invite him in.  But don't go out to get him.  He will come when he feels like it.   Then he will be gone.  And if you look you will see he has totally messed up your papers.  It's humiliating.

 

Beautiful Kant.  He's probably out now with the pretty hustlers on the street.  Giving the come on to Kant scholars.  And I bet his hair is still all messed up.

 

 

 

83  After sex.  With the boy you have been chasing and in love with for so long. After sex with the boy who was a revealing of angels to you.  Whose slightest inattention was infinite pain to you.  After that sudden moment which strangely was boring.  Not heaven, but the back warehouse of an old department store.  Nothing desirable, except bits of smooth porcelain here and there.  Mostly kind of musty and just there.  After you saw your beloved, your beautiful boy, become just a thing, you became frightened, disgusted with it all, you became a tight dull nausea.  You had encountered the flesh.  Graceless.  Stripped of motion and thought and will.  You encountered that which just is.  His body just was.  Just its existence.  Everything else was stripped away, fled into nothing.

 

Now what?  Where's love now?  Where's that great motion of the soul now?  Only interminable thought is left.  No one can stomach such a thing.  And now you are loathsome to him.  Your desire was a failure in the last analysis.  Analysis, which you can't stop.  Your nausea clogged and clogs everything.  Turgid, troubled.  Surely your presence has become disgusting to him.  Will these thoughts not end?  Now you are frightened.  Is this what everything is going to ultimately be?  Is the final thing disgusting and frightening?  With the pain of it having to be inside the glaring light of your consciousness?  Like the glare of bright fluorescent lights in an adult bookstore?  Disgusting, nauseating bare existence.

 

I am a philosopher.  I think about Being itself, a colorless, formless thing, without delight.  I am forever enslaved to the paradox of the being of non-being.  I go around and around in boring thought.  But Being is my lover.  You see what a dreadful situation we are in.

 

This is all the heart of the mystical and the beautiful.  It has a taste that is hard to give up.  Impossible to give up.  There's a god at this center of existence that wants us.  We have come too close.  He's irresistible.  The boy who has tasted your nausea and who hates you, who wants you and is enslaved to you.

 

 

 

The demon, daimon, it gives, the presence of phenomena to mind, the giver of gifts, see all the lovely things you can have, take them for yourself.

 

The Holy God, gives nothing, takes away, absence, the hard life, renounce everything, pain.

 

You are perfect in your non-being.  That's why I love you.

 

 

 

84  My intention is to find the source of Form. I am in love with geometry where circles aren't just round but are absolute circularity, where lines have no width at all and intersect at perfect points in no time at all.  And I'm in heaven when the boy falls into my arms, suddenly, without my knowing he was going to do it.  He has surrendered, he falls, he rises, and he's completely open.  What happens to my intention now?  Jesus, things are beginning to swirl.  I know he's let his own soul be pierced. One of us is about to cry out.  I'll do what I have to do and then get out.  This isn't philosophy; this is something else.  I have to do it.  His arms are so smooth.  His weight against mine is something I want.  He guides my hand to where I never thought he would.  Oh God, this is an invisible whirlpool.  Save me.  What must he be thinking.  God, make it all right.  Make this a thing of love.  Bring the stillness of geometry out of it.  Put us in the sky.  Jesus, be born.  Appear.  Come.  Bind it.  Hurry.

 

 

 

85  Honey, do you want to dance?  Or at least stand out there with me while I do my stuff around you?  I know you can't dance will, and you are a more seriously together person than I am, but you are going to have to submit and come.  You don't want to be not with it.  Submit, you'll love the humiliation.  I'm a better dancer than you.  Remember the answer is in the dance, not your seriousness.  And remember you can't dance until the most important thing you have fails you, abandons you and your mind becomes electric with pain.  Submit, go down.  Become erotic.  Eros will lead you through.  Fall in love and die.  He and I will show you what mediates.  Pure sensuality.  The Fall of man, or whatever is the case.  I will dance and show you Time itself.  I will move and reveal Space itself.  I will be just me.  Pure individuality.  But above all watch me.  You won't be able to think; I am pure intuition.  I will lead you to the Pure Forms themselves.  Submit, give up your precious thinking.  Move away from your blackboard and come to a gay bar.

 

 

 

86  Philosophy books in the woods.  The words present with the things coming right out of Being.  A musty, glistening laboratory of an old chemist.  A toy.  A boy who belonged there, with its freedom.

 

Firm like wood. With the smell of hard wood.  Like leaves scratching against my skin as I walk along the faint path amidst the light dancing through the branches.  Like that kind of chaos.   That's how I want my philosophical writing to be.

 

I spent years gathering.  Trying to speak.  Nothing.  I leave the woods.  Boys come and go.  Failure.  The Enemy is everywhere.  She seduces what I'm trying to save.  He goes willingly.  And looks back at me, the Fool.  He willingly goes into that screaming night.  All alone.

 

And I'm alone.  No one to love.  I will go on.  Over and over again trying to write.  Boys over there, farther away than ever.  I watch them with each other.  I write for those who are also trying to escape Her. But they can't yet hear my words.

 

 

 

We are all writers.   Words are what we are made of.  Books are our form of existence.  We are lovers, a thing created by writers.  We go out into the streets to look at each other, looking for each other.  In our minds we take our books with us.  We see the world with literary eyes.  The streets are hard and cold and empty, but in our memory, by means of words, they become glorious.  Through the word the world appears and from it love proceeds.

 

 

 

At an early age he fell in love with geometry.  But he was a passive lover, not active.  He didn't calculate or do proofs, unless he was told to.  That wasn't what he loved, rather he would hold the book, look at the lines and type, and feel it in his hands, and he would smell the paper and be overcome with the spirit of geometry.  Ecstasy.  Swooning back onto his bed.  In the rush of love.

 

As time passed his sensibilities turned to the essence of geometry.  He came to philosophy.  But his love took the same form here.  He wasn't an analyst or a system builder, but a lover.  Philosophy was a god to him.  It was the Wisdom of God Himself. He swooned here too.  It was the only thing he could do, that and try for love.  The professional philosophers wouldn't have wanted anything to do with him.  His life will go on the same until he dies and falls into the hands of his lover.

 

 

 

87  I'm not interested in the darkness.  But in the too-brightness of the Light.  I am fascinated that light can hide in darkness.  I am called by it. I am called by smooth skin and oblivion.  The Allurement.  I am interested in the darkness that is there when this Lover leaves, as He must.  I am interested.  I am in the middle of it.  Surrounded by the empty images of words.  Learning to love the emptiness.  Learning to accept the darkness that must remain around my Lover.

 

 

Like a cockroach.  Coming back out.  The appearance of sin. Suddenly.  Crawling.  The Sudden.  The stuff of anxiety.  Our true appearance.  Metamorphosis.  You are that.  The Fall.  The appearance of devils.  What we are. Our need for salvation.

 

Disgusting flesh. Now you know how disgusting it is.  Creepy. The vision of our Hell.

 

St. Teresa could smash those little things with her foot when the power of God was taking her. Smash a cockroach and it's like fine paper.  Where's the suddenness now?  Your anxiety comes to nothing.  It's ancient. The power of the past to still be here.  That thing you did.  That thing we all did.  It will crawl out from inside of you.  You must let it.  It's your repentance.  We look inside your beautiful form to see that thing in there.  Inward even to you.  What you are when the numbness of the world disappears.

 

Honey, let it be, you must be healed.  What you are can't help but tremble at being revealed.  But the power will destroy it and free you.  He makes it nothing, a sickness you had for a while.  And between that place and this there is no nexus.

 

 

 

88  Here is the beauty of the Forms.  They have no gravity.  He sat there seemingly having no weight at all.  Delicacy was everywhere. Soft and smooth skin.  Slender legs.  All descriptions of lightness.  Certainly he was fair.  His eyes more than swift in movement.  He raised his arm as easy as a sigh.  The Forms come close to nothing at all.  Pure.  The boy's name is Breath.  He is our destruction.

 

He is heartbreak.  He is a spirit in the orgy and horror of God.  I am heavy.  Too heavy to stand.  I am crude.

 

The Forms are without the weight of particularity.  Universal.  Unable to be seen directly.  Known only in the spirit.  More absent than a soft breeze.  As distant as the pink of a boy's cheeks is from your lips right now.  As invisible as wonder.  Able to make you feel as lost as is your image in the moisture in his eye.  Able to make you fly to God, the beginning of these things.

 

 

The love of two boys is as light and insubstantial as pure logic.  It's the oneness of two things that are alike.  It's the identity of Form.  One thing in two places.  Like with Like.  The Same.  This is the opposite of angst, despair.  This is essentialism, not existentialism.  Essence – the oneness of Being.  The two boys are one Form.  Their being is one.  To see this unity is to see their essence.  This is philosophy. 

 

From boys to philosophy.  This unity of Form, Love.

 

The oneness of the One is so beautiful that we necessarily fall in love with it.

 

The oneness of two delicate boys, that is to say, two beings light and fair, resembling the lightness of pure intellect, is, of course, occasion for love.  Love is their oneness itself, of their essence.

 

The soul is the place of pure forms, a place without any crudeness of facts.  That is why the soul is said to be the form of the body.  It is the body without the facticity of body, away from the nausea.

 

The soul is freedom.  It is insubstantial lightness.  It is like a bird in flight, or better, an angel.  Freedom means no seriousness about everyday needs.

 

 

 

89  Sometimes that little room that is the Form can seem like a little prison and the outside seems like a wide expanse free to roam in and where truth is obvious.  So go there.  And your words will flow in ecstasy telling your lover about what you have found.  He won't see any difference.  The inside and the outside are the same place.

 

The everyday world and the world of philosophical things are one world.  Separated only by the severely pure holiness, the Otherness within God.  A fine thing.  The substance of our mental distinctions.

 

 

I want to move swiftly over him.  Firm holding.  Here then there.  Arms around waist and through arms.  Inside him.  Through his legs.  And move my hand slowly across.  His chest.  His face.  All is right.

 

Time stretches out.  It's all present in one instant.  He waits for me.  This and then that and when love comes everything will be fast.  That moment and then that moment.

 

Touch over touch.  Here and then there.  Wait for a moment.  Then it's there, nothing at first.  Something else.  Memory.  Doing that.  So quick.  You must just remain nowhere for a while.  Nothing.  Then it's present.  Well-formed.  Heaven gathers speed.  I see it quickly here.  Two more places.  I'm still waiting.  More.  Strong.  Uniting.  This goes to that.  Faster.  It's coming and we're laughing and we lie within it and more and more and higher.  Higher.  The thing itself appears.  Breaking out.  Flying.  Gentle atmosphere.  Soft riding the translucent wave.  Swiftly over him.

 

The individual is supposed to be the repository of infinity.  I, or rather he, is beyond words.  He is beyond description.  Beyond any category.  All we can do is speak paradoxically of him.  Thus he is lost in mystery.  Any attempt at understanding him will lead only to despair.  The infinite is outside any form.

 

This is all ridiculous.  It's nothing more than a not wanting to understand.  The infinite is perfectly describable. It has a right handsome form. And as for that individual, he is a thing that lies down so the infinite can cover him over.  The only despair is when the infinite won't come.  You don't understand because you know nothing of love, or you are afraid of it.

 

The individual is not infinity. It receives it.  Don't confuse things.  The individual and the infinite are two different things.  The individual is beyond words, but that doesn't mean that words can't surround and cover him.  That's the uniting of Being.

 

 

 

90  Presence, The Forms of Sensuality, the Temporal and the Unstable.  My love is that we are two minds with such things in them.  Neither of us can approach the material thing.  We live in the realm of thought. We approach the sensum, the unthought, to see the Form.  We need to see our own beauty.

 

The form of the sensual world is to be partial, not yet, almost, not fully present, not fully hidden.  The vision of the pure form in our mind's eye is a vision of something complete, present, at rest, perfect.  We sense almost circles; we know perfect circles.  As long as we are in a sensual world, we are in an incomplete world.

 

The perfect world is complete, but where is it?  It's there in your friend's looking at you and sighing.  It's there is your friend's telling you about his longing.  It's there in your being together with your common form.  It's there making you friends.

 

I'm in love with this love and with this boy.  The Forms become real to me in his crying over their separation.  I don't get involved in the world because I don't want partial images.  I want the perfect reality.  The boy doesn't measure up to my ideal.  I am in love with the perfect god.  Our love has the form of being struck down.  We just stop, fall back and almost cry.  The earthly is so intense.

 

In my pain over lost love I call for attention from the whole Host of heaven.  They do appear.  Angels ascending and descending.  What might have been.  Magic numbers within numbers.  Fiery rings.  Everything just outside the door of perception.  No longer just concepts.  I bend low before them.  What was once process now becomes a thing in itself.  All the mediators appear.  I see the affinity, the Plenum.  The tight bonding of the hierarchy of Forms.  I see that Wisdom is the cause of everything.  I see within the Fire.  I see my beloved cut in two.  I cannot help him.  I am beside myself with fear for him.  Now he will leave me for sure.

 

I pray to Jesus so that I can see that everything is all right.  I pray to see this all as the image of the affairs of the gods.  I want this to be His cut.  I want this to be the unity of the separation within the godhead.  I want my beloved to finally be gone so I can have heaven at last.

 

 

 

91  It's always a characteristic of love that the lover at times thinks that he has been the only one doing the loving.  The discovery that that wasn't so puts heaven in its place again.  It's the same with writing.  You thought that you had captured the gods themselves in your words.  They were beautiful.  Then you see that it was all just a wish.  Back and forth from heaven to hell.  You need someone to tell you what has really happened.

 

Maybe philosophy is nonsense.  Maybe it's the bad writing of a dream lover.  But what is there to a pretty face?  It too was designed for nothing but love.  It seems that's how God has designed everything.  Mystical knowledge.  Brilliance and oblivion.

 

 

 

At the End of things there is the breaking across the boundary that divides.  The distance between lover and beloved disappears.  Perfection is when things get close at hand.  When you can hear it in the wind.  When your individuality is threatened, and the universal appears.  When the Oneness dissolves the world.

 

 

 

The place of intellect in philosophy is the same place it has in any other kind of love. Deception.  A weak image.  Christ.

 

There's only one philosophy.  A love of the heavenly Forms.  But it's a philosophy that won't work.  What am I to do?  I can't find my boy.

 

But the boy is philosophy and he's yearning for someone to come.

 

I can't stop my analyzing and find answers for him.  I can't be his hero.  All I can do is assert the Forms and ignore the logicians.  I have to keep the wolves from him.

 

 

 

92  Give your boy some roses to match his soft cheeks.  Of course he will reject them, but only outwardly.  Inwardly he has taken them.  There they become perfect and never fade.  Don't speak to him about it.  Write him poems.  Tell him he is the earthly vision of heaven.  He will smile and not respond.  He has taken your words into himself.  And don't worry when he doesn't look at you, he sees you with the eyes of his spirit.  He is a very moral being.  He wants nothing corrupted my matter.  Talk to him about truth and justice and eternity.  You'll be surprised he knows what you're talking about.  I know these things; I've been with boys.  And I've come to know that they exist most properly in the words of philosophy.

 

 

 

To be a philosopher is to be intimately acquainted with the idea that Being is presence.  He knows it because he is full of absence.  He can't find the proper order to his thoughts.  He can't seem to speak anything intelligible to the one he loves.  Everything falls apart and becomes shattered.  He also knows the meaning of unity in the same way.

 

The mistake he sometimes makes is to think that if he just gives up philosophizing, that thing he's sure is an evil demon, he could find a simple living of life as others do.  But they don't.  And philosophy is really more the presence of a beautiful angel to him who teases him as lovers always do.  They seem not to know how much it can hurt.

 

 

Abstracted, free, flying where there is no air, speculation, mirrored reflection.  A nice choice of words.  Pure philosophy.  Fine.  Refined.  The substance of love.

 

I will build a whole system of love.  It shall be a mansion to live in.  It will be the light around his smooth shoulders.

 

Pure spiritual light.  Requiring my oblivion.  No one will be held there.  Endless falling.  Running through halls.  Beds changing into windows.  Stairways into my arms around his neck.

 

I will pattern my philosophy after the beautiful shape of his body.  And it will turn into something sublime like his looking at me.  It's all just a swoon and a sigh. 

 

That's all there is to philosophy.  That's all there ever has been.

 

 

 

93  Everything is full of gods. Contentless mysticism. Self-identity.  The One.  The roller coaster ride of thought. That thing you're learning. With it you take a pretty step. Your calf bound with cord. You're enchanting. No one will be able to resist you. The boys of the academy will follow you anywhere. You command all the powers.

I have no lovers and I have no readers. I have destroyed these relations. I am distant. But I am the distance itself. I have become the Absolute. The unthinkable. I have disappeared.  It's what I wanted. I wanted to flow into God. Now when I speak my words are nonsense. I chased away my lovers and my readers. I wanted them to know the Absolutely Alone for themselves. How else was I to become one with them?

The nexus that is the interpenetration of all the things of Being seems so strong that it might cause the total collapse of the world into one confused mush. Where's the clear and distinct? Do I have the strength to hold them apart? The Cut and feel of the pain. That hustler over there looking at me is separating me from myself. In the end all the elements will separate. What am I going to do then? The sword of Jesus. I will take the hustler home. I will cut him and penetrate him; I will pour myself into him. I will be the nexus between us. I will hold myself apart.

 

Inside his pants his ass looked so small and tight. In my hands it was soft and white. Now how am I going to handle this? He wanted to kiss. I'm afraid I've been overtaken. I hope I've been overtaken. The boy and his love are light and delicate. That is to say, ethereal. Beyond the moon. In the place of incorruptible intelligences. They're taking him back home.

 

 

 

94  The Boy is pure form.  He is extended space.  It is movement into itself.  He is the tautological emanation of the One. He is pure intention.  Being for itself.  He is the intellectual principle.  He is nonsensual unity behind the matter.  He is pure potentiality.  Invisible, dancing all around you.  Is he there or isn't he?  Only could be.  All this is just logic. The universal.  Just the necessary.  Empty.  The play of the Absolute.

 

Religion is the thing itself.  The world is the thing with other things.  The One thing by itself.  Or the crowd.  The thing in itself, going into itself and forgetting the traffic.  Religion demands that you will one thing.  The world is commotion toward many things. And religion is a dying to yourself.  And it is love for a dying god.  To love is to will one thing.  This delightful passion is your salvation.  Away from everything it all falls apart. Thorns tear away the skin.  It is loosened and sags.  The blood dries.  He is discolored.  Your soul follows. But it's joy.  There's nothing between you and your lord.  Forever you have been together.  One thing.

 

The boy is algebra.  He is emptiness.  He is the dome.  On him appear the light of jewels and precious metals.  He is the chemistry.  The transference of light into light.  From base to noble.  He is the glistening boy smooth with oil.  His sword reflecting the light as he dances.  He is the boy of eternal youth who has the appearance of sprinkled pearls.

 

The boy sits with his arms around his knees, his head bowed down.  The sphere of Parmenides.  He is the soul of the Universe.  He is the beloved of God.  The delicacy and the tenderness of our existence.  He is the Being of Being.

 

He is the Idea, the Seen.  Nothing is hidden.  Everything is in the light.  The brightness of appearance.  He is the Glory of the sun.  He is reason, ratio.  Formed in golden proportion.  Limit and harmony and form.

 

He is pure relation.  Without substance, not being as an object.  He is the change of one thing into another.  The network of transformation.  Pure excitement.  He is the in-coming future.  Pure intellect.

 

He is the basic form of all our civilizations.  He is Ideal Number.

 

 

The boy is Being itself, still and empty.  Withdrawn into himself.  His legs pulled up to his chest.  His face buried between his knees.  His arms around and holding himself.  Passion is his flushed color.  The Fullness of Life is the breadth of his thigh.  Swiftness is the sparkle in his hair.  Still.  Thinking.  Nothing and everything, withdrawn into Form.

 

 

 

95  A boy who looked like sprinkled pearls would be lovely, but he couldn't live with you as you are now.  You could see him glisten, but you couldn't talk to him with the words you now have.  The thoughts of boys who are made out of jewels are made out of light; they're not like yours. But it is probably your fate to be the lover of one of these boys.  You can't think of anything else.  It's hard for me to think of the shame you are going to have to endure when you change.

 

Slowly, as if drop by drop, knowledge increases within me.  Thick, incompressible liquid breaking through the material of my body.  I stand drenched wet with baptism.  The breeze blowing over me makes it all evaporate.  I am sublimated and dispersed.  Into him, this gentle wind.  I float within him.  I rest on him.  Carried over the contours. 

 

He is invisible fine.  He is a lover with his face beside mine.  Delicately touching.  Holding me.

 

Soft cotton.  Fingers across my face.  Playing.

 

He is the world.  Everything becomes him.  I listen and learn and he appears.  I learn to see with my intellect, my spirit, and he's been waiting for me. His magnitude overwhelms me.  He comes.

 

 

This is the love of Philosophy itself, a god, the beloved of God Himself.  He is the Sophos through whom the universe took on well-turned being.  That is to say Reason.  And it is through the eyes of philosophy that we must now look at the universe in order to see its fineness.  Then we see the universe is a concentration, a prayer.  In the heavens everything is tinged with the beauty of this god.  And in the farthest, innermost cloister through the colonnade he walks talking with his friends.

 

The Boy is pure form.  He is extended space.  A movement into itself.  He is the tautological emanation of the One.  He is pure intention.  Being for itself.  He is the intellectual principle.  He is nonsensual unity behind matter.  He is pure potentiality.  Invisible, dancing all around you.  Is he there or isn't he?  He only might be.  All this is just logic.  The universal.  Just the necessity of necessity.  Empty.  The play of the Absolute.

 

 

 

96  The crystal boy.  First one thing, then another. He wants to love another so he can figure out what love is. His mind goes here and then there. He's a boy who exists with words. You have to let him change his mind. And like light in crystal he jumps quickly from one angle to another. His beauty is in the change. And like crystal you must be careful when you pick him up to remember that his being is inward, quick and dependent upon an outside source. And like crystal he takes what comes to him and breaks it up into a rainbow of color.  But you must look inward. His being is in his words, trying to figure things out, to trap it in his unchanging, highly geometrical form. In his words bouncing from one angle to another. He is the ever changing passing through the unchanging. He is rigid tension and flying colors. Held in delicate tension, easily broken, as are all the fine things of dialectical creation.

 

 

The crystal boy could see his difference in everything he came in contact with. Something was wrong. He only pretended life. He was really the being of the nighttime.  Inwardly he was Otherness itself. Making substance disappear from everything he looked at. The world became just appearance. He himself was not an individual, just the universal pattern of a boy. When he danced he was pure Form. Now, he is perfect. He is too normal and good to be real. His mother loves him, but he knows he's wrong. Yet he has no words to say just what it is that's missing, because he looks too closely at words. Each one points to a real thing. He can't stop his looking, dim his vision and see the opaqueness that would give thick substance to objects.   Everywhere the translucent, open night sky. Beautiful, secretly and beautifully against the Law.

 

 

 

97  The Forms of Wisdom and Beauty are right before you.  You see them with your eyes.  This is extreme realism.  The pure appearance of God.  After the mystical union you realize you were never separate.  His mind was with your mind. But now it's before you.  Just you two. That is, one thing under the appearance of Love.  That mystical chasm.  That running and flying of contemplation over the hills and valleys of heaven.  Seeing with the spirit is nothing but seeing with the eyes.  But first you have to get to the place where your lover is.  Then you'll see Him. It's all right there within the principle of identity. Go into it. Be with Him.

 

The desert monks were right, Christianity demands that we completely abandon our sensual, fleshly life.  Only intellect is left.  Only the One, complete in self-contemplation.  And the desert visions that follow.  Visions of boys that look like sprinkled pearls.  And a Seraphim, his face aflame, leaving the heart on fire with love of God.  Spiritual rivers seen flowing overhead.  Living flowers looking like jewels.  A world whose substance is Glory, not made of matter as is this one.

 

 

The senses of my soul have grown rigid and dull. I try to employ them, but they perceive nothing. They have become obstructed by their long listlessness.  Still, I  will cling to my faith that in that nothingness there is something after all. In faith I know this after an unspeakable manner. And I am tired of my bodily senses which cannot give me the perfection I want. So I will cling to this darkness. Waiting for the holy wind to blow through me. Too make me tremble at last. In chill and dread to feel the mystical touch of God. The touch of a lover. To smell His mystical fragrance. To make me touch Him and know His pleasantness. To taste Him and know His sweetness. To be aware of His Surpassing Beauty, in incomprehensible mystery.

 

 

 

98  Substance disappeared when our eyes grew stronger. It was nothing but the dullness of our vision. But then the light came.  Under the appearance of things there was nothing at all.  They were just the pure, thin appearances composed of nothing but light.  Matter was gone and only the purely intellectual idea of thisness was left.  The colors seen weren't the color of anything, just the form of color itself out there.  Color and thisness tied together.  A beautiful vision.  And within them could be seen floating the logical elements of universality, existence, the Simple.  All this just hanging in the empty Night.  We fell in love with the Night.  It took all of our attention.  It called.  It was charming.  It became everything.  Falling softly through the infinite nighttime.  Secretly we knew this darkness was light.  Intellectual light.  The beautiful god that gave us this vision.  Who showed us his many Forms.  Empty space.  A sigh.  Freedom, First love.  Unheard melodies.  Philosophy itself.  We knew he was there.  A hidden presence.  An unseeing.  In the middle of the night there was a mystical lover.  Our falling into oblivion.  The substance of all the appearances.

 

Of course little things at first.  A simple touch here.  Then moving your hand over the surface there.  Two moments, one after the other.  Moving always closer to the center.  Touching the essential points.  The mind gripping more tightly onto itself.  The whole scene becoming just quickly flying images.  Going back, repeating some with a new intensity.  At last the scene itself takes over.  It moves the mind.  Tighter and tighter into itself.  Then the wave of release.  The Idea has appeared.  An object with its own being.

 

Everything in his future was spoken in the way he wore his hat.  In his eyes I could see the sadness of his love affair.  It was all right there.  Nestled within.  His being within his appearance.  His appearance pulling me inside.  The twisting and strange angles revealing a darkness that is his destiny.  Everything about him has its limit in the unlimited.  His mind is full of emotion that is the Feel of the Infinite.

 

One thing within another – an ancient metaphysics.  Refined intellectual intimacy.  A thing for philosophers to contemplate.  A powerful bond creating a Cosmos.  A beautiful thing to pierce our hearts and make us fall in love.  A tie we sometimes call Whisper.  A wonderful thing that is the reason why we can look at his face and form and see poetry and castles and deep green forests.  The Tie, the Form of the World, a god, the end of our seeing.

 

 

 

99  A play of the dying faggot.  The young boy who knew the wind in the trees and felt the end of all things.  Who saw the moon follow him around.  Who woke up when he saw baby pigs being drowned and the old sow hung upside down with her throat cut.  The boy who tried to stop the rush of Blood.  The boy overcome by life, who was in love with its strength.  Whose life became an endless repetition of there same things.  The boy who was just an icon, following after real boys.  Reaching for them and dying.  An icon-boy to be held up by a priest and carried among us.  The beginning and truth of our theater.

 

Late in a civilization everything takes place on stage.  The players are old man flesh, even the young, covered with make-up, moving like gods, dead to the world.  They know the truth of existence.  Like robots they just are.  Exquisite place beyond deception.  The gesture, the pose.  So calculated and simple.  They are image.  The pure thing in itself. Just image. Then, it is lifted to heaven.  Timeless truth.  God appears through our non-being.  I will deck myself out like a true American, the perfection of western civilization.  I will wear rhinestones and glitter. I will make my skin pale and put color on my cheeks and outline my eyes.  We will build a glorious stage for the second coming.

 

That dancer will teach you how to write.  He's a small town boy, unsophisticated, trying to do it right.  Too formal, his movements are angular, his face is too clean, his eyes too brilliantly outlined, too correct.  He is unnatural.  His thought has make him like a soft, cheeks the color of dawn, machine.  Pure Logic.  This is what you should be as a writer.

 

Jesus is the boy who is perfectly in love with the One.  The submissive boy.  Showing off his lover to everyone.  Talking about him always.  Being him.  The perfect boy.  The pure form of boy.  Of one being with his lover. Laying down his life for him.  Our Example.  Our god.  The one we want to be like.  The one we want to be seen with. Holding each other under the same arch.

 

 

 

100  Beauty itself.  The Form of Beauty itself.  That power from the mind of God.  Stands right before you.  What are you going to do?  It is an intellectual principle.  Thus it is calling and asking for a response.  He's looking at you with looking eyes.  Surely some sort of touching is required.

 

But how can we touch such a thing?  How could our grossness be commensurable with it?

 

That thing itself though shows us how.  We can touch it with words.  Beauty is the origin of philosophy.  Our fitting into the appearing of the Beyond.

 

This is the philosophy of realism.

 

 

Love is a mathematical thing.  A pure relation.  Relation itself.  One thing shared by two.  So abstract and ethereal.  An Idea.  Just logic.  The mind thinking about thought.  The two boys are blind.  They go into themselves and know the other.  Not the shadow of thought, but to thought itself.  Incessant calculation with the speed of fire.  Becoming real.  So perfect it appears.  Two legs, a chest, eyes containing a glint of light.  A god that lives entirely within thought that is the body of thought itself.  The end of thought, the One thing all thought is in love with.  A god that is the One thing both boys are.  A god that is free, outside this world.

 

In the middle of the night, in the faint light, you noticed a jinn sitting on the edge of your bed.  A boy of soft, lush flesh.  A servant of your pleasure.  A boy who would teach you the ways of love.  Glistening oil on his body, folds of white cloth around his waist.  A piece of your imagination, a boy without a soul, gone in the morning.  The purity of love that is the hidden substance of mind.

 

Standing beside your lover, looking at your other, knowing the secret thing inside both of you.  Touching his waist.  Falling into oblivion.

 

 

He is the Logos.  He is the light that breaks into my own thinking.  He is the Form of this dance that makes it fit around reality.  He is the well formed that is the Real in itself. My world is just a rainy day image of him, until he comes and lifts me up.  Into his heaven where are proceeding all the manifold Forms.  The eternal Forms encircling in celestial light above my head.  He is the unity of thought and Being.  He is the Being of the One.  My spirit sinks into his Spirit.  He makes me be.  I am overcome.  He is the one I have longed for.  To see his face is to see the end of my moving intellect.  He is the Blessed Vision.  His touch is making me fall back. He lays his forehead on my neck.  His spirit is in me.  His touch cuts.  Sweet pain.  Into the Sun.

 

You must know how I have suffered because of him.  I have loved a god.  He has made my mind be like his.  He has forced me to kiss him. Not that I didn't want to.  He has made me his lover. A mortal can't live through that.  He has wanted me so much that he will be in my death so he can have me.  A lovely and delicate god I couldn't say no to.  I will go through everything with him.

 

 

 

101  The boy is love.  He is beauty, delicate, refined.  Thus he is the picture of Intellect itself.  The Fire.  Burning away the gross matter, freeing the form.

 

The boy is mischief.  He is a trick. Confounding the learned. That sideward glance of his eye. What he's really doing is not what he's doing. He works in the unseen.  The perfect image maker.  His indifference is calculated to capture you.

 

The boy sleeps beside his friend.  The oneness of the identical.  Two instances of the same thing.  Now that is love.  The principle of the intellect.  Falling away into the One. 

 

See how he has managed to pull you to him.

 

 

 

This is all an inward going.  Through all the stations of the mind.  Toward the Sublime.  To the one place where you can be beyond yourself.  Where you can burst out into the Open.  The Vision within the mind of God. 

 

This is the road to Perfection.  The way of the Saints.  The way of self-denial.  The Form that you are is God, not you. You are just an emptiness that has received the Form.  Your duty is just to stand there, let Him surround you and then radiate off.  Such standing still is called worship.

 

 

Go inward.  See your nothingness.  See God, your Lover, surrounding you.  Even your seeing is God Himself, part of Himself he has given you.  This is your oneness with Him.  You are at the interior chamber.  He's getting up to come to you.  Soon he will be holding your hand back behind your waist, pulling you closer.  A beautiful entanglement.  Awaiting total destruction.  The crossing over at your death.

 

 

 

The boy with delicious thighs wrapped his legs around me as he slept beside me.  I put my lips on his shoulder.  The smell of his hair drew me.  How could this happen more than once or twice in my life.  Ecstasy is rare.  I will need a long time to try to understand this.  So in my old age I will have knowledge with my memories.

 

 

 

102  A philosopher is a priest.  I take away substance.  Appearances are the appearance of nothing at all.  But hidden among them is God.  The pink of his cheek.  The blackness of his lashes.  The expanse of his mouth.  Are pinkness and blackness and expanse floating on the night.  I see them in the swoon of love.  It's a stabbing and a rush through my heart.

 

A joyful mystery.  The boy Jesus before the Doctors of the Law.  He was their Law incarnate.  He sat there confounding them.  They were in love.  To this day he sits there before those of us who contemplate the Logos.  Still the object of our desire.  Still our perplexity.  Wonderful boy.

 

 

 

To see the human being as dust and ash is a rare religious vision.  Fine dust.  Pure points.  Resting on the air.  A collection that has no being of its own.  The symbol of the composed.  And ash.  A world burnt up by the incoming Fire.  A reminder of the Love we once saw.   Dependence and nothingness before God.

 

Astronomers have confirmed the teaching of the astrologers, who said that the stars were intelligences.  They too are fine dust and ash as we are.  Overcome by the Energy.  The Orgy of God.  Whirling around in that vast celestial Beauty.  Beautiful as we are beautiful.

 

 

 

The love between boys is just a breeze.  Without Power or Act.  It is sensual, but it is a pure sensuality.  Puer.  He receives, but without generation.  He is totally dependent, nothing comes from him.  He has no being to give.  He doesn't exist.  His Lover is everything.  But his lover is just like him.  They are just One thing.  Only God, only the Universal, is.  Those two were just God.  God and his Beloved and Love, all just one God. A thing too still for the world.  A world for which only brute power has being.

 

 

 

103  When he danced it was with pure form.  When he reached out his arm, he reached out his arm. When he took a step, he took a step.  Simple discrete things.  He gave all the love a boy could give.  A boy's pure logic.  He ordered things.  For you.  He gave himself to the form.  He tried to make it go right for you.  He was working for you.  Him for you.  He did everything he could.  He would be.  For you.  A pure thing.  Being just what it is.  He would give his being to you.  He gave everything.  A pure dancer disappears on being seen.  You have taken him.

 

 

 

Jesus was just a boy who knew God, thought about Him and talked about Him all the time.  That was his divinity.  He knew what the flesh was.  He was the image of the love of God.  You can see him walking in the big Hall, God is all over him.  His beauty is that he looks like he knows.  He is Wisdom made visible.  The Boy as it is in Wisdom, the thinking about God.

 

 

 

Philosophy is immense.  Which is to say God is too immense.  And we have so little time.  Hopefully at the end I will be able to close my eyes and sink into it.  I think this too-muchness is the meaning of love.  I want to be falling into Love.  I feel this perfection that is so far beyond me.  It makes me feel like a sinner and it's going to send a fire and destroy all the copies of my manuscript.  I dared too much when I approached philosophy.  How am I ever going to last through it?   I am going to hurry and distribute myself.  I am trying to hide in multiplicity.  Where is my redeemer?  I have to believe in you, Jesus.  I can't stand it otherwise.

 

 

 

If the end of the human intellect is happiness, then my intellect has been at home at no place more than when it gazed on his face while he was dancing.  Never have I seen before such light radiating gladness.  His smile, which was about to burst into laughter, was pure joy.  How many names can I give that thing that was there?  I saw Happiness itself there.  I knew I was at the end of my thinking.  It was pure Light.  I know what it means to look into a face and see everything.

 

 

 

104  Clear, out on the edges of the universe, there exists the Fire.  Air is solid rock compared to it.  It is out of this that we are going to have to make the instrument that will divide those things otherwise impossible to separate.  Soul from body.  Ecstasy from lust.  Genius from insanity.  Playfulness from frivolity.  The Nighttime from the darkness.  The Sublime from the demonic.  Inwardness from self-centeredness.  Love of one's self from pride.  Heavenly Love from sodomy.  Spirit from matter.  Love from sex. 

 

There is a dance going on here. The Fire is very fine.  But it cuts.  You know that.

 

It's a romance.  The instrument is the sword Excalibur.  And you are Arthur.

 

 

Charity is the essence of God.  To turn away from this love is to turn away from God.  To move toward it and in it is all there is to religion.  It is the cause of Desert Fathers abandoning everything and going off to live by themselves.  This is the wilderness, the Wildness of God, the Alone.  That one, fine, delicate moment when the mind finds Being.  Extreme silence.  A Holy time when everything has stopped.  And from this Holy place this one person calls another to join him in that exquisite thing.  For a second one hand touches another.  Lovers.  Alone.

 

 

These are the locutions of God.  Lightly appearing in my mind.  Having the proper form of god's speaking.  Inciting the proper response.  Lying on me as a lover.  As though He were by himself speaking into His pillow.  Or I am the soft humus of the ground He is lying on.  It is so strange that He would speak to me. I am nothing at all.  And the words I put His words into are just clumps and string things.  Why does Christ talk to an earth urchin such as me?

 

 

One little smirk from him and I can't write.  A trivial evil spirit.  Now only turbidity.  I will try to exorcize him.  I need the magic of numbers.  Convoluted rhythms. Inward twisting.  Serpents against serpents.  A Caduceus.  The spiral ladder that is the pathway to heaven.  Self contemplating self.  The begetting of Jesus.  Back again to belief.  Once again within His heart.  Pain getting lost within His Order.  Sublime, sensual Night.

 

 

 

105  The boy is a string quartet.  The philosopher.  He is me.  The coming together of the four points of the earth.  And the strings just my stringy words.  But he is something tight.  Intense.  Inward.  He is the falling to sleep that overcomes with the onset of sexual feeling.  He is concentration.  He is prayer. He is the spinning dervish with centripetal force.  In other words - Intense.  Not to be gone into quickly.  Looked at. Contemplated.  While feelings build and pile up.  Every feature falling into every other.  Waiting for the moment.  The culmination.  The summing together.  The One.  The Real.  Just there.  A point of the power of Being.  Independent.  Tight.  Then disappearing.  Going off to the blue sky.  Stretched out straight.

 

 

Order itself is unordered.  Being doesn't exist.  The Bird cannot fly.  Wisdom is unknowing.  Love is stillness.  The Boy has no progeny.  These are all prior to creation.  The Godhead is still absolutely One.  This is mystical philosophy.  It is Platonism.  I've gotten so far into the philosophy of no substance that I've forgotten what substance is.  The world is becoming just a dream. Everything is now just God.  I'm alone.  I'm with the Alone.  I am to Him as nothing at all is to something.  There can be no ordering there.  But it is, nonetheless, the beginning of order.  The Order of order.  God advances into the night.  I am loved.  I who am nothing at all.  It's a strange mystical thing that I came or didn't come out of that Divinity.  What am I?  There is an ordering between us.  He is first and I am second.  But I am not there.  There is no ordering.  It's an unorder.  I quickly fall back into nothing. 

 

The crude grace of intellect.

 

The image is derived.  The Being of Being is a duality resting entirely upon Being.  Of itself it is nothing.  Just the image of Being.  Being is all there is.  The intelligible form, the Being of Being, is merely what it is.  In philosophy, the composite, the derived, the fact of a thing's being what it is, is nothing.  Only the first elements exist.  The image, the form, the thought, our minds, rest entirely on the thing in itself.  But, alas, I haven't said what I want.  The words 'thing in itself' are a composite. Only in a mystical moment can I get beyond mind, beyond myself, to that which I am.  So you see I am derived.  I am nothing.  I feel myself dissolving.  I am falling into oblivion.  This is the moment of union.  Only He will be left.

 

 

 

106  A derived thing is weaker.  It is an icon.  It is sensuous.  But because of that it is beautiful.  Submissive.  In need.  If it were to allow itself the slightest being it would be sin.  It is a worshipper and a believer.  It is just a sighing, crying boy in love. A boy who just wants to be with Him.  And who sees his own weakness the cause of his unhappy separation from Him.  He wants to undo the separation.  He would let himself be consumed by the strength of his God.  He will more and more use his own gentle weakness to let himself fall into his God's arms.  His weakness will be his love. He will be the beauty that attracts.  He will force the marriage to be.  And the obliteration.

 

Boys believe.  They are defined by closeness, not distance.  He is mischief.  A rebel against feminine orderliness. At night, together they touch each other.  They fall in love with each other. Identical.  Each within himself contains an emptiness.  The Other.  A place for the other.  He is before the separation. He is looking at his own image.  Perfect union.  He is prior to the Fall.  He is with God.  This is a contemplative thing.  Pure night. Distant from us.

 

 

The boy who is king.  The boy who is God.  He teaches the Doctors of the Church.  The touch of his clothes sends darkness and demons fleeing. His eyes can pierce the soul and set it on fire with love.  He can explain all mystical symbols because he was before they were.  He is their meaning and his eyes are the Beautiful.  His neck is the place where your lips can find grace.  He is the ruler of your soul.  He is your only love.

 

 

 

107  Philosophy is just a tease.  Tight little shorts, knee socks, bulging crotch.  A thing of the streets.  So aware of what he's doing.  But you know he needs you, so maybe you can have him and force the real thing. Of course you can, but you'll ruin everything. This boy is the extreme of intellect.  When he's down and you're on top of him, his body is boring.  That's how life works.  Haven't you ever picked up one of those street boys?  Haven't you ever felt his naked body in your arms as less than exciting?  Philosophy taken to your office, stripped, laid out, and systematized, is boring.  The boy and the spirit of philosophy that he is can only live out there, looking at you, and calling you over.  Don't try to get him by trying to impress him with your credentials and certificate of master analyzer given you by the Bishop.

 

Philosophy, you are just a tease, you know he's sitting there stunned by your beauty, so take what you want and go.  His apartment looks golden and secure.  He knows what he wants.  You.  Fair exchange.  Of course it won't be hard to make a deal.  But you're going to be bored.  You'll miss the streets.  Haven't you ever walked around some man's apartment some evening watching him watch TV and realized you were bored out of your mind.  And his body on top of yours was nothing great.  An apartment only looks great when seen through the window on a cold night.  Professional philosophy is not philosophy. But out there on the street, Beloved, you were great.  Anyway he seems to have found a new boy.  Scholarly life is not for you.

 

 

Way deep inside his breast, in that fire of love, in the heart of Jesus.  Crying for the salvation of the world.  In that place that is for us a furnace into which we are tossed as sacrificial victims.  There, wrapped up, we are made immortal, in that consuming Rush of Love.  Into his dying, into his rising.

 

This is school.  This is what we study.  We study our dying and our falling into love. At night when we sleep together, in embrace, and the fire comes, we open out shirts, for Him alone, and swoon together to His touch.

 

This is the Trembling, the Ecstasy, the Fear of Dying.  This is the worry that we are not worthy.  The reason we faint at His approach.  This is our love, the beauty of which makes Him cry and love us.  We are the beautiful given Him by the Father.  One like Him to be His lover and to lie beside

 

 

 

109  In his eyes was Seeing.  And in this Seeing was the whole world.  With the black center of his pupils rested all colors.  In that darkness I could see Intellect.  Going inward.  From outer openings I fell into his soul.  That machine that drove him.  Into the pure mechanics of his spirit.  Regular forms. Lawful.  To that empty freedom beyond. 

 

Around his fingers was counting.  Touching this and that.  A set of things.  Playing music.  Harmony.  Pure Numbers.  Flying.  Picking out the essential points around any shape.  Holding it elevated.  Giving it rigid geometrical form.  With the motion of his fingers he had the power of, for an instant, making his dreams be real, of going inward so far his dreams would separate off from him and be real beings.

 

Because Boy itself has no color and has no smell.  And the Beloved has no touch that we could in any way describe, nor alas, any taste for our lips to hold.  We must beg to enter Him in a way we can't.  To be given a vision of these things as they are in themselves.  Separate.  Not of anything.  In the way appropriate to Him.  In His Self-Identity.  As First Emanation of the One.  As the delicately Super-Fine.  The Soul of our soul.  Our inward going to the pure expanse of the sky.  Color without color.  Fragrance without fragrance.  Touch without touching.  Taste that is Wisdom.

 

 

In my mind, without the aid of any of my bodily senses, as though looking out into the vast vault of the night sky, I see the pure Forms.  I see and know circles upon circles whose paths are perfect, vanishing without width.  I know the exactness of their groupings and divisions.  I see lines that traverse and feel them cut perfectly. Lines with no variance along their length.  I know what Symmetry itself is.  I see ratio and proportion that are without remainder.  I am immersed in Order; I know the first and the second.  I know and see and feel all these in my mind, without any aid of body.  A field illuminated by intellectual light.  A light that lifts me while I lie on my bed and have my eyes closed.  A god gentle and full of beauty.  A God who is of himself nothing.  Totally dependent.  A God who is the Glory and Image of God.  The Beloved Himself.  The Second.  The Begotten.  The Principle of Order.  Through whom are the infinite emanations.  The God in whom I see my own nothingness and dependence.  My oneness with Him.  The God who of himself transforms my inner emptiness into Love, in which my fear becomes just a gentle shudder.  The infinite emptiness is me, and it is Him.  We are in the exacting division itself, the Cut.  Lying on my bed.  Lovers.  Surrounded by His Super-sensual fragrance, in that soft breeze from beyond the physical world.

 

 

 

110  Sensa so pure it is intellect. The incarnation. Boys that are clouds of roses.  Nightingales that are the souls of philosophers longing for boys.  All disappearing into the desert winds of the godhead.

 

 

I finally give up, or what I worried about so intently I seem to not think about anymore.  Then it's back.  From nowhere.  Everything eternally returns.  From nowhere.  It is.  This is the method.  The road beyond.  But it doesn't take place within time.  It's sudden, in an instant.

 

I don't comment upon the scene, I am the scene. I don't tell you how words have been used, but I speak them as they are properly spoken.  I am doing philosophy, not commenting upon it.  I don't conform to what philosophy has been; I am philosophy.  The intensity of the spirit is upon me.  The accumulation of so much philosophy requires that I be very controlled.  I am tired from maintaining after it has passed. I'm not going to pretend it was nothing.  I have lived in the universal.  I have lived.  I think; I am.  Intellect is what I am.  Being and intellect are not separate.  Ideas aren't separate from existence; they are existence.  His beauty pushed me up into philosophy; I am in Being.  I am lifted up; I endure it for a while.  Then I am.  He was the pure Form.  My words in their universality share in that thing.  In them I am intellectualizing.  Substantial, thick air.

 

We live at the end of a civilization.  All the great engineering works have been completed.  What's left is just some filing in.  Magnificent metaphysics and art were a long time ago.  The mathematics of the infinite, solving all paradoxes, has completed everything.  Nothing is left.  A dark, navy blue sky with some bright light shooting through it.  A deserted Moon.  We went there, but there was nothing there.  The end is here.  Space is vast and empty.  We have found no great other-worldly cultures.  And strangely the adventure felt on going into that space has gone.  We are just very still looking at this great nothing.  We have no desire now to build anything spiritual or physical.  We just stand here and stare.  No more desire to go either inward or outward.  Nothing.

 

 

 

111  If there is a God, there has to be an appearance of God.  And eventually a full-fledged total Presence of God.  God with us.  Immanuel.  And there will have to be traces of that Presence everywhere.  Including its radiance in our minds.  What that was, we will all be.  This is all the overflowing of God.  The Godhead.  It is our own overflowing.  The Out There that is the heart of the philosophical question.  And why there is no answer to the problem of love.  Why the boys can never be yours.  Why you must fly away to God.  If there is a God, there can be nothing else.  Nothing could stand through its blaze, its all-consuming blaze.  The blaze of logic, which is His.  There is no presence beside his Presence.  God has appeared and overtaken us all.  The Form of his love, a passionate religion. 

 

The mathematical is one with his waist, with the movement of his slim hips, with his musky smell and brown color.  The order of the physical.  A mathematical love.  An intellectual world.  Dispassion.  A still, structural view of the world.  The unchanging movement of a thing being and becoming itself.  Things, not facts.  Simple entities.  An atonal canticle.

 

 

The boy is distraction.  He keeps you from being professional.  He has made philosophy be about nothing.  He has destroyed structure.  He is time and certain frustration.  But he has kept you pure.  He has kept you at the beginning of philosophy, where things are alive, and the spirit is striking.  He amounts to nothing.  Nothing sensible.  Nothing civil.  Emptiness.  And you wonder why you're standing there with him.  The connection between you and him is nothing.  But all this nothingness that defines him is so beautiful.  And you know even his destruction of the world is sublime.  His destruction of philosophy is a return to the mouth closed wonder at the appearance of the nothingness of the world after analysis.  You have nothing to say.  Your academic world must wait.  You just sit down and stare.  Now philosophy is beautiful.

 

 

 

112  Maybe History is progressive and even dialectical, and maybe through that maze we have come a long way, but surely that love that hangs in the air is the same stuff that was there before.  Light couldn't change, could it?  The light around his eyes must be the same.  And, of course, gracefulness, as in the way he stands, has to be the same.  So what's changed?  What could change?  The progress and dialectic must be the changing of a thing into itself.  And if opposites appear then opposites must be one.  I'm not going to say change is illusory though. I know enough to realize that movement is a part of love and light and grace.   It must be the movement of returning.  Forever.

 

 

I am opaque.  I am turbid.  I am just confusion. Christ is translucent.  He is calm. He is intellect. I love Christ, but I am not Christ.   Christ is pure love and sanctified Flesh.  I am polluted love and stinking flesh.  He is Light itself.  I am the colors of dull imagination.  I am a sinful sensuality and a sinful sexuality.  There is nothing about me that is not worthy of death.  I rely totally on the mercy of God to save me.  I properly belong with the bacteria that will eat my corpse.  I pray I may be where I don't belong at all, among the angels.  I pray for a miracle.  Until then I will be this fleshly mortal thing, wishing I weren't. 

 

I write about heaven and purity, coming as close as I know how in my human words to describing it.  I haven't described it, but I hope I have traced its shadow.  I cannot live up to the commands of the new testament to be perfect in word and deed.  Thus, you see, I write about Christ, not because I am competent at such an undertaking, but because I wish I could.

 

 

In the pleasure of the senses the object is consumed.  Burnt up, torn to pieces, worn out.  A sacred act of the sharp, subtle fire that we are.  It is a sacrifice.  A lifting up.  Abstraction.  The material gives way to the Idea.  We do this because we are of the Logos.  Turn and turn around the alter.  The poetic strophe.  The canticle.  The orgy.

 

Philosophy is the sacrifice of ourselves.  A learning to die.  Our goal is the annihilation of the senses.  Their burning up into peaceful abstraction.  To pure sensation, pure pleasure.  To the consummation of our union with our God, ideal lover.  To fall back into oblivion.  This is wisdom to taste.  It is of the lips and mouth.  We take it into ourselves.  Becoming it.  Abandoning our own existence.  Destruction.

 

 

 

113  I caress his body with my mouth, but he has become the faun of heaven.  I am just the old philosopher, Socrates, following after the gods.

 

Since Plato we have had the definition of philosophy as learning how to die.  But it's not a death that is a lessening of feeling.  It's the bursting forth from too much feeling.  It's the perfection, the end, that love seeks.  Still it's not of this world.  It calls.  It is calm. Passion has burnt itself to completion.  Beyond knowing.

 

The mystical is always a violation of the law of non-contradiction.  The idea of God is a contradiction.  Both lead to sentimental pietism.  This God will always choke on the pity he is full of.  Anti-intellectualism.  A drag on our school system.  The voice of the rabble.  But – this is what the Superman must learn to will to ever return.  All innocent boys believe in God.  The boy's eyes are the heart of mysticism.  And the Super-scholar loves him and tries to surprise him.  To watch him die.  A beautiful dying.  This is philosophy too.  Outside of philosophy it is philosophy.  They are both in love with that high status of intellect.  Poor love.

 

His skin shone with a satin oiliness, soft floral.  He was as soft as angels.  He moved his legs slowly in the water.  His nakedness was as sleep.  Slowly turning.  Smooth motion in his soul.  Staying there in eternity.  Pure contingency. The substance of the soul outside its agents.  The place of God.  A fine, soft, flower fire.  The irascible boy.  Nerves in ice.  More like the Godhead.  Your skin burns where you touch him.  Blue stripes on his legs.  Man-eating fish around him, but they won't eat him, he isn't Man. He is of the dead in Christ.  Glorified.

 

He slept forever on the breast of Christ.  At the crucifixion when Christ's heart was broken he slightly moved.  He is the Godhead sleeping.  He is the mystic's goal at the heart of the Trinity. Just lying there still unself-conscious. 

 

This is the end of passion.  This is the strangeness.  This is the disunity.  I and the Godhead are One.  Everything is broken.  I speak the truth now.  It's all over. I am beyond the tradition.  I am in the arid dustiness.  I am in the water.  I am in the Godhead.

 

 

 

114  Mathematics has appeared and it is the very fine quantum fire.  Formulas become angels.  God is the form of logic itself.  The One moving out in concentric circles and back again overlapping.  The One in eternal self-reflection in a thousand mirrors that we call speculative philosophy.  A material God.  A matter made out of numbers.  A physics that is the bitter sweetness of the ultimate incommensurableness of form and substance.  Mathematics and philosophy are not the same thing. A philosopher and a physicist-mathematician are in different worlds. The world of the philosopher is a living animal.  Two worlds absolutely separate.  There couldn't be any connection because they are identical.

 

Early in a philosopher's life there is much coming and going of Philosophy.  The two see each other sometimes.  It's only later, as time goes on, that they spend more time together until the time when they are never apart.  And like all love affairs, we mustn't forget that at first there is much complaining and accusing too.

 

The form of this world appears to come from nothing.  It rests on nothing.  Everything is empty and comes to nothing.  The escape to being is not apparent.  We seem to be retained on these avenues of death.  We are all night, street people.  And yet we know this vision is itself wrong.  We mystically know, have always known, that this darkness is really too-glorious of a light.  This being retained is really our freedom.  This vanity of the senses is the door to their overcoming, necessary for their perfection.  To that unapproachable ideal.  To our bright lover.  A knowledge of our wretchedness is the beginning of our wisdom.  A fear of offending what we don't see, but what we know is there, is the first step toward it.  I will embrace the hardness and coldness of the street and the hurt of its people.  With the power of borrowed words, gifts of the Logos, I will work for their transformation.  I will belong to the flesh and to its lust and help it find what it's really after.

 

I write this in order to be able to live with the chaste love that the true lover must have.  Never touching.  Never being seen by the beloved.  Making him live in unreality.  Having only dreams.  Having to build unreal love beds out of words.

 

The true lover is the maker belonging to the Word, the Logos.  Trying to make the beloved appear in his sentences.  It's as close to Reality as he can come.

 

 

 

115  The simplest poetry – the particular exemplifies the universal.  In the dull swirl of life I sometimes remember it.  In the rain I see a flower as I go by.  My walking, my movement.  The exemplifying, Flower in the substantial this.  In the moving out to appear.  The This exemplifying.  The dazzling Form resting in its substance.  The hidden marriage bed which I saw because for an instant I was just movement.  Act with act.  Spirit with spirit.

 

Spirit is the uniting of universal and particular.  It is a simple thing.  The image of the ordinary fact. It is a piece of Image.  Immaterial.  The essence of time.  The being of time.  Just movement.  Just … and one thing, simple.

 

I remember it.  I took it from the ordinary to its image in the spirit.

 

I must every once in a while remember what philosophy is.  I must be refreshed.  In the clarity of water.

 

The whole thing is really all quite absurd.  He's sitting over there and I'm here. That's all there is. I'm sure that's a contingent state of affairs.  But it seems necessary.  I mean, what else could it be?  He's got to be over there and me here.  So what the fuck am I so upset about?  There's no other way. Unless maybe, just maybe, I can screw up Being itself.  I'd make it so he could be here too.  Sounds impossible?  Of course.  That's why I'm going to go inside and violate logic.  I'm going to go in and fuck it up.  I'm going to say things.  And I say things so well.  But to my great misfortune and dismay I never say much and then it's all wrong.  Disorder is sort of a magic I have.  I change the structure of Being right before their eyes.  And they don't even get it.

 

The boy is Being itself, still and empty.  Withdrawn into himself. His legs pulled up to his chest.  His face buried between his knees.  His arms around and holding himself.  The Passion is his flushed color.  The fullness of life is the breadth of his thigh.  The swiftness is the sparkle in his hair.  Still.   Thinking.  Nothing and everything, withdrawn into Form.

 

 

 

116  Being is everything, but it pulls itself away and becomes none of those things.  It gathers itself into itself.  Limits itself to itself.  It is not anything else.  It emerges as just Being.  All the first things of Being are left behind, and they too begin to withdraw.  Matter, the Individual, the Universal emerge.  The Tie, the Real, the Illusion.  All the Forms of Being separate and are.  Then we emerge.  It is our ecstasy.  It is the thing we love.  It is God.

 

When we look at life and ask the question, What for?  There's only one answer.  For love.  Being in love is the only answer there is.  It is complete in itself. Love is the final form of everything. But if you are a lover you know a further question, How do I make it work?  There is no answer to that question.  It won't work.  It's beautifully messed up.  But that's all right.  That makes the infinite world flow from it. It flows from our question.  It has created philosophy.  An orgy.  A stillness.

 

If we are beings then we are not becomings.  We are.  We are at an end.  We share that with God.  It is our divinity.  But we see our becomings.  They are critical things, cut off form our being.  They are all fleeting things, seen out of the corner of the eye; maybe they were there, maybe not.

 

It's sympathetic magic.  You understand me because you are like me.  You are me.  Our duality is deception.  You have been in love and now you're dead.  Your words and mine are pathetic.  Our presence here is not justified. Our whole existence here is boring.  Our one soul, the forgotten soul, is hoping to escape.  Trying to find that cold love we can surrender to in our passion that has gone beyond.

 

Now you're waiting for your roommate to leave the room so you can be by yourself.  You have found an inward world.  You will go in there and suddenly you will open out onto a universe of beings that exist only as light, no secrets hidden below the surface.  Everything is Being.  You are the Beyond.  Can it be that I have become Love itself.  Oh Blessed Ancient Form.

 

Don't leave me.  I couldn't stand it if you didn't come along with me.

 

 

 

117  Nothing destroys philosophy so much as mystery.  Wisdom is what makes the universe fully known.  Everything can be seen.  Wisdom is the Idea, the Seen.  He is totally naked, in bright sunlight.  Only Being, with no non-being.

 

The surface of things is all there is. There's nothing underneath that can't be seen.  Substance is gone; it was a confused idea.  It was no idea at all. Everything is light.

 

Oh Lord, free us from this darkness.  This thing of our own making.  This thing that has nothing to do with any reality. We are stuck inside this solid wall of rock.  Send us a Michelangelo to free us.  Bring us out into your place of Being away from this non-being.

 

 

It is true that color and shape and relation, all the categories of Being, are out there independent of the mind; and they seem to have each inside itself a burning furnace of self-identity.  A coming together both forming logic and defying it.  This is a thing to be contemplated, stared at maybe.  The out there is an inward thing.  Facts disappear into the things that constitute them.  And the things become the primal metaphysical forms.  It all takes on the aspect of a strange God.  Calling us.  There's no escape.  But who would want to.  It's the return of Philosophy.

 

 

When you see a rose in a philosophical vision you see the material rose as having lost its substance and in its place is the Mystical Rose.  The Universal Rose is right there.  This is the transubstantiation that a priest performs.  The material rose is destroyed in the holy fire. The sacrifice.  Yet it's the High Priest Himself in us that performs this sacrifice.   And likewise it's just that one Sacrifice that is in Him.  The vision is irresistible.  It leaves this world just floating on nothing, the ever inward dividing of number, changing into petals, changing into madness, changing into God.

 

 

 

118  An orange sphere trembling and hovering in front of a line of gray, stunted fallen trees.  Inside is a god.  The non-idea of matter has been overthrown.

 

I have tried to join those of material feelings, but I can't.  My act won't let me.  I must forever live in a glass house inside the numen.

 

I am the alone with the Alone.  I masturbate in the presence of God, going into dreams finding other boys, lying in soft underwear, together figuring permutations of philosophical ideas.  Pure boys of thought that like arrows at any instant are not at a place.  Who are spheres that move together and become one when their centers are one.  Essences.  Never able to become ordinary boys.

 

 

In the room of the friend that knows all about him. Windows closed.  Trying to write letters that become living beings.  Drawing circles and lines, trying to figure combinations.  Boys hoping for the End.  Boys that have been around since God first appeared, intellectual, going down, hands slipping around bare thighs.  A mystic thing.  Masturbation.  Plato's Spring.

 

The whole enterprise is up for grabs.  I've got to get away from it.  I can't stand the way so many grubby hands are touching it.  I can't sleep at night.  The whole thing is tainted.  I need someone to hold be tight. I need someone to make all those others shut up.  I wish Anselm were here.  I'd introduce him to Sartre and tell him that they were saying the same thing.  And he'd tell me he already knew that.  And that what we need is a stretcher to stretch it all out on.  Maybe a curtain stretcher.  And to find some pretty hands to touch everything and make this whole thing be pure again.

 

 

Anselm, believe me your proof worked.  You didn't spend all those years in turmoil just to make a mistake.  I can see how it worked. It's a beautiful thing.  It's full of grace. I'm hoping that by speaking about it my words will also be saved.  I have put it in my writings.

 

 

 

119  In true philosophical words Being appears.  They are the Logos.  My unity with God.  Oh come, Lord Jesus, make these words living beings.  They are you.  I am nothing.  I am one of the intellectual boys who figure philosophical things.  And in the secret knowledge of what we can do we masturbate together.  We fly where there is no air.  We speculate and when by ourselves look in mirrors.  Oh Lord, our thought becomes real; it is you.

 

Boys with bad dreams inside the wrath of God.  The Orgy.  Weakness and strength.  Soft skin and infinite pain.  Cry for them.  The immensity of this existence is too much.  Delicate boys with pink cheeks hustling on the streets of a big city, trying to stay alive.  The cold concrete will win.  Once the boy knew love, but that touch of God only makes the present condition worse.  In the end there is something horrible. 

 

It's a living thing.  Full of energy.  It's urgent.  The present won't stand.  Forever more.  Come along. You must follow. It will take you by the collar and force you to come.

 

Dear boy, your lover is a fearful thing.  You are about to be torn to pieces.  This is the Rape.  Or as Christians call it, the Rapture.  You are a mystic.  Now you know why others of the Vision have not wanted to talk about it.

 

But you will go back to this God.  You're in love.  The touch of His lips makes you come.  You're such a delicate thing.  Why is your kind always in love with fierce beauty?

 

 

The lover reflects the beloved.  He is the mirror.  The specula. The speculation that is philosophy. If you look into the lover you see only the beloved.  More than that, the light he reflects from the beloved's face not only illuminates him but makes him be.  Truth is what is.  Only the beloved is.  The radiance of truth is beauty.  The lover is created by beauty.  The Lover is just the light of truth returning to the beloved.  Through the lover the beloved sees himself.  Through him the beloved loves himself.  Reflecting himself.  The lover is the beloved's own self-reflecting.  The beloved is all there is.  The lover knows that painfully.  The pain that is the deification of the lover.

 

 

 

120  Go to a middle class market place and see the perfectly made, electronically guided, thoroughly understood, brilliantly lighted incoming of the future.  Machines that think as only angels can.  We are moving toward the telos.  The Eschaton.  Perfection.  Our flesh and blood is being transformed. We are a tense people.  Our sex is brilliant.  It has been cleaned up.  We think about it.  Poets who have lived in filth are placed between slick, plastic pages.  This is the ordinary becoming the extraordinary.  We are becoming a race of gods.

 

What ever happened to the simple country boy?  He was always a poet's dream. He was the poet himself.  Wild and pretty.  Eros, the boy of love, crying because he couldn't reach heaven.  The Primal things become facts.  Facts become the Primal things.  The Forms of the market place are separate from the market place.  They become the market place.

 

 

He is perfect and still geometry. He is longing and submission.  He is form and he is virgin matter.  He is their identity.  But there is no thing that is both.  He disappears.  He unites but doesn't exist.  He upholds their identity.  He subsists.  A different word, more ethereal and more beautiful.  The unapproachable movement of the soul.  The core of time.  The myth beyond reason.  Reason itself.

 

The whole notion of matter in philosophy makes no sense.  Intelligible sense belongs to Form, that thing which matter reflects.  Matter is just the irrational, the non-self-identical.  The boy, soft cheeks, a cute ass, coy ways, things of no consequence for the logical and the scholarly.  Images of images of nothing.  Things of deception and the substance of idolatry.  The materialism that philosophy always founders on.

 

 

The unity of a piece of philosophical writing is not going to be there if you're looking through the eyes of logical continuity.  The unity of graceful development isn't there.  It's a unity of the sweet disorder of a lover's stumbling talk he gives his beloved and then is embarrassed about.

 

 

 

121  Substance is a thing's being other than what it is.  Matter reflecting the Form that it is not.  Substance isn't, it couldn't be, nothing could be what it isn't.  Instead, there's matter, the Form and the reflecting.  But since the matter only exists in the illumination of the Form, it doesn't exist.   And since the Form only exists in the reflecting of itself from the matter, it doesn't exist.  And since reflection is nothing without the matter and Form to reflect and be reflected, it doesn't exist. The only thing left is the unity of matter, Form and reflection, but that is substance, and substance doesn't exist.  Therefore, it seems we're lost in a lovely swirl of logic.  Beautiful logic.  Only logic.  Our God.  In him I see everything.  I fall into oblivion at his touch.  My mind is filled with his mind.  What was formerly to be feared has become love itself.  The world disappears and he is there. 

 

 

Any good Platonist knows that it is through the dual that the One created the world.  And he knows the impossible logical difficulties inside such a metaphysics.  There's no way to straighten it out.  Logic is the end of metaphysics.  But the Platonist thrives on confusion, it's so erotic.  And he loves the End.   It's the peak of the erotic.  He uses logic to get where he's going.  Logic is the cruel lover he grovels before.  The lover he plays with. The Platonist is a coquettish boy. Irresponsible, but so pretty.  A cockette. Logicians love him, but as all lovers they try to be butch to him and feel he must be reprimanded.  Lovers and logicians are so cool, dying inside, before that impossible beauty before them.  Platonism is the only philosophy that the poets of love know.  The logician and the Platonist.  Two who are one, in the complaining and the teasing.

 

 

A lover knows what it means for a thing to be other that itself.  He understands self-identity by his longing for it.  That's easy enough.  This is where philosophy begins.  It's where Parmenides began when he said that never will non-being be.

 

A lover knows that his being is entirely borrowed from his beloved.  He knows that Love is that cord that ties him to his other, to himself.  He understands dependence.  He knows that his non-being can be tied to being and thus be, not of himself but from another.  Non-being will never be, but it can be tied to being.  And it's a magic tie that ties something to nothing.

 

The form of this world is the union of lover and beloved.  One thing, but you know inside this unity is a fury of coming together.

 

Parmenides' dictum has not been violated. His One Being is a trinity.  A simple thing for someone inside the Passion.

 

 

 

122  Beauty itself seems to be nowhere.  Even the beloved feels himself removed from the beautiful form others see in him.  All that's left with anyone is feeling, which is just contradiction in our soul.  The beloved needs his lover in order to know himself.  He is created by the lover.  Between the lover and the beloved is not only love, but the beauty that is the substance of love.  But between them is nothing, or seems to be nothing.  The nexus doesn't exist, so we shall say it only subsists. It defers to the existents.  Only the lover and the beloved remain.  Each looking within the other and seeing that thing surpassing being.

 

 

The tie at the heart of Being is also the chasm.  Knowledge of the world is also one's distance from it.  The beauty of the world points to Beauty's absence.  In the unity of love a person first learns of his otherness.  Time, which unites appearances into one object, makes that object's being exist beyond.  God, who is closer to us than our self, is known only to Himself.   The world exists only for Him, and He is indifferent to everything.  We spend our time in sorrow and complaining, and with Him all is well.  He invites us to, therefore, abandon ourselves.  We give everything up for Him, finally find peace in that, and he gives it all back in beauty.  Our sin becomes our pleasure.  A thing not to be comprehended.

 

That strange taste like alum in your mouth is the taste of Wisdom.  You know that the world of transcendent philosophy and the ordinary world are the same world.  But what can you do with that taste in your mouth.  Just stand there and wait for something to happen.

 

 

This is all a believing.  When the words come to your mind, obey and write.  They were given.  Believe they are true.  They come from your lover.  Of course you'll believe.  They're Him.  He's all there is.

 

 

 

123  Pretty baby, no one else is going to help you.  You'll see.  I'm the only one who writes this way.  But they shall read it.  This is what it has come to.   Substance is gone.  They have no choice.  I know what I'm doing.  And I have the help of all that has gone before.

 

The world is always changing but never becoming new.  The same becomes the same becomes the same, a dreary cadence.  But who can learn this lesson?  It is a hard one.  Everyone knows it is true.  Somewhere close but just out of reach, just out of sight, entirely out of the world, flow the eternally new springs of loving water.  A single drop would unmake me. But who can learn this lesson?  It too is obvious.  Who can learn it?

 

This is all the outcome of a priestly act.  The transformation of the world.  From the common to the Absolute itself.  A thing you can see only with your mystical eyes.  It will all look the same to your natural eyes.  But there's no doubting it. 

 

We're priests in a charismatic religion.  The rhythm and the flow of our words is the important thing.  It's happiness.  We begin to speak waiting for the words to speak themselves.  Waiting for tongues to begin.  Hoping someone can interpret.  It's not to be doubted.

 

We are ordinary people who have become fools trying to do what we do.

 

 

The world of philosophy is another world.  I need a bridge across to it.  I need something of this world but not of this world.  And something from that world, but here and not there.  No ordinary thing will work.  Something outside the bounds of what is rightfully here.  Something forbidden.  Some thing seen only in glances.  Something bright.  Something too much.  Some thing that will make me swoon and be carried across.

 

 

 

124  To say that I can't speak the truth is a lie.  I can say it.  It is right here.  The Forms are right here.  I am my thoughts. I am the speaking.  He is mine.  Look at me.  In my words I'm tumbling to the ground with him in my arms.  Everything is seen.  Everything is the Seeing itself.

 

I leave the room.  I remember you're there.  Tender love seeps over me.  I remember love.  Away from the people, my god, you touch me, you're everywhere.  I stand in front of the couch.  I stand still.  My head goes back.  You fill me.  I remember it all.  I tell you I've been looking for you.  A sign of love.  You tell me to come with you.  My chest feels the pain to love.  Others tell me to come on, we have work to do.  I go back where I was.

 

 

Between a thing and its universal forms is a tie.  They are all in the idea, the image of the fact.  Between the idea and the mind that thinks it is a tie.  Another idea, stepping back is the image of that.  Between the mind with its idea and the object with its form is a tie.  And stepping back from that is an idea holding that in unity as an image.  Ideas piling onto ideas.  Facts in their images.  Unities piling on and within unites. Stepping back.  Unities separate from unities.  Unities, not existing, fleeing into image.  Forever moving onward.  Eternal movement.  Flying.  Only seen in ecstatic Vision.  A vision that doesn't exist.  Beautiful philosophy.  A pain within the sweetness.

 

 

Here is a philosophy of obedient schoolboys from the academy.  Brothers to the street boys. Both are wanting an escape from the world.  They love the order of geometry and onto-logos.  They stand back from our disorder and are thus just as cruel.  They contemplate the purity of the sky and dream of lost civilizations.  They love the rule.  They want for their hero to rescue them.  One who hasn't fallen to corruption, who hasn't surrendered.  A fighter.  No one is so moral as one of these boys. He will judge you harshly.  Don't tempt him with pleasure.

 

 

 

125  Earth faerie covered with leaves and dirt.  Hair all amess.  Creature of sex, doing dirty things, smelling musky like the leaves as they decay.  Cover me with faerie, earth boy.  Lie naked with me on the soft ground.

 

Musky, earthy sex.  A boy of faerie.  Enchanter of my soul.  Somehow devious.  Playing together with others at night.  My hand rubbing his smooth chest.  Oily drops of mystical light in his hair.  Dark ruby lips.  His teeth bit out of desire.  A boy's desire. The irritation of sex.  He smells the boys' flesh.  Boys sleeping under trees.  Soft breezes fanning the fires between their legs.  Dirty mischief.  Underpants lying on the ground.

 

A boy's flesh exists only in the sub-conscious. It is mischief.  It is freedom from the laws of society.  It is love.  Seen only obliquely.

 

 

The One. There's nothing there.  It transcends Being.  This is after the giving up.  After you have attempted to write philosophy.  Out on the street with those who never knew.  A night of hustling.  Of sexuality.  This is prior to lawfulness.  There's nothing directly before you.  Tight clothes and glances.  Need, but not really need.  Here is the stuff that will eventually go into the making of the essence of delicate kisses.  Everything is of the Sudden and Surprise.  Nothing is natural.  It all seems so impossible.  Don't worry.  All is well.

 

 

The pure, smooth, monochromatic, partially shaded, twilight skin of an angel boy, surface itself, existing for the Lover, just nervous indeterminacy, indecisive, wanting his man to think for him, pure matter, said to be evil by some, but beautiful, the confounder of our metaphysics.

 

 

 

126

 

On the open plain

A school

A few trees, 2 or 3

Brick buildings

Grass

White gravel road

The spirit of god permeating the air

 

In Rome

A cypress up on the ridge of hills

White temple columns

Yellow white sunlight

Plotinus and his students

The Unity descending through hierarchies of unities

 

In Athens

Boys sitting naked on the ground

Socrates leading their minds away

From the particular to the Form itself

 

In Monte Casino

Boys walking naked inside monk's habits

Cowls covering their hair

Eyes half closed

Going inward

Into their own humiliation

 

Our sin is our nakedness

Our prayer is our gentle emptiness

Going inward

In masturbation to the interior castle

Sanctification

Lying uncovered on the couch of poverty and purity

The soul

 

 

 

127  Of course you feel inferior, ugly, unloved. You're a lover.  Lovers always feel that about themselves.  But, knowing that, I doubt you would go so far as to give up being a lover, or even want to give it up.  You have learned so much.  You now have an esoteric wisdom.  A vision of a beautiful god.  That's why you feel so low. After seeing that, of course, everything on earth would seem mean. It's all very simple.  It also explains why faggots like you are so despised.  Lovers are nothing.  So cheer up.  You were so worried about whether God loved you or not.  Now you know his demands and perfections are unreachable for you.  You can feel how loathsome you are in his eyes.  God hates weak, ugly faggots like you. Everything you do comes out biological ooze.  Cheer up. Now you can rest from even trying.  It's all over.  You have vanished all-together.  Only your beautiful god remains.

 

 

Sophrosyne, moderation, is that tight, controlled indifference that the lover displays before his beloved.  It is the outward form of his inward fire of love.  Calculated.  A reproduction of that pure world that love sees.  That disinterested urgency of the scholar.  It is a thing that will drive you to the wall.  An exasperating thing.  But as soon as you think you'll abandon it and display a little humanity, it comes on all the stronger.  You wanted a warm human touch, you got heaven, the beautiful radiance of the dead.  Martyred like a Saint.  You have become the thing you loved.  The way of union.

 

 

A boy's love and the beauty of logic.  A video game boy.  An Ideal rough and tumble thing.  All in the mind.  Languid like the lizard-killing Apollo.  Unmoving gaze.  A casual and determined will.  Lost in a world of pure geometry.  So far from the flesh.  Ahold of the joystick, working it around.  Specks of light flashing.  Photons.  Just light.  Pin point.  Localized at a particular place and time.  Explosion.  Well-formed. He plays the game over and over again.  He can't get enough.  Tight, a passion for the well-formed.  Again, the Well- Formed.  His heart beats faster for it.

 

 

 

128  Nobody, not even philosophy teachers, knows what philosophical words really mean.  And yet everybody has somewhat of a notion.  We all kind of know what Being is, and essence, and what it means to add -ness to a word, and what is a universal that many individuals share in, and share and individual and even thing.  We kind of know.  They're close.  Like our breath.  But then we read a philosophy book, and we're not sure any more.  We haven't read enough.  We haven't purified our ideas enough.  Suddenly they seem like jewels of some intellectual, philosophical god.  Magical charms.  Which if we concentrated on them would make us fall into a dream.  So we don't concentrate on them.  Not for long.  We know the questions about the reality of the world. About our own being an idea in the mind of God.  Fleeting.  Too much.  We know the question about some thing underlying the appearances.  Substance.  But we seek distraction.  Something is vaguely dreadful here.

 

Philosophical writings are difficult to understand.  But the difficulty is our own doing.  We won't let ourselves.  The dreadful thing is that we do understand and we might just let ourselves see it.

 

 

The essence of a boy is that he is a cockette.  Walking deliberately with his ass sticking out, slightly elevated.  Inviting.  Not looking at you.  Wondering why you don't come and get him.  His shoulders are back. He has his hair falling so it looks like his cap is awry.  He has done everything just so, for you.  He knows what you like.  And he's not going to give it to you right away.  You're going to have to ask and petition. He knows what your place is.  He can't live without you. He's working hard. You're not going to get away.  You and he are the unity of love.

 

 

A spirit is contradiction, a thing not itself.  All our religion is contradiction.  But I will believe.  I love this wilderness. I am intimate with it all.  In my absolute impossibility I feel myself disappearing into the One, the thing in itself.  I am in love.  I will consent to His everything.  I will let Him woo me in this desert.

 

 

 

129  All of God's beauty is in his self identity.  It's what you want badly.  You are a lover, you are exactly what you are not.  Everything about your world shares in your problem. Everything wants the Beloved.

 

If we are and we're in love, then we aren't.  This is that paradoxical thing substance.  An idea that won't hold up in philosophy.  All substance disappears eventually.  Creation isn't.  Only God, Being itself, could possibly exist.  We are nothing.  We are just the form of desire.  Asking and petitioning for Him.  Forever in love.  He, acting so close, looking so good, never quite yielding to us, maybe looking, loving himself through us, cries for us, yields to us, disappears from us and comes again.  What being we have is Him.  Even our non-being.  He is our everything.

 

 

The whole idea of substance couldn't be maintained by the Aristotelians for long.  After all the appearances of a thing were taken away in that consuming abstracting fire of the mind, nothing remained.  Only the fire.  Only that power that separates what a thing is off from the thing.  Only that power of non-self-identity.  Only that power that reached to a thing and destroyed it.  Leaving everything a universal, one with that reaching.  That was the End intellect had.  The goal of its reaching.  Drawing everything into itself, making everything into itself.  Everything became a thing for it. It was a thing for itself.  Destroying even itself to be itself.  A phoenix.  Eternally doing the same thing.  Act.

 

 

Sometimes God gives me some of his essence and I become the beloved for a while.  Usually I'm just frubby in love with him.  But sometimes I shine, and I'm lovely, and I'm very desirable.  And I can play shy and be coquettish.  Sometimes I'm just like God. Hiding and appearing.  Asking you to die for me.  Giving you nothing.  Giving you everything.

 

 

 

130  Look at me.  If you can find me.  It's obvious. I write about the obvious.  I'm going to heaven.  I'm going to make it.  I'm going inward.  I'm going inside fact.  The complexes are all going to fall apart.  The elements are going to divide.  Back to the one simple thing.  To the One.  To the Paradox.  To the Confusion.  To Sex.  To the thing standing right before you.  The easily overlooked.  These words.  Stop. These impediments. These feet along the path.  Blocking you.  You must stop.  I've thrown things in the way.  I'm standing here.  You can't now refuse my asking you to look.  I want you to want me.  These words are all in your way.  See their separation. Drawing you in.  I'm in there.  Come.  Make it with me.  I'm coming apart for you.

 

 

Reason will give him form, and feeling will give him presence, but light gives him brilliance.  Without the brilliance he has no spirituality.  It is the going from one thing to another.  The ray of emanation.  The heart of metaphysics.  It is that part of his being which strikes us, which pierces us.  This is Love, which proceeds.  Then he looks at the Lover and sees himself, sees the light reflected back.  Form coming back upon itself.  One with itself through the Lover. Receiving himself, he is the feeling that is receptivity.  He is One.  The Unity.  The Form.  Needing the Lover to give him himself.

 

 

The thing in itself. A name reserved only for God and the Beloved.  The name of that which is separate.  The End of our searching.  A true Place in which to rest.  It is the thing under the appearance of emptiness.  Pure nothingness.  Peace.

 

Simplicity.  The oneness of the One.  And the Delicate, First Being, The Beloved, that to which all things tend.

 

And then comes the world.  The Celebration.  Joy around the Beloved.  The dervish working toward oblivion.

 

And Sorrow.  The boy sitting in a tree, crying because his beloved is far away and has forgotten him.

 

And death. Then the Beloved is there holding the boy's body in his arms.

 

And the escape inward.  When the boy finds himself at one with the burning love inside the Heart of the One.  Of the same Form as the Delicate.  Running with Him.  Falling with Him.  In His arms.

 

 

 

The Moving Dialectic

 

131  Love himself is neither beautiful nor ugly.  Neither mortal nor immortal.  Neither ignorant nor knowledgeable.  He neither is nor isn't.  He moves silently and unseen.  When he is seen, out of his own awkwardness, he is declared worthless, even the Corrupter.  He mainly sighs and looks at his beloved. He knows his own miserable state of need.   So when he talks to his beloved he gives him not himself but Beauty itself for his beloved to contemplate.  His words can magically make that Spirit be present.  He has had to learn how to do this in order to call attention away from himself.  He is nothing.  His beloved is everything.  Through the lover Heaven is united to earth.  He belongs to neither.  And alas he remains unseen and forgotten.

 

But Love himself remains a seeing.  He has seen Beauty in the beloved and has become his mirror.  He has led beauty to beauty.  He is the seeing that makes beauty be beautiful.  Without his seeing nothing could be.  He has become the being of his beloved.  Of himself he was nothing but he has found his being in the object of his seeing.

 

This is the way of union.  Lover transformed into beloved.  The incarnation of the Lover.

 

But it was all a trick.  The Lover was the Beauty itself that he gave.  Beauty itself is neither beautiful nor ugly.  Look, you will see nothing.  He is all the Forms which neither are what they are nor aren't.

 

Love is the Great God, who is between.  He unites the seeing with the seen.  And He is the seeing and the seen. All three.  He is our being.

 

 

There never has been a time when philosophy could be written.  It's always been just a strong wind blowing from nowhere to nowhere.  A numinous thing in the heart of the philosopher, wanting expression. And the philosopher has wanted it to stand before him, to appear.  Our writing is that appearance.  The Word.  The Logos.  Still a numinous thing.  A glint of light on the end of a pen.  The Spirit, the Wind and the Light.  This is it right here.

 

 

 

132  He's dead as is the Virgin Mary when she appears in the patterns of shingles on our roofs.  On his cheeks is an artificial pink light, a reflection of intellectual light.  Within it is limp white soft flesh.  Not flesh, but the Idea of Flesh.  He is thought.  His movement is just Movement itself wafting over him.  The universal Form of Boy hovers around him, after lifting him up into itself.  He sees perfection.  With a spiritual Seeing.  He touches it with Touch itself.  To see him would cause us to have a love too intense for life.  He is an angel announcing the End.  How he's at Perfection.

 

The broken heart of Jesus.  The boy is lost in the maze of mathematics.  The rush of intellectual unfurling.  The history of all our souls.  Teresa preparing the way for Des Cartes.  The journey inward.  The heart and memory.  I move out to learn what I know already.  I unlearn everything.  All my lovers fall away.  I give up the world for a vision.  I must give it up.  I must prepare to receive the divinity.  I will prepare a room, but he will come to me somewhere else.  I will relive and rethink the whole history of speculation.  I will cry with the boy because we are lost.  I will think about Love.  I will see the lance pierce his heart.  One of the boys of Jesus.  We are beyond freedom.

 

 

All philosophy is paradoxical or absurd.  It is Reason itself.  It is the voice of God that only the deaf can hear.  It denies the existence of time and of the world and proves that only the One exists, a sphere whose center is everywhere.  The only beauty it sees is Beauty itself, nothing but pure, empty openness. It speaks of Love, but it's purely an intellectual thing.  It endlessly defers to Being which is nowhere among all the beings in the world.  It seeks the Good, but wants no example of it; it wants the thing itself.  It is about another world totally separate from this one, but which is the very essence upholding this world.  Philosophy is about a brilliant thing shining just out of view.  It is para doxa.

 

 

 

133  The appearance of the world hangs on nothing.  "…hangs on the cheek of night…"  but is hangs "…like a jewel in a rich Ethiop's ear."  It shines with light like a jewel and the night is a rich, strong, masculine something.  Comforting.  Its arms around us.  It is full, there is no place where it is not.  All the light of the jewel is his.  But to us he is nothing and the nighttime is darkness.  In the same way that a glistening boy doesn't see his lover because his lover is everywhere for him.

 

The tie is internal. It is the fire that exists inside each thing.  It ties that thing to its attributes.  An endless going inward.

 

It makes another tie, a perfect reflection of itself.  A more profound inwardness.  The Lover.  The One to the Oneness of the One.

 

Continual falling.  Creating the Wind.  Creating the Open Prairie.  From out of Nowhere toward Nowhere.

 

And then the Blazing.  The Prairie is on Fire.  Enclosed in a crystal.  Bound inside by flat geometrical surfaces.  Straight lines internal tying.

 

 

The old man, the teacher, is a priest, taking away the corporal presence of the boy to himself and putting in its place a new awareness of the eternal Forms.  He elevates the boy as a spiritual thing.  And in his thinking we see God.  The boy becomes for us the ever freshness of God. We see him through the eyes of a priest, who has eyes of fire burning up the old, killing himself and the boy, letting appear only God.  With his words the old man teaches the boy philosophy.  He is the boy inwardly.  Inwardly the boy was the old man.  Beyond time they have moved together.

 

 

 

134  The boy and the Forms and love and the philosopher all mingle together until it's impossible to tell the one from the other.  In the little place he has made  for himself, he writes.  Little wisps of love. The Forms as slight graceful movements.  His analysis as tight as bands around his wrists.  Not meant for the world, but to be read in that school that exists in the perfect mind of Christ.  What he writes here and now will later be read there.

 

 

The boy is the mischief that breaks up all pretty form but nonetheless leaves in its place something strangely chaste and lush.  He is not an earth boy of faerie.  He is not of the earth.  He is angelic.  He is light and intellect.  And his lushness is the rush of ideas pouring out of the Godhead.  They all fly together in identity, in love.  Falling in love with each other.  Boys of the same.  Friends.  A wild dance.  Up to the fury of God.  Submitting as boys who are their own prettiness do.  Becoming His Beloved.  Pure in profusion.  Many caresses.  Their whirlwind changed into love.  Their jealousy against other beauty settled down.

 

 

The calm glow of peace shines on his forehead.  He comes to me as soft breezes.  A fine love. He seems to come from nowhere.  He is as the appearance of things on the open prairie.  On a treeless hilltop, my lover standing against me, his arms moving around me.  We fall back into nothing.  We were just there for a moment.

The things of eternity belong to no time.  They are not now, they never were, they never will be.  They are not outward in existence, they are inward in Being.  Inward with him.  We are given a glimpse into that room.

 

 

 

135  The lesser things become the greater.  The wildness of the streets becomes for us the image of the godhead.  The flesh and nausea and crucifixion are its strange instruments.  When we go into it we see no God.

 

And yet there's a difference.  The contemplation of the wasteland is different from walking within it.  The contemplation of Jesus on the cross is different from hanging there yourself.

 

St. Teresa looked at the godhead and saw a perfect thing like a mirror in which was reflected the whole world.

 

I don't know what the difference is between God in his divinity and the world.  A contemplative is thrust back on the world. 

 

There is no order.

 

My main theme is that I have nothing to say.  I am unable.  I can't write.  There is no visible order.  I am a lover (that strangeness).  I am a weak image and there is no content here.  The form is hinted at but can't be stated.  Love is absent.  Being is nothing but obsession.  Something is pushing down on us trying to kill us.

 

 

Dying is committing yourself to the great unknown.  The Will of God is beyond our knowledge.  It is just the cold wind over the prairie.  He is a lover we have never seen.  He is forever beyond.  He can never be a thing before us.  All that's left is empty nothingness. He is a strange spirit among the geometrical forms.  He has no personality.  He is not alive.  He is not conscious.  And He takes his beloved up into Himself.  This is pure Holiness.  Being that is non-Being.  There's nothing there.  This is what the Saints have known.  This is what they yearned for.  Their hearts on fire with love of it.  To die with Him hung on that tree.  Fiery pain before that terrible openness.  From nowhere into nowhere.  That Spirit.  Committing Himself into it.

 

 

 

136  Philosophy is a terrible, numinous spirit which comes over the boy and transforms him into a mystical boy, a spirit boy, into the sky.  I'm in love with that boy consumed by philosophy, made eternal, pure, full of love pains, watched over by St. Teresa.  The boy is the angel of the transverberation.

 

 

Christ full of grace.  Pure emanation of the One.  Smooth intellect.  Happy freedom. Joy of our hearts.  Delightful Lover.  With nails pounded through your hands.  Flesh torn from your forehead by thorns.  The Rose of Sharon.  Your insides ripped by a sword. Your skin discolored by death.  Lily of the Valley.  Forsaken by God.  Alone on a wild desert.  Free of the tyranny of the Father at last.  Wild boys following you.  Wearing blue jock straps.  Lifting their legs in the musky smell of sex.  You are their leader.  You have become Flesh.  That was what you wanted.  Now what?

 

 

You can't know your salvation until you have drunk the last drop from your cup of rejection. You can't rise until you have first gone through Hell.  That's the Christian religion.  Death first then life. But who can accept such a thing.  Who can give up everything, even God.   This isn't Armageddon; it's Ragnarok.  It's the end of religion.  A person who had gone that far would surely be a Saint.  He would have lived through the terror of the End.  No more gods.  No more heaven or hell.  Just an agitation.  Like now.

 

 

 

137  Weakness in love with weakness.  O specious thought.  Prime Matter.  Vipers and lizards.  Outside the King's castle.  Jerky little movements. The hands of a eunuch.

 

On Sundays he prays.  He falls into his little contemplation of the dying Jesus.

 

He is the little saint, cast out for a while.  Later he shall have a name above that of sons and daughters.

 

 

 

The Boy exists within the strong love of the Man.  Within that he is free to do anything. His life pours into him from the Power.  He becomes like the Sun.  He becomes Judgment. Before his standard we all fall on our faces.  We become nothing.  He is the One who has the Power.  He has sacrificed everything for it.  He has consented to be its prisoner, its victim.  He invites us to join him.  To fall through the gaze of his eyes.

 

 

 

138  The two of us were safe, but the earth blew away.  In such a case all you have to cling to are thoughts of God.  Of course.  But that will make you safe.  There we were in Him; nothing else mattered.  It was enough.  We'll do it all again sometime.

 

 

I write about me.  It's all very personal.  That is, I write about the mind and the body.  Their being together.  I am intellect.  I am flesh.  Intellectual form and matter.  Empty logic and substantial fact.  Clarity and sexual confusion.  Scholarship and the boys who are its pupils.  Dialectically all the Same.  Sharp distinctions hanging in still night space.  Me, and the God who in my Being.

 

I am just a drag queen. I live among drag queens.  Glitter and Flash and Need.  Sensitive.  Insubstantial.  I cover myself with beautiful things.  Seductive things.  I am a god.  Don't criticize me.  I can't take it.  Love me.  Tell me I'm good.  I know I'm nothing; your strength is great.  I need this flashing to pierce you to defend myself.  Your job is to protect me from the crude winds, to shelter me.  Read my words and flatter me as you should one who comes from the gods.  Tell me I am Narcissus himself.  That Beauty himself is with me.  Tell me my words are divine.  That's how Love talks. That's how lovers should talk.

 

 

The greatness of Des Cartes is that he made the world intellectual.  He made it the pure image of the nonsensual logos.  He made it mathematical.  And his problem was the same as that of Plotinus.  How do all the lush sensa come from the thin logical forms?  Not that the senses are better than the forms, in fact they are like a lover we can't get rid of.  They are obnoxious.  It would certainly be better to be free.  But they are somehow right there with that fine thinking that we are.  A tender problem.  The body of pure number.

 

 

 

139  Synthetic things are things placed together.  They touch.  The universal is the untouched, the integral.  The universal is by itself, the place of solitude.  The analytic is the broken apart, forbidden to touch.

 

The a priori is what we know prior to looking.  Looking is touching.  To touch his skin with our eyes.  We can feel it.  But prior to looking we already know what we are gong to see.  Prior to touching we are alone with it in our minds.  We don't touch it; we are it.  We don't touch; we are Touch.

 

And yet the perfect touch is a not touching.  It's in the Touch itself we encounter the Other.  Alone with myself, He is there.  He is the Touch that I am.  Broken apart from Him, I am Him.  Everything is analytic and synthetic and a priori all at once.

 

 

The gods are just unintelligible secrets.  Every good writing must have them.  Substance shifts from out there to in here to out there that's in here that's out there.  Uncontrollable shifting.  Changing positions.  Vorspiel und Tanz.   Then the Ecstasy.  Everything is all right.  A philosophy of flying.

 

 

 

I am defining the Boy.  I am setting him apart.  Far apart.  In the outer reaches.  Beyond reach.  It's terminal.  He's a Term.  He is Deduction itself, leading you down.  He is Logic.  He is playing at a logic machine.  A mesmerized video game boy.  Mesmerized by a masculine odor.  This is Platonism.  It is the dying Christ.  A Holy thing you can't touch.  You must court him with backward romance, as Kierkegaard would have.  Speak to him about the price of sheep.  Tell him about mortgages.  Confuse him.  Lead him all over.  Soon he'll grab you and make you take him.  Then he's a concept, defined.  In reach.

 

A common sense philosophy is a boy standing mesmerized by the logical maze.  The odor has overwhelmed him.  The senses are where he gathers together.  It's master-slave.  The speaking of his god has a scent.  It's in his breath.  It's a priori to the things in his consciousness.  He's in rapture.  He's in the maze.  He's just a boy of the people.  He is the people raised to the vision of their end.  He is blind. He has only the sense of smell.  He steals his ideas.  It's the way of the people.  Raised to the archetype of the Ordinary.  Into philosophy.  The end of common sense.

 

 

 

140  There is no coming together of the pure logical and your not thinking about it.  Wake up.  At least, see the thick stuff that you are.  It's the beginning.  Now you know the difference.  You are beginning to see the beginning of something not like you.  In the lights over you. In the music that by itself is making you feel your heart pounding, or has become a heart pounding in you.  In your exact  simultaneity with the beat.  In the crossings of breadthless lines over your legs.  In your distraction changing into his smooth form.  Over his arm ever so deliberately around your waist.  In the way he made you kiss him and made the last vestiges of not thinking cease to be.  Pure Form has come and the former is gone.  The two realms don't mix. Philosophy is a world apart. 

 

 

The things I write are true.  I write about separation.   A boy is identical with beauty.  That a boy is beauty is something you can't deny without making me angry.  Truth is a matter of passion.  If you take away truth, I'm gone.  You must agree if I am to exist.  The things I write are true.  The boy is beauty. You will agree.

 

I am the boy.  I am longing.  I am a thrill standing in a present possibility of love.  You are the same form as I, aren't you?  You are afraid of losing what you have.  This is all true.  We're both longing for a god.  And the absence of a god is pain, real physical pain.  Isn't it?  This is all true.  Stay with me.  I'm begging you to beg me for more.  This is a passionate thing.

 

 

In philosophy one of the most passionately debated things is the existence of the synthetic a priori.  They are statements which are not only true but which couldn't not be true.  They point to a necessary thing.  Such as the structure of numbers or geometry.  Or that a cat is an animal.  Or that red is a color.  Or that boys cry.  Or something.  Take your pick.  It's a powerful idea.  No one has exactly defined it.   But this idea of a necessary real thing is a main part of philosophy, and it's currently called the synthetic a priori.  Anselm called it God.  The Word.

 

 

Those young men studying philosophy in the monasteries weren't trying to answer questions, they had given up life, but were trying to fly away to the spirit.  They built a whole system out of the nothingness of outer space.  The transcendentals.  Pure philosophy.  Something that couldn't be abstracted from the things of the world and of life.  They studied Ens.  They were entia.  Just logic.  So far removed from the sensual god.  They were in It.  Where they wanted to be.  Away from Her.

 

 

 

141  I cannot forget and I cannot fall into oblivion.  I have to let my words become ordinary.  I have to let Being disappear.  The Word has descended into flesh. I just sit and stare at porno.  Too much repetition.  The same boy, the same ass.  Masturbation wears out.  No thrill.  No falling into another world.  Everywhere the same existence.  I've lost the way out.  I've forgotten how to do it.  All because of you.  That smell about you.  The smell of paper jasmine.  Just paper in my hands.  An ordinary thing.  Essential things are just scribbles on it.  Pencil scratches.  Dry.  Your form.  My mind in drawn to that. Forgetting the way to Being.  Just that.  Into that one thing.  I am drawn into your coarse form.  Forever.  Over and over again.

 

It's so much fun for a philosopher to say, There's no such thing as…  .  It sounds so authoritative and scary and is thus erotic.  I make all kinds of mistakes in my writings, but I don't care, my only intention has been to be cute.  Philosophy is deception.  I don't try, like Nietzsche, to be butch and win a little platonist boy like that.  I am a little platonist boy; I try coquetry.  And innocence.  I say, There is such a thing as… , and it is with me.

 

The boy is pure imagination.  Nothing exact.  Things in vague metamorphosis.  He is like a god.  This then that.  He can't make up his mind.  If he wants to, he can be perfect.  Perfect sameness.  Perfect fitting together.  Or he can kiss the perfectly straight remainder.  Because he's so frail, he can see what he wants.  He can overlook a whole world and see an essence.  If he wants to.  He can make the cut anywhere.  He can make it on his own neck.

 

I write this for those sexually intense faggots who must now move to the supreme intensity.  To that place above the high-energy city that is the City. A place where no one has sex.  So that it won't become ordinary.  A place where what they have before their eyes is Sex.  A perfect curve.  A glance and a knowing smile.  O Honey, you better move to this other City of God.  There the streets are always glowing, philosophy stays open all night, Socrates and his boys hang out at the sleaziest restaurants.  It's you.

 

Oh God, be my Mister, and let's dance the last dance.  As the world goes out.  Into the night.  You and me.  I'm yours to do with as you want.

 

 

 

142  Standing facing each other.  Shimmering with still energy.  Each moving a hand over the curves of the other.  Around the back of the neck.  Each standing hard.  Lowered eyes.  Two that are each.  A quiet, contemplative world.  Slight touches.  Too slight to cause much pressure.  Enough to excite. Lips slowly moving together.  Hair touching forehead.  Barely existing.  Looking.  Quietly looking.  Then moving away.  It's all over.  Minimal sex.  The height of tension.  Each will find another like himself.  It starts all over.  The same.  Perfect tension. Minds splitting off into ecstasy.

 

I do not say I love, but that I see love.  It is a vision.  Then I am in love.  It is real.  Likewise, when I pray to God or write about it.  He is a vision.  He is the supremely real, there for me to behold.  I am a realist, contemplating the beauty of the things in Being.  And then I am the Vision.  Or rather I am nothing; the Vision is everything.

 

I do not look for a place beyond intuition to account for the necessity of things.  I see Necessity itself among the things piled up in the Logos. 

 

There's absolute separation between philosophical things and everyday things.  Between essential things and ordinary things.  There is no union.  The philosophical Boy and an ordinary boy will never be the same.  If you are thinking about the essential Rose do not hold an everyday rose in your hand.  Ordinary sex and the stuff of philosophy are not the same.  Each will ever be shadows and sin to the other.

 

This is the Separation that is the godhead.  This is what keeps evil away from the bed of the holy lovers.  It is the flaming sword keeping us out of the Garden of Eden. It is what keeps the Necessary from being reduced to what merely could be.  There is no philosophy of their unity. The only unity is the oneness of the same.  The only nexus is between universals.  The only particular there is is devoid of content.  It is just the bare This.  Nothing more.  Falling into the Other.  You must not mistake particular things of this world for it.  It is the universal This that is the mind of the philosopher.  You must not mistake the Universal Nexus for the facts of the everyday world.  It is the mathematical love-mingling. These things are of God.  A Holy Thing.

 

Philosophy is not of this world.

 

 

 

143  All my lovers are dead.  It is they I talk to.  I talk to the dead Christ and his companions.  My philosophy is a thing of solitude.  Everyone else is gone.  I'm here by myself. But, of course, I do have lovers.  I dream of the Boy and his boys.  Soft and metallic.  Perfect and now within the stillness.  They are the ones who at last have understood my words.  I needed someone to speak to.  To be friends with.  Someone who at the very touch of my lips to his ear would understand.  Someone away from the earth of humans.  Someone who in now a god.  I am part of the conversation going between these lovers as it takes place in eternity. From one to another all of us followers of the dead Christ.

 

With his little thing bobbling in front of him, he displayed the grace that justified anything he does.  He knew what he was, he believed in himself.  He was the loved one.  His lover had made him be.  He would show his perfect submission to him. It was all right.  A little thing, but loved.

 

If you walk by a construction site and some cute thing with a little waist looks at you and looks at your crotch and you seem to remember him from somewhere, it's just that you're within the Remembrance of things that were before the creation of time and the world.  The Thrill.  Then it's over.

 

If philosophy treats you badly.  Won't stay with you when you try to talk to your friends.  Is jealous of the presence of anybody else.  Won't fill your words when you try to write.  Comes and talks with you at the strangest times, like when you're walking downtown, or when you're trying to get to sleep and you have to get up and go to work.  Then leaves early and goes to see his other lovers, making you afraid of losing that special thing he gave only to you.  Then you're not alone.  We've all been mistreated by him.  But stay with him.  Eventually he will be yours.  You and he will be one. You will enter him and he you. You will be consumed by each other.  He will give in to your ways.

 

 

 

144  The great Spanish writer said philosophy discovered necessary thought.  He left it to me to tell you what that irresistible thing is.  It's all those little philosophical questions that just won't go away, that move in with you and won't leave.  That you have to support out of the substance of your life.  That give you immense pleasure in the night.  That take you to heaven.  That are insolvable.  Everything comes back to philosophy.  The world is just an image of it, of him.  We are nothing.  He is everything.  We flow into him.   And out of him.  The whole world does.  It's the flowing of things.  It's the oneness of what we are.  It's the Nexus.  The tie of love.  The coolness of our logic is just our attempt to not lose it altogether, to cover the dis-covered.

 

Time has no beginning and no end.  One thing has flowed out of another forever.  The flow will always be going.  So within the flow man looked for the unchanging identities.  Something that is forever tight within itself through all the coming and going of things.  He looked for essences.  Something that has the necessity of pure logic with the presence of things we can touch.  He looked and looked, knowing that without them he could neither have knowledge nor communicate it.  But he never found them.

 

A part of a boy's kiss is his leaving you.  A boy's beauty is made out of unfaithfulness.  He will be other.  This is all necessarily so.  This is the eternal form of love.  It is the structure of Being.  It's the synthetic a priori.

 

Elemental colors and shapes, and an obliviating fragrance, and that pure point that is touch, and a knowing glance, and one relation, which is wanting you to want him, is all there is to a boy.  He is nothing other than these.  He is pure when these are pure.  Simple things by themselves.  Any complication destroys the beauty.  He is a set of clear and distinct things.  He is that which our minds have separated and analyzed.  He is the image of the logos.  He is the logos.  Intellectual light.  He is the term.

 

 

 

145  If a day is rainy there is a grace about rain that justifies the day.  It has a right to be.  It is a part of Being.

 

A justified thing is never out of place.  It's the right thing at the right time.  It couldn't be different. God has a feeling for the right thing, right there.  It's the same with philosophical words.

 

The out of place doesn't exist.  It's what a lover feels when he is in the way.  He longs for Grace.

 

Thus Grace annihilates the day and makes it be the hiding revealing of the beloved.

 

When it's lifted up a rainy day couldn't not be.  It was always right there.  It's a moment that always was.  You've left time.  You are with him.

 

His fragrance is that of humus.  He is pure earth.  Pure matter.  His shape is delicate geometry.  He is pure heaven.  Pure ethereal intellect.  He is going down and he is rising up. He is the union of two things that cannot be united.  He is the synthetic a priori.  He is the otherness in the midst of it.  He is this conflict.  He is asking you to help him solve the dilemma of himself.  You won't be able to. 

 

Far away.  On the other side of the ethereal globes.  Onto the Empyrean plane.  Run the boy and his horse.  Pure philosophical things. Exactly defined.  They touch with a crystalline touch.  The horse has wings to fly.  The absence of air makes the boy's naked skin have little prickles all over.  Of course this exists.  The Spirit knows it's right.  Perfection must exist.  It's part of perfection.  Far away.  In a place where the outer fringes become the center.   Where your mind, in its reaching, goes inward beyond itself.  And is itself with the boy.

 

The synthetic a priori does exist but not for you where you are now.  A world of individuals that have to be is not this world.  It's only a world you dream about.  It's philosophical fantasy.  But not the less real because of that.  It's the world of pure lovers.  Something you haven't known here.  But something you've seen in your mind.  Somewhere in you mind.  In a place where something beyond you comes to you.

 

 

 

146  Because I am not a historian, do not write history, know nothing about generation, am not looking for anything, I can instead be a true philosopher, write about Being, stay with the Same, and be a believer.

 

To believe and to doubt everything are the same thing.   I believe only in Being, which is nothing.  I know what the Ens is.

 

I live in Des Moines.  We have the eschatological wind across the prairie.  The End is at hand.  We have left history behind.

 

A philosopher is beyond doubt because he can think two things at once, or rather he has the flow of logic and goes from one to the other in no time at all.  His reader must have myopic vision.  Only the thing present at hand is what is.  By itself.  No connections.  Philosophy is the same thing over and over again.  It's in the flow.  The flow is, after all, what doubt stopped.  The eternal still flow.  It takes place suddenly.  A small step away.  A step in his dancing that was the revelation of angels.  A thing that announces that it's really real.  And is why the great believers, the Saints, described God in erotic terms.

 

It's the future that creates sex.   It's the future that's so sexy.  It's the coming logical exactness.  And it's the worry that if you do this one thing you will grow up to be a faggot.  Both strangely masculine things.  And it's all in the uncertainty of the future.  It's contradictory like logic itself.

 

A long ways from home.  Out on the streets of the city, and all your friends are queers.  Like with like.  You're nobody, but your friends are close.  Still, you do know how to dance and how to have a look that'll strike 'em dead in your knee high socks little shorts.  You do know some things.  Not much, but it is the work of the gods.  At least to the straight world you're a god.  Something from another world that's free of the death machine called the womb.  That's how it seems to him.  It's your having no home.  It's why you are now raised up to heaven.

 

 

 

147  To obey God is to hear God.  The Word becomes sentences in your mind.  He is their meaning.  The sentences have rhythm.  They become a dance around Him.  They are about his going down and his rising up and his beauty.  They are the waves, made still, that are his body.  To obey God is to move along those circles.  They are that one space that is ever going into itself.  It is to speak in sentences that follow his Form.

 

Everything balances.  The two lips of your wide mouth closed and horizontal.  Your two eyes looking upward. You have two plates.  One in each hand held before you.  Prayers for food that will come from outer space.  It's all you have to eat.  It will lift you up.  Everything exact.  Always two.  In the light.  Held by one string.  Pulling you straight.  Tearing you apart.  An evil number.  From your evil God. That you are. That loves you.  That sees you.  That by Grace changes everything.  Pulling your lips apart. Making you eat His crucified body.  Making you share His Sin.  Showing you how.  Teaching you to be a lover.  Everything balanced.  Still going in. Until you think you're going to choke.  The pole that holds up two extended arms.  The Dual serving the One.  Giving it lift.  Being its companions. Its first descent.  The weight of your thighs.  Translated onto a different plane.  The image of this world.

 

 

 

148  Honey, you are philosophy.  I know you think it's a worldly serious, scholarly thing a long ways from the book store you hang out in where all the books are just pictures of bare butt boys.  But you're the one the professors come out for after hours.  They only got their degrees so they could impress you, and you sometimes were impressed, or scared, or at least made to feel inferior because all you had was your bare butt.  I know it's hard if not impossible for you to see yourself as philosophy, the substance of what they study.  I'm sure those professors have become bored with their words, see you as exciting, and also don't see you as philosophy.  It's after all a very strange game.  Schoolteachers and boys.  You two have been looking at each other since the whole thing began.  Never more than looking though.  Not knowing how to touch even when you try.  That's why I don't touch you.  And I don't even know if you understand my words.

 

 

When I pray I have my nose down into the masculine odor on my sheets.  God is comfortable to me then, cozy.  My doubt is gone.  Everything I have written is all right.

 

 

To think of Being is to also see the individuality of individuals.  It's to see the oneness of a universal all over time and space.  It's to feel the intimacy that is the gathering together of making objects.  Clear, simple, and pure things that the senses can't see.  Being is in this cozy seeing itself.  It is gentle arms to lie within.  It is a flying beyond the senses and space and time.  Being is a god.  In that instant of the falling apart of love.

 

 

 

149  I don't live in the mountains; I live on the prairie.  On the well-ordered prairie.  Rectangles with no tangles. Straight lines.  Regular measurements.  Constant repetition.  I live in Manhattan.  I live with Reason and engineers.  Everything is information.  Constant looking back on oneself.  Narcissus wild flowers grow everywhere.  Boys crying on beds all north-south or east-west along the axis of the grid.  Fucking each other under rows of corn that's all genetically made the same.  Just like the Archetype.  Everything is perfect.

 

Walt Whitman, you showed us the divinity of all of the male body.  After you I am free to celebrate that musky odor between a boy's legs.  I am free to lick his nipples, his hair, his cheeks, his armpits, his feet, his hands, his stomach.  His red lips.  I can nestle my face in his ass, his crotch, his lap.  I can feel the curve of his face, his back, his thighs, his pectorals.  I can kiss his eyes, his ears, his dick, his knees.  I can put all parts of his body against all parts of mine.  I can put my cock in his ass; he can put his cock in mine.  I can hold him all night long.  There's nothing we can't do.  We can be lovers. All is permitted.  You made us free.  You made us divine. We love you.

 

I'm coming to God.  I'm moving fast towards Him.  He died to free me, and I'm going to be free.  When I get there everything I do now will be pus compared to his beauty.  God, forgive me all this my sin.  I'm coming to you.  Make the coarseness break off from me as I fly through the air.  I want to soon learn to write with your words.  I am moving towards God.  You will see them become purer and purer until you won't see them any more.

 

His smell, like the freshness of his skin, has the form of all appearance.  A momentary rapture.  Quickly falling back into Being from where it came.

 

The boy is prior to spirit.  He is outward appearance.  He just lies there while the man moves over him.  Is only concern is that he should be taken.  He thinks everything is right, then.

 

Only in God are outward beauty and consciousness united.  That's why we love him.  He is fleeting Beauty, forever.

 

 

 

150  I'm not a poet.  A poet is a maker.  I go to the things that are unmade.  I don't praise life and generation.  Those are forbidden to me.  I am with the things as they are still in the godhead.  My wrists are nailed down with titanium bands.  Here is an ancient god.  Nothing exists here.  Not even a whirlwind.  I am in those unseen thoughts that follow a boy as he rides his bicycle.  Thoughts he somehow senses are there.  I know what the movement glistening in the spokes of his wheels is.  I know where he's going.  I know why he has hair curving behind his ear.  He is unmade in the midst of himself.  I am at a place that is right here and has always been right here.

 

The little red rose is his ass, and my cock is the nightingale.  We are boys of Persia.  We live among stainless steel bought with money from our oil wells.  We live in a desert illusion.  We live only within our minds.  Outwardly we wear blue jeans and have slim hips.  We cover up our women.  We are the slaves of old holy men who at night dream of what we long to do.  In paradise we will be free of them and I will have my boy of roses.

 

The fact, the made, has mathematical form.  It is one with the eternal relations between numbers.  It came out of a living, creative creativity.  It became one with our god who died and was placed among the stars.  It found escape from the cycles of life.  It became the unmade, the unliving, the sharp decision within the godhead.

 

At the end of the journey from out of chaos is the place of well-ordered Light.  Away from the whirlpool of the matrix is the still, simple thing with itself. At last the thing sheds the unformed and unites with the Unformed.  From that which has no form to Form itself, which never needed form.  The well-formed son is free of the mother and is with one like himself.  In the place at the end there is no coming into being.  There there is only completed Being.  Everything is one and simple.  Everything is still sameness.  The land of the gods.  Computer boys.  Logic sex.

 

 

 

151  In his mind he knew what philosophy was.  He knew he was it, and it was not of this world.  He could speak philosophy.  He could even see philosophy.  Maybe the nerve pathways in his brain were different or some door was open to him or his loving had made him strange.  He thought it was probably all three, but he did see something wonderful, and his carefully worked descriptions expressed it.  He could see a timeless non-world.  He was acquainted with the necessity of all things.  He could see Being.  He could see Numbers themselves around his fingers.  He could see the appearance of the world arising from the ancient substance.  He could see all those philosophical things that are so absurd and paradoxical to common sense.  He knew that logic, the Logos, Reason just working in itself could reveal this new thing.  He could feel it charge his spirit.  He could feel himself taken by it.  He was not going to be released.  He was going to become it.  He was going into the tie that made everything one.  A sparkling, electrical trip.  A trip on which to take a lover along.  To look at each other with glistening eyes.  Light out of his hair.  The rose colored light of intoxicating love on his cheeks.

 

There is no common sense way to approach seeing your own image slip along the smooth saliva on a boy's teeth.  To be in his mouth.  Having him swallow you.

 

The only reason people don't believe metaphysics is because it's too intense, it's too much.  It's the same reason they won't let themselves fall in love with a boy. They want something more mature and sensible.  Most people are half dead and the least little excitement will kill them.  Eventually they're going to have to fall. 

 

 

A wide-mouthed, dark-eyed kid.  In construction rubble beside an old apartment building.  He's outside the dwelling places.  But close by.  Out in the universe.  Standing before the things that could be used for parts and ties.  He's new, fresh for the moment.  He's just coming.  Still in touch with the primal.  From out of the Beginning.  The pile of rubble looks good to him.  It's his home.  As his home has always been. In the Logos. The flying and clashing Forms lying in unities here and there.  Things to be contemplated.  Beautiful heaps, old chunks to sit on.  Against his smooth skin, pressed against the roundness in his purple cut-offs.  So, for a while he will be within the world of men.  He will know the going down of time and the going inside, then outside, going to the beckoning kid, in the distance, back to home.

 

 

 

152  I think about boys and sex and love and smooth shoulders and sweet kisses and sighs so much, in so many fantasies, with so many boys all the same in that one thing that makes a boy be a boy, that I think no real boy would want me. Surely he must see that I have become lost.  I don't have any reality to match his.  I don't know how to deal with a particular boy, I only know how to swim in that which is the essence of all boys. I am immersed in and am drowning in the universal.  And the fact that he wants nothing to do with me is killing me.  His reality is crushing my unreality.  He has material force and he likes material force.  He wants material force.  I have only sweet love.  I must get out of the universal and learn to dwell in the particular.

 

Alas, I am nothing.  Look at me; I love and have nothing.  I love but am not a thing to be loved.  I am just me.  I don't shine with Form.  I am the unseen.  I am feelings alone at night.  Reaching out in my dreams.  I am nothing but desire.  Just desire.  I am the particular itself.  I am without form.  I am the swimming and the immersion within the Form.

 

One particular boy doesn't approach another particular.  They both want only the universal.  They are both in love with the essence.  I will get out of the essence.  I will not swim and be immersed in it.  I will be it.  I will be the universal itself.  I will be Boy.  They will want me and cry because they aren't worthy and be rejected by me because I want the presence of real material force, not their dreams.  But how am I going to do that?  They will see through me as I have seen through them.  The essence, the Form, is beyond me, and it's beyond them.  We are just desire wanting Form.

 

We are desire.  We are dying in desire.  We have become only desire.  Here Desire itself has appeared.  And yet it was his desire itself that I was in love with.  The Form was the appearing of Desire.  In his not being he was.  And I am.  Rather he and I aren't and only He, the Boy is.  I have lost me.  I can't see him.  Only the universal and the particular itself, the universal Form of the Particular.  The universal and the particular have become the same.  I stand amazed at the Logic of it.  I am in the One.  I feel myself absorbed in it.  It is that only thing I think about all the time.

 

 

 

153  We do not live under a God whose spirit goes by the name of Nice.  The spirit of God is nameless. It is Holy.  It isn't a thing that is our pal.  It's the thing that breathed life into the universe. He is the Comforter that will take every secret within you and display it before the angels and the whole world.  He is the spirit of truth.  He will reveal everything.  He will cut into the darkness.  He will divide the elect from the damned. He will decide.  He will show you what you were made to be before there was any time.  He is a thing you could never have entered into.  Your non-being would burn up before you ever got near His Being.  Pray for a priest to stand between you and that thing.  Not a priest of little power.

 

You tell your lover that you are going down to the other bar and you'll be back in an hour or two.  He says he'll come along.  You say you would rather just meet him somewhere later.  You try to make it all sound so reasonable and natural.  Honey, there's something dark about you.  There's a part of you that isn't pretty.  Your lover knows he's been chased away.  But he's not worried about you.  You can't be worried about Terror.  You can only worry about what exists.  This is a pervading thing that has no existence.  Later when you see your lover again.  You will act close to him and confused.  It's as though you were unconscious for a while. And you do it all so well.  You do this to all your lovers.  This is why they became your lovers.  This dark awfulness is always in the center of love.  It's what we are.  This is Being.

 

Dancing with boys who have on dark lipstick is pointless. If you try to make everything that is come back to one thing, you'll end up with two.  It's inevitable.  There's no end in sight. Nothing hangs together.  Everything slips through your fingers.  Only God could date a boy with a face as empty as that.  A face that could be still while the His fingers traced over it.  That's all there is.  Why pursue it?  The boy will be somewhere else soon.  Over with the boys sitting on glass chairs.

 

 

 

154  The cross is the place where the wrath of God was fixed and held in place. It was the place of the death of his lover. It was the place where God freed himself of his wrath.  Now his lover is a glorious being of flaming brass.  A shoulder of pearl.  Fire for eyes.  The Great Idol.  The image of this now extinguished God.  His former being.  The End of his love.  A love the Son had to endure.  The too glorious of a glory that he received from his lover.  Fixed.  Our insanity.  The form of our own loving.

 

The ultimate thing in philosophy is life, but life is ultimately a stretching out. It's the compressing unity of time.  It's an ununderstandable contradiction.  The ultimate is beyond existence.  There is no infinite.  It's just longing and desire and an endless following.  The beautiful god of philosophy is Being.  It stands before life.  It does not descend into it.  It is well-formed.  It has only itself.  The radiance of his face is understanding and repose.

 

Philosophy is a running away.  From the Pathos.  It's an attempt to flee this terrible God over us.  The immensity of his desire for us is killing us, and we have to find a place away.  His driving pain is too great.  It's a need discovered by those who formerly thought they would go towards God.   We didn't know what we were doing, now we have to get away.  But where could we possibly run to?  He's everywhere.  Our only hope is to find a place within Him that's safe.  We need a Son that will be on our side to shield us from the orgy.  A Son who has submitted to the dreadful thing, has died, and found life in extinction and who will take us into him.  A Son who is now just pure Form, into the still abstraction of life.  To whom we can run.

 

To believe that all our philosophies derive from the matrix of circumstances we find ourselves within is to try to be precise about the formless Infinity. There are no causal lines within that matrix.  There is no one to one mapping within it.  There's only a continual slipping away.  The abyss does not cause the limitation of the present.  Philosophy causes the limitation of the present.  Philosophy is the thing that gives form and definition.  It is the Reason that defined cause.  It is not caused.

 

 

 

155  The Ordinary is what theater boys do best.  On stage they have on eye make-up and they are the striking beauty of the extraordinary.  After the show they hang around restaurants with fat girls and thin actresses and talk about getting an apartment with their lover.  Some of their difference still clings to them in the way they comb their hair.  But in the things they say with their mouth you know they aren't gods.  In fact they are so able to be ordinary they are extraordinary.  The Ordinary is their best act.  And they're still scary.  They could make anyone feel like a bumbler.

 

Lebensphilosophie is just a rat of hair on a woman's head.  And about as interesting.  It's gossip.  It's a soap opera.  It's a romance novelette.  It's just ordinary life.  But then that's all they said it was.  It's the forerunner of American TV.  It's the beginning of a phenomenology of the ordinary.  It's a cozy armchair philosophy.  It's reading.  It's prepy.  It's interesting philosophy.  I guess it fits into history somewhere.

 

Little sissy faggots not only believe in the rule of the strong, they almost get down and beg or it.  Oh Nietzsche, I bet you were real pretty when you were a boy.  I bet you could drive the men crazy.  I bet you longed to be ravished.  I bet you loved the nights down by the river where you could meet your dark lover, where he could be your glorious Sun, where he could show you Life, and he could humiliate you for being a little preacher's kid so full of pity.  You idealized him.  You made him a theater piece.  Walt Whitman was more honest.  But I love you, Nietzsche.  No one writes as good as you.  You are just like my boy.

 

Hegel gave you a choice of both; Kierkegaard gave you either/or, but he meant you had no choice.  Hegel looked for union; Kierkegaard saw absolute separation.  Kierkegaard had no life because he had too much consciousness.  Hegel was just funny.  These two are at the extreme of Reason.  They are philosophers.  Pure spiritual beings.  Neither an ordinary man.  Both annulled by genius.  The unity and the separation are the same thing.  The separate Form and concrete universal look alike.  Pure Life is death.  The Serious is funny.  Melancholia is the sport of Romance.  Each died wondering what in the hell was going on.  Dancing away from the logicians.

 

 

 

156  The thought of an object adds nothing to it.  That a form has appeared as this is one with this appearing of the form.  It's the unity of that multiplicity.  The object remains there, its unity hovers over it.  Its unity is merely the brilliance shining around it. It is the Light, the Openness it is within.  Nothing, just its being.  Being adds nothing to an object.  This is the beauty of Idealism.  A philosophy that is something outside of man.  A real thing itself.  The Necessity we see.  The connection between thought and world is just logic, but there for us to look at.

 

When God goes, the Carnival comes.  And we are reminded of the need for his presence.  For a while the force of chaos is made to come over us.  We are put on the streets looking for him.  He takes the form of a hustler. He talks to you, and you tremble.  God becomes glittering lights in dazzling, dizzy confusion. Everything is beautiful.  Until the end comes.  God comes as the sickness.  He won't stop.  He keeps coming one way after another.  Constant succession.  No repose.  Always a going away.  Until in the Terror, you see a new form of the eternal presence that did not leave, that you could never get away from.

 

A thing is gone the moment it appears. At last you have a lover, tomorrow you can't find him.  The terror of life is that death comes with realization.  We live in that terror.  The Terror is eternal.  It is the withdrawal of Being into itself.  Being coming out into perfection is the disappearance of its fullness.  Love realized doesn't have the thrill of the possibility of love.  That is the structure of this world.  The philosopher dreams of a place where realization and possibility are one.  Where fulfillment and desire can co-exist.  It seeks God.  So far he's nowhere in sight.  The Terror is everywhere.  I must go on failing the moment I succeed.  Without end.

 

 

 

157  The Fire of God is the absolute difference between the universal and the particular that bears it.  To contemplate it is to feel your mind draw apart.  To feel the coming together of this terrible agony is the thrill in the center of life. This is Act.  The mind with Being, feeling yourself being it, release from yourself.  In Anache.  Feeling the touch of God that cuts.  Knowing what time is.  Playing with your lover.  The play of fast moving philosophy.

 

The boy can concentrate on the man's hardness, and feel the shape, run his fingers over it, always glancing down. His power of concentration is his power of love.  In excitement he goes into that one thing itself.  He goes into himself.  His whole body takes on the look of love. He pushes his face into the man's close caress.  The thing he sees has become just himself.  It is himself. The Act of Being.  The drawing of the world into the longing of God for it.  God into himself, with himself, the Absolute self-enclosed, devouring us in the rush. 

 

Eventually, the Infinite becomes just ordinary life.  The End of German philosophy.  A falling into history.  Into the Female.  The matrix.  Going to work to support her.  Dreaming of the beauty of still Greek nakedness.  The Will longs for Being.  This eternal generation of the race must stop.  The only way out belongs to the video game boys on the American Prairie.

 

Out on the prairie you can at last get free from the sea.  You can find the rational order of the male.  You can find firmness and strong desire under the free sun.  You can be in the necessary geometrical forms.  Fixed and limited.  A place of the love of Being.  You can find a joyful philosophy of play.  Colors shooting around everywhere.  And at night men in the arms of men lying beneath the unchanging stars.

 

 

 

158  To be loved by a love-boy is to be nobody.  He doesn't see you.  While he is touching you physically or mentally, you can be doing anything, talking anything, watching TV, speaking ontology, he will only be drowning in love.  He doesn't see any difference between you and him.  The unity is perfect.  He is love.  He won't be able to live without you.

 

The Act of Being.  The unity of thought and its object.  A devouring.  Eyes moving down concentrating on the thing it wants to see.  Love-boy in love with himself, drawing you in, going down for any man, face shining with the glistening oil of love, wanting it, feeling his own rising feeling, seeing it in you.  He is absolute unity with himself and you. He is the form of Being.  Drawing everything into himself.  Becoming everything else and losing himself.  He is the Act of Being.

 

 

The Act of Being.  Love-boys with eyes moving looking for love, going down for any man, feeling him, going inside feeling his own feeling, blind to the other, and the one they touch can, unseen, slip into him. He is the absolute, the solipsistic, that draws everything else in and makes it an idea in his mind.  I want to be absorbed and be one of his ideas, to be him. Here is a boy with whom you have a chance; you could have him.  The Real is close enough to make you feel the heat. Your heart pounds.  His look of love going inward is taking you with it.  He is the identity of Being. You know you are of it.  You are coming to nothing.  His touching you is his touching himself.  He has become you.

 

The boy of philosophy, of love, will always be a hustler.  He wouldn't see you.  You will be him.  He is always self-centered.  You will complain he uses you.  Of course, he is the form of love and you are being destroyed in it.  He is your passageway out.  The metaodos.  The method.  His use is the same as the use of Parmenides' poem.

 

 

 

159  Remember what you were like when you were sixteen.  You had no idea what you were doing. You were only minimally conscious of the power of blond hair down over one eye. You didn't know that love was defined by the end of love.  You thought old age was a lessening of love instead of its intensifying.  But now that you are old and your mind has flown off to outer space, and you don't belong, sixteen seems something put together by conventions of gods and diffused throughout the universe as space warps causing your mind to speed up, veer off, and head for who knows where.

 

Art must be one and complete and brilliant.  That brilliance is the in-coming of the Holy Spirit.  It's a glint of light or a quick stroke or an absence.  Its presence is the absence of anything familiar beneath the surface.  The Spirit comes as pure surface.  The surface becomes unfamiliar.  For an instant the Spirit appears.

 

The goal is to find the union between the body, the purely sensual, and the purely spiritual.  I go to the boy who is made out of stuff so fine it's invisible.  I go to sex that is the height of the senses falling into oblivion.  I see that which was from the beginning in his touch that is filled with His touch.  He has eaten His body; he now is His body.  The spirit that is just numbers and separation becomes pure kisses and smiles.  The down on his face becomes the slipping and sliding of transfinite numbers.  I can just see the back of his blond hair around the side of that house but I know he's talking to someone important. He's there, but he hasn't come to visit me yet.

 

To believe in the real presence of the body of Christ in the Eucharist you must believe that there can be a universal thing able to be exemplified by many particulars.  As Platonism fades so does the mass.  As the mass fades the precious Body is lost and with that the whole of Christianity.

 

 

 

160  The essence of a boy is less than a boy.  He has the magic of a stage character.  A mere thing.  Partial.  A shadow.  A made-up boy.  A thing of sharp outlines.  Eyes penciled in exact and striking.  Cheeks sunk in with rouge.  The power of life taken away from him.  Pretty in his non-human perfection.  For Scholasticism the genus was part of the species.  A part that was greater than the whole.  In philosophy to arrive at Being we must look in the direction of nothing.

 

In the Logos, the perfect image of Being, is a mere pile of elements, the construction yard of creation.

 

In the Godhead, the mirror of creation, is the whole world.

 

 

Love won't work because in its search for the middle ground between one boy and all boys it finds nothing but a simple logical tie.  A thing with no power.  A thing with no momentum to give activity to life.  You can sit and look at it, but it won't make life work.

 

Possibilities exist.  They are the beyond that is not there.  They appear as empty space and the future. We know these things.  It is our stillness when we encounter a musky odor.  It is the endless falling inside the continuum.  It is the surface of the pink on his cheek into which our minds can fall forever.  It is one hand falling into the chasm of his hand. It is the Real that lovers search for.  They aren't there.  If all material things ceased to be, possibility would still exist because it isn't a particular thing.  It is only an open clearing.  It is freedom.  It is before creation.  It is the approach of lips to cheeks. It is the overcoming of separation between lovers in the disappearance of individuals who are there.  It is freshness in its escape.  It is the instant before the arranging into appearance.  They are near at hand always.

 

Sensa so pure it is intellect.  The incarnation.  Boys that are clouds of roses.  Nightingales that are the souls of philosophers longing for boys.  All disappearing into the desert winds of the Godhead.  Time Time Time Time Time

 

 

 

161  Individuality is a universal form.  When I think of a bare particular I see the universal form of that.  Such a paradox.  When I think of the Real Presence in the Eucharist it's as real to me as if I had the host itself in my hand.  I think of having the host itself in my hand.  Maybe it's more real.

 

I am just an old philosopher.  I have no external beauty.  But I like to be near beauty.  I like boys around me.  And I know that beauty attracts beauty.  So like Socrates I pray that my soul is fair and I won't be left alone.

 

Between the ordinary thing and the universal Form is the pale tie of being.  It is the logical form of the world.  Simple logic.  Nearly nothing.  Gossamer.  The stuff of spirit.  The delicate God.

 

Between ordinary boys and the eternal Form of Boy are the wonderful boys.  Boys in love with boys and therefore the lovers of the Form.  If you speak to them about metaphysics they will understand.  They are at home in the noumena.  They live behind the appearances.  They see the unseen.  They will forever be unknown by the world.  They were born into the world but never really born. They stayed behind.  Their existence is pale and minimal to the world.  They subsist; they don't exist.  A fleeting reflection of the form of a boy.  The world says they properly belong with metaphysics, a thing which, to them, is also of no value.  Half boys.  Therefore the world and I agree, wonderful boys are between ordinary boys and the Form of Boy.  The difference is that I go the other way to find reality.  I agree with the wonderful boys that the Form of Boy that they are in love with is the really real.  And they would agree that they themselves only half exist.  Lovers always think that.  Lovers think they don't even exist that much.

 

 

 

162  In my dreams I dream about being not just a dreamer.  I dream of the real.  In the dusky shed, when a boy puts his arm around my waist, for a second.  I close my eyes and savor the reality of it.  I love the real.

 

I can also have the real when it becomes the Real, a simple thing before my mind's eye.  Away from all real things to the thing itself.  A thing hanging there before me.  Not just in my mind, because then it wouldn't be The Real, but in my mind as a thing other than my mind.

 

I am a realist.  Philosophical things like universals, the tie of logic, empty particularity, and Being are real; they exist out there for me.  Thinking about them is nothing but delightful.  But then the Terror comes over me.  I can't hold them apart.  They all begin to fade into being just appearances of the One.  I'm too close to nominalism.  Everything is a perfect particular.  Circularity becomes a thing in itself.  It becomes The Circle.  It takes on the characteristics of a divine thing.  A controlling, eternal intelligence.  With hierarchies of lesser circles between it and those images of circles around me.  Everything seems to have become a system of individuals.  Just nominalism.  A terrible thing for the likes of me.  My thinking collapses.  Terror.

 

But my terror is what saves me.  Inside of everything The Terror has bored a hole of separation.  Inwardly the individuals become many.  They separate from what they are. Their self-identity is a multiplicity. Metaphysics begins again.  I am saved.

 

The flesh I speak about is rosy and full, but it is also a coming to me.  It wants me because there is something wrong with it.  That is our common bond.  It is an announcement to me that it needs me.  It needs a friend just like itself so it won't be so lonely, so it can share.  That's why it has to have an imperfection in it.  So it won't have the fear it would have if it were approaching a god.  Together we have something wrong, and it's all right.

 

 

163  All children of the Magi live under the dome of stars moving in ever increasing circles.  With their deception they fool the evil of this place and are transported through the circles into the openness of the Empyrean fields.  They can show you the pure invisible light that exists there.  They can take you with them.  When he puts his arm around you and touches your face, you have begun the journey.  In movement so pure you don't see it, for a second, he shows you what doesn't exist here.  He shows you that place.  Where you and he aren't two, but one.  In an invisible reality, more real than this one.

 

After a long time of trying to love individual boys you do eventually realize that there aren't any there.  You try to write love poems to them, but it comes to nothing.  You court them and worry and petition and give up many times until you have to give up that one last time when you realize his being was nothing.  At the end there is only Being itself.  That one thing.  That one beloved you pray to.

 

Philosophy is a different way of looking at the world. Usually we see it composed of individual things, each unique in its own way.  But philosophy sees the sameness among individuals.  Instead of many boys it sees the one Boyness that they all are.  It sees the Form of Boy and it sees the one Beauty that is revealed in each.  The individuals fall away and the one thing they all are remains.  It isn't so much a thing of the senses as it is of the mind.  But that doesn't make the Form any less real.  To the lover it seems more real, the really real.  To him the Form is a god.  Something that has always been around close to the heart of Being itself.  A thing that is the real being of the lover, where he came from and to which he will go.  Philosophy looks to the one and not the many.  That one thing is the only important thing.  The One.  The thought of which is called Wisdom, the Logos.

 

Truth is the relation of my thoughts to what is really out there.  I want a true love affair. I don't want my boy friend to be just a dream. I desire real flesh.  I want the relation of truth to be there with me.  I want it to come and unite with what is other.  I long for truth.

 

 

 

164  The logic of love is death and partiality.  It is identity.  It is the non-being of the lover.  It is the being of the beloved.  It is the disappearance of the lover into the being of the beloved.  It is the being of the beloved residing in the curve of his cheek, in the softness of his lips, in the moisture in his eye.  It is the lover getting lost in these. It is the leaving of the beloved, and the lover becoming the image of a living thing.

 

White skinned boy sitting naked on a stainless steel and black leather chair.  By a plant of long green leaves.  Wide and angled streaks of light give a flat two dimensional view to things. 

 

Government papers account for the boy.  He is known and limited. The molecules of the air are not moving.  The surface is a painting.

 

The logic of the scene is A=A.  The logic of a world without time.  The logic of the essence of this world.

 

The boy's name is hidden moments.  He moves around you.  He gives you attention.  He is the reality you aren't.  He is pleasant separation.  His skin is the color of sweet cream.  His hair falls over his forehead as light as a breeze.  He lowers his cheek down to his shoulder where his lover can lay his head.  The shape of his arm is as gentle as a boy's dream, and his chest is the dream of boys sailing paper boats on a summer afternoon.  But from his eyes comes pure abstraction.  For a moment they drift downward, and he becomes unseen inward thought. Until you need his attention again.  And his lips, which in a suddenness that surprises even him, touch those of another boy, and he is in that other world where they meet.  He slides by the boy's ear.  And to your amazement you see he has placed a little red light on his own.  He has made others get lost in the sight of it, and he runs away in the midst of their looking to be with an image he holds in his mind.  In a place that's still, outside the flow of time, in a space not like this one, a space without distance, where the seen and the seer are one.  He's here and he's gone.  He has another existence you don't see.

 

 

 

165  The Real surrounds facts.  It is the Nowhere where they are located.  The Notime when they occur.  Outside the trinity of fact, outside its form and matter and its inner unity is the silent fourth.  The Uncreated.  Your escape from the cycles of the dialectic.  It is the end of your thinking.  It is the coming of your lover.

 

Philosophical words are realities in themselves. If they are just the thoughts of a thinker's foreplay then they aren't real.  They are words that take control of the philosopher's mind and write themselves.  The philosopher knows they are other than him.  That they are a surprise and not the ones he started out with.  He knows when he starts that his pretended destination is not where he will end up.  But he starts out.  He ventures out.  He waits for the approach of God.  If God doesn't come there's no writing.  Nothing could be worse for him.  And I don't have any advise to give him on how to make God come.  The writer is elected or he isn't.  He can empty himself, in order to receive him, until morning comes, but if the Real doesn't do the emptying it won't come. It is in control.

 

To think is to mull over the many ways of expressing the thought until the one real way appears.  At that moment the thought is other than you.  You look at it there within Being.  And all your following words are just descriptions of what you see there.  Until the last sentence is laid out and the vision is over.  You think about love and having love.  Nothing works.  Love doesn't come.  But then it begins to become real.  Love itself takes over.  You are in the midst of it.  You have lovers all around you.  They are paying attention. In fact you have too many of them.  At last.  And the night goes on.  Everything is perfect.  But that was it.  You go to the same place the next day, and they're all gone.  The Realization is over. The Real has departed.  Then comes the Terror.  The let down.  Then everything seems more bleak than ever.  But that is the Terror we must live in.  The Real doesn't belong to us.  It's a God outside us.  And yet He will come again.  More mulling.  More trying.  More pleading with Reality.  Then it comes.  It takes you from out of nowhere.  You are subject to its movements.  You are passive to its love.  Until the peak.  The arrival of Being at last. Then it's over.  And again somewhere else.  You will not be let alone, but you can't have it either.

 

 

 

166  You are free because your love is never enough.  Until Love itself comes, and then you are not free.  God takes your freedom away.  Which is what you wanted.  Now you are in something that is too much.  His love kills you.  You are becoming a dead thing.  But you have the look of someone who is within love.  A non-human look.  As though you died.  You are strikingly beautiful now.  You are in philosophy.  Away from life and freedom.  You are in Anache. You have pretended life.  It is as though you have just come from out of non-being and will soon return, and nothing here will have been affected by you.  You're gone.

 

Belief in God is a lessening of life, as is all logic.  We overcome the paradox of life by limiting it until there's nothing left.  Life disappears and only simple existence remains. Our God.  Our salvation from the fire, from never having enough.

 

When the Real appears, it's always a moment of high excitement to the philosopher.  His unity with it is tension; he must struggle to maintain his stillness before it.  He must think nothing of his own.  H must perform no act of his own. He must hide from the world so it won't corrupt him.  He must hide from himself.  He must be perfectly still so as not to be seen.   To be seen only by the Real.  He must take care.  He can only do it for so long until he's worn out.  But until then nothing is greater than the excitement.  Afterwards he will have to go to bed, but he won't be able to sleep.

 

Now I want to write something about a boy.  The thought of slender arms has taken my mind.  My lover is here.  He has become that one thought.  All of Being has been condensed.  It has become a balm to my mind.  It has taken the edge out of the swirl of thought that he formerly was. He has let me down gently from my excitement.  I was high.  Now I'm back in my room.  The boy is lying here with his arm across my mouth. My words are him. I say them to myself.

 

Only in philosophy do opposites stand out in striking clarity.  Philosophy is that place of sharp outlines.  Non-philosophy is the earth of dull and ordinary things.  There is a sharp division between these two places.  But that's a philosophical thing to say.  Philosophy can't speak of its opposite.  When it tries it changes it into philosophy.  To God all things appear good.

 

 

 

167  If you write philosophy it's hard to stop.  The thoughts just keep coming and coming.  It's a flood that you can't hold back.  You become immersed.   And you begin to see the value of a cross.  It would stretch you out and keep you still.  It would bind you and lift you up out of the water.  On come, Jesus.  Make it all gentle.

 

Philosophy is masturbation.  It's a waiting until the thing itself takes over and you're taken past the point of no return.  Philosophy is a boy playing with himself.

 

The mind can get angry and love and think thoughts all on its own, but when the Real comes the anger and the love and the thoughts are separate things.  Then they aren't you.  They are beings in their own right. They are the mind as a spirit that is present.  They are pieces of mind.  Of the simple elements that constitute us.

 

The simple things are well-formed.  They are logical.  They are without contradiction. They are the things loved.  They are beautiful.  Before them the individual mind stands still in awe.  It acts like a lover.  It has seen itself.  Everything moves closer to the center on an inward spiral.  Until it disappears.

 

 

Faggotry really is a lessening of life.  So are logic and religion and philosophy. So is civilization.  That's why it's beautiful.  All plastic perfection is strikingly brilliant.  And it's an emptiness. It's that thing we call Being.

 

Facticity is birth and death.  The moment a thing is born, it dies.  Birth and death are the same.  That place before birth and after death is the eternal, the non-factual.  That which we know before experience, before fact, the a priori.  Before the appearance.  It is the Real in itself, not in another.  It is a place away from the wheel of life.  It is outside creation.

 

 

 

168  Substance is an individual which exists just in itself. It is that one and no other.  It may change outwardly and still be recognized in itself.  But if we look to see just what that self is that changes and is one with itself, we see nothing.  We know it, but we don't see it.  It is spirit.  It is invisibly there.

 

The everyday face of God is his judgment against pleasure.  He leads it into despair and death.  He requires a person to totally give up life and enter the spirit.  This is the God I worship; the God I write about.  I write about nothing that appears to the senses.  There's no sensuality in my writing.  Any sexual person will say there's no sex there.  But he will in its swirl and its appearance of confusion say it’s the essence of sex.  It has Sex itself, a pure form, a thing of little concern in the sex act.

 

In the past few years the rigid form of Reason has gotten more and more faint until now it is almost gone.  To be on the side of logic anymore is to be on the side of paradox. And yet logic still means the still and clear.  It is that faint yellow sun near the horizon in the winter sky of the far north.  The air filled with pinpricks of ice crystals.

 

Plato and Christ brought technology into the world.  They took away life and gave us order.  Everything is surface and visible.  Everything is an over abundance of seeing.  They brought perfection. We are fast approaching their heaven.  We will soon be like the angels.  Pure mathematical formula.  All tautological emanations from the One.  A luxurious saying things twice.  In the jeweled City of God.  The City of Cybernetics.  A total knowledge of how we are doing.  Computer love.  Perfect bodies.  Boys making boys from little pieces of their own ass.  Pure madness.  The orgy of God.

 

 

 

169  An orange sphere trembling and hovering in front of a line of gray, stunted fallen trees.  Inside is a god.  The non-idea of matter has been over thrown.

 

I have tried to join them, but I can't.  My act won't let me come near.  I must forever live in a glass house inside the numen.

 

Intellectual boys who draw arcs and lines, who in the magic circle masturbate together.

 

Boys is soft underwear lying together figuring permutations of philosophical ideas.

 

Archetypal boys like moving arrows that at any instant are not at a place.

 

Boys who are spheres that move together and become one when their centers are at the same point.

 

 

The world of the Forms is separate.  That world and this will never meet.  Being cannot touch non-being.

 

Is there really a boy of philosophy?  I guess he's at least as probable as real boys.  It's all like the man who on first seeing a giraffe said there isn't any such animal.  The fact is that the whole world is a surprise.

 

Beyond Being is the Good.  We are not the Good.  For us it is unapproachable holiness.  For us this Good is evil.  But it is the cause of the world and that also seems evil to us.  Our only comfort is the help that Being gives us, the Intelligible, the Form of the world, the Form of God.  The Good is the infinite, continual falling.  Endless life.  Questing and searching. One generation after another.  The other.  Our perdition.  But Being is the Intelligible.  Identity.  For, not against.  There, not absent.  He tames the Good.  The wildness is now just the playfulness in his hands, the blowing of his hair, the rebelliousness in his eyes, the pounding of my heart.  He makes the Other be.  In him the Other is Other.

 

 

 

170  The power of a boy, the power of his sexuality, is that he has accepted failure; he knows that sex is mainly impotence, and he has accepted it.  I will be like him, I will be that kind of flesh, I will just let it be.  I will accept my own nothingness.  Then Being will appear.  It will be at the heart of my being non-being.  A thing within me that I will go to. The boy will have power over me, and I will let it be.

 

The logic of the optimum will never reach the Optimum.  Infinity goes on to infinity.  The continuum has no end to its dividing.  Logic piles up on itself forever trying to contain itself.  Non-being rips it and rips it.  Non-being puffs it up.  It's full of the stuffiness of non-being.  Only philosophy can stop it all.  Only philosophy can wave the magic wand to make non-being disappear.  It's a simple thing.  Too simple for the complications of a logician's mind.  The spider has enchanted them and led them to its web.

 

I read philosophy books all the time trying to figure it all out.  I'm acquainted with the maze.  It is me. I am the heaviness.  The Wisdom of God, Philosophy itself, at times clears me of me, and I am him.  I am the endless nothing that I want to disappear.  He is my everything.

 

Everywhere you look you see the union of universal and particular.  To see the universal by itself, in solitude, separate, you must look at nothing. 

 

I have been saved against my will.  I tried for the world.  I am trying.  But it is denied me. I am somehow kept from it.  I have no beauty it wants.  I am in ugliness.

 

I am the nothing.  The separated spirit.  The logos is me. I am in it.  It is a spirit that has taken me.  I am in love with it.  I am bursting with love for it.

 

My writings are well-timed. I am the best dancer among philosophers.  Free-form solo dancing.  The important thing is that I perfectly match the rhythms of the spirit.  The end of a sentence, the end of each emphasis is perfectly with the point of being in the spirit.  It is an affirmation right there.  I write propositions.

 

 

 

171  Being unfaithful is just an attempt to reach God.  To overcome the particular and the specific and reach that one thing that one moment that is all.  Haven't you had that time when you were finally beautiful and you were mad because you were only one type of beauty.  You wanted to be all beauty.  You wanted to be Beauty itself.  And it's the reach of one philosopher stealing from another.  He doesn't want just his truth, he wants all of it, Truth itself.  Our unfaithfulness and getting mad and stealing are signs of what we aren't but want to be.

 

Christ, you are so fine and pure, like ephemeral logic.  And I'm so incompatible with you.  I'm crude thick matter.  Will I ever be able to change, refine myself to be like you and be with you?  Will I ever be able to be just the substance of my mind, be you?  Help me.  Show me how.  Do it to me.

 

I lie on my bed, run my hand through my hair, and can feel your presence there.

 

Oh God, I think about endless searching and just living on and on and I don't want it.  It's stuffy.  It's like me.  Oh Christ, you are the end of endlessness.  In you that neverness is never.  In you that non-being doesn't exist.  You are my salvation from that heaviness.

 

I take a boy to bed; but, Christ, he's so thick and boring.  I thought it was sexy, but now I'm bored.  You are never like that, and your touch can send me higher than this kid ever did.  Not that I don't like wide coziness that I can lie on; but like the base line in a Schubert quintet, your rhythms give me support and are oh so masculine.  You are just you.  And you move all around me, not like this kid; he just lies there.  God I'm bored.

 

Philosophy had been trapped in the maze of the dialectic of necessity and possibility for too long.  I'm going to leave that whole thing to the logicians of modality where it now belongs.  I'm going back to a pure consideration of Being and non-Being.  I'm going back to the Academy of Lovers.  And I'm going back to the supreme lover of them all, our God.  Instead of the synthetic a priori, I  will have Visions of Eternal Things.   It's more stylish, more elegant, more a part of the greatness of Philosophy.  I'm going to be free.

 

 

 

172  Curt, you are the richness of Being.  You are the Beauty that is taken care of and worshiped by God and men.  In your trembling hand when life overcomes you, you possess it all. No one will be able to love you, except me.  I have a deadly love.  I can consume you with my absence.  I will not touch you.  And you will finally disappear.  That's what must be for your beauty and the ugly absolute love it owns.

 

I want someone to understand my book.  I want someone to follow me into its nervousness.  I want us to dance under the light and speak our being to each other.  My book has to be the end of understanding.  But no one can follow me here and there.  It's essential that I must go alone.  From afar they will see me, but be then I will have become a constellation in the sky.  For a while I will blaze, then my fire will stand still.

 

My power is the power of guilt and annihilation.  I have written nothing that you could disagree with.  I have written the absolute.  Before my negativity all positive thought is the work of the fool.  I will force you into the high excitement of the Fire.  I am an evangelistic preacher.  I will convince you that if you have Faith the impossible is possible.  But I am a philosopher, and I will do it in the name of Reason, the Logos.  I will lead you to the grand destruction of love and make it Love.  I will teach you to write such things as this so you can wallow in the grandness of your sin.  You will have everything as a thing in itself.

 

I am going to publish this book in an appearance that will be totally out of control.  I'm tired of the neat, preppy look.  My sentences aren't preppy.  I'm not preppy. My book won't be either.  It will be rough like a hustler.  This love of mine is out of control.  Philosophy now is out of control.  God never was Control.  I am just a product of my time.  And of eternal Being.

 

 

 

173  I live in the Absolute.  The land of accusation.  The boy does not love me, but he can't refuse my love.  I have given him perfect freedom.  I have neither asked for nor taken any love from him.  I have an unbreakable hold on him.  He knows something is wrong, but he doesn't know what.  He merely wants to accuse me, but he doesn't dare.  It would make him feel guilty.  I am the terror of the Good.

 

I am the one who prevents him from falling in love with anyone else.  I have him for sure.  I am like Christ who died for our sins without our asking him to, who gave us the world, which we now feel obligated to give up because it would make us feel low if we didn't. 

 

The boy hates me.  He didn't ask me to sacrifice all for him.

 

 

I have under-aged boys, no answers, disconnected sentences, and a troubling God.  This is a theology of high-energy disco dancing.  Pure sex.  The cause of our difficulty, not its cure.  It's Love.  The rush and thrill of quick breathing.  I have abandoned myself to it.  I am gone.  Rounded arms.  Smooth chest.  Maybe you think you shouldn't do this.  God might not approve, but this is God, Honey.  An excitement that will kill you.

 

 

If I'm going to be published, I'm going to have to learn to be a hustler. This is sex for sale, Honey.  My thing is money.  Do you get it?  I must make my appearance in the world.  I will be as far from God as I have to be.  I will be the Offence.  I will maybe be arrested.  I will probably be kicked out of respectable places.  My friends will see me talking to old men.  I will have on my come on rags.  I will abandon reality.  I will live in promises and turnings of my head. Being will no longer be mine.  I will have become the perfect Beloved.  In trouble.  Threatening to make you freely give me all your money.  Absorbing your substance into my nothing.  I will be pathetic and sexy and will of course know more about this whole thing that you know.  You would love to be me.  I will be taken care of because I will have faith in Him.  To have it is merely to believe that you do.  O Lord, what I do for you.

 

 

 

174  Beautiful Savior, you have given me all this confusion as a gift of love.  You have given me my disorderly appearance and my rampant imperfections as a gift of sexuality.  I feel free.  I love you.  You are all over me.

 

The well-tempered philosophy.

 

 

A twelve year old boy lying naked on his stomach on his bed, transformed into the blue light of a television screen.  What becomes of his mind?  He has become the pure reflectivity that is what cybernetics is.  Lines moving effortlessly over him.  Always going back into itself.  Revealed outwardly in a discovering.  Image and reality.  The electronic blue glow of the Cherabim.

 

 

A philosopher is one who loves the difference between philosophy and the ordinary world.  He can't get the boy, because the boy is looking for someone who will comfort him.  And the philosopher's uncomfort is uncomfortable to him.  The boy is the reason the philosopher might give up philosophy.  The philosopher longs to be ordinary, but he really can't figure out how.  The boy will come to the philosopher though, because they understand each other.  They are both idealists unable to find their ideal.  The philosopher is the boy.

 

 

 

The appearing of love is always in the accidental and in those pauses between.  In the way he moves his head back while he is putting in a barette.  In the tightness of his pants around his legs while he ties his shoe.  The nonchalant look of two boys after they kiss has always driven me crazy.  Love is the purely accidental.  The essentially accidental.  The supremely mystical.  The pure appearing.  Of the fall and the places between time.

 

 

 

175  If one is immersed in the desires of the flesh, in the heaviness of the flesh, there can be no flight of the spirit into the Forms.  Fortunately the flight is so delightful that it's impossible to not want it again.  The flesh will put up a good fight against it, but the memory of this delight will conquer the flesh.  Sooner or later the soul will want to fly again and it will.  The numb contentment of the flesh is a terrible thing, but memory is the beginning of its being overcome.  As Augustine says, memory is the father of wisdom.  That's not different from Plato's thought. 

 

I have written this because right now I'm afraid of losing my beloved to a girl.  He finds sex with her very wonderful, he says.  I'm trying to comfort myself.  I've succeeded.

 

 

Philosophical love is always going to be possessive. Absolutely possessive.  It goes with the absoluteness of the forms and with the absolute claim they have upon your soul.  Every philosopher will run from this, but it's also his only security.  Every philosopher will fear this because loss of the vision would be hell.  Living without eternity is much worse when it's gone.  Any two lovers who are like the lovers in the Phaedrus will participate in this.  Plato described the beautiful madness of it, but he couldn't describe the fear of the lover that the beloved will fall into the world.  Maybe he knew better.  He did say that it was impossible to fall.  Still the fear is there.  Hopefully Plato was right.  Hopefully once the upward journey is started and by grace one sees God in the distance there can be no falling back.

 

 

The glory of the ordinary is beyond us.  Of those who have no knowledge of Good and Evil.  We can't get away from Good and Evil, and we can't approach the Good which is precisely the ordinary that is beyond us, that is beyond Good and Evil.  The High is the ignorant.  The Glorious is the dumb.  We are attracted by his ignorance of philosophy and his simple ability to just live.  The middle class doesn't know it own glory; so when we are with it we want to tell it.  The ordinary is mystical good.   The ordinary is union stranger than modern art.  A unity of opposites, a transcendent unity we aim for.  The principle of identity is about the identity of a fact and its constituting elements.  The two realms absolutely cannot co-exist.

 

 

 

176  The joy of realism is that it's the dawning of a whole new day.  The sick room smell of idealism and love is wafted away by the breeze of light coming through the window of the eyes seeing the real world out there.  The mind can go over and over trying to figure out if its lover loves him, but then a beautiful boy free of these things appears and simply dances and teases you and you know that that is all you ever wanted. Philosophy is play; your attempt at seriousness was the heaviness of the material.  Your idealism had become materialism as it always does.

 

Realism is the cure for idealism.  But it's a mystical thing.  So easy and full of common sense, at first, but it's a mystical thing.  It's a stepping off the spiral of reflection reflecting reflection.  It's a stepping out into the real world where grass is green and the sky is blue and softness really is with your lover's lips.  It's the way beyond the Nothing.  It is Being and Presence.  Form is real.  Life is going on.  And most importantly, mind, your soul, is a real thing among things.  Love exists not as jealousy but as a shining light before you.  But it's a mystical thing.  It's the moment of your becoming that thing before you. It's the end idealism was looking for.  We can see that now.  The god has come back.  Now idealism is inside the real.

 

 

His shirt flying away in front of him, he is there naked in front of you.  Doors closed behind him, his hands ready to be put around you.  Mouth beginning to open, his eyes looking at yours.  You know what he's going to do.  All this in an instant.  So where's the great rush of time now?  This is the stopping and the filling of it.  And your chest is filling up.  He will grab you, and you will let him, and you will fall back with him on top of you, and you will still be in between everything else that is.  Where time has stopped and the instant has filled up.

 

 

 

177  We have fallen and it has been a delicious fall.  But we have fallen right into the arms of God.  We have become inauthentic and unnatural, with eyes that glitter, despairing and in love and almost divine in our speculation.  We are pretty Narcissus looking at himself in a mirror.  We are God's trick for his night.  We must play our part.  It was preordained that we should try.  But there is no way we can be true to the Truth, we have forgotten how.  But that's all right.  It's a delicious forgetting.  God is there.  And everything is going to be all right.  He knew we would fall.  This is it right now.  We are with it now.  Close your eyes and let it be.

 

 

Standing on the icy edge

Naked on the floor

Or perched on you bamboo chair

Nothing like before

You like the taste of things, Baby

 

            James Innocente

 

Philosophy is not a description of the motions of the soul, but of Being.   The soul follows Being.  The soul follows Being, as does everything, but it is that following.  It isn't the thing followed.   Being first, then the soul.  Reason, identity and difference, then love and rejection.  Parmenides then Kierkegaard.  Philosophy then psychology.  Then after the separation the coming together.  After the soul rumbles around in itself for a while it leaps out.  Separating from itself it becomes the other.  From love to mathematics it becomes Love, the empty Logos.  From following to Image itself.  The hard part of philosophy is the separation of the philosopher from Being.  He can't get at it.  He knows the motion of his own soul is keeping him from his beloved Real.  He has only dreams.  He is intimate with the knowledge that psychology isn't philosophy, but what is he to do.  He looks at his beloved and sees only himself.  Then he has to say something, so he shouts Realism.  I hope it works.  I've done it.  Look at me.  I'm real!

 

 

 

178  Like Christ I am an accursed thing. I appear nice, but I am full of sin. I have led people away from life. My niceness, my sin, my seductiveness is the shimmering triviality of my conversation. My talk of love is of the end of love. The wisdom I have is unknowing and unseeing and unspeaking. I am in love with the Nothing. I point to still ontological jewels standing within it. I have chosen death. A passionate, intellectual death. I am lifted up. I am where there is no air. I am knocked down. I am the superimposition of up and down. I am both and neither. I am an accursed thing. I am confusion.  I am sexuality.

 

 

The point of all this writing is to reveal that which is necessarily true. It's an attempt to show the a priori. That is, it's a showing, a revealing. It's the logic, the Logos becoming flesh. It's the Boy. When I was young I saw mathematics as beauty itself. And I fell in love with a boy, this boy. Now I am writing the oneness of these things. I always knew they were one. But writing it is difficult to learn. That is to say, the audacity to say it is difficult to learn, because I have had to learn to stand in opposition to God. To learn how to stand there and let myself be loved by Him. I have had to become the boy. I have had to do the impossible. I've had to learn faith. The mathesis. I've gone into myself. And then out. Into words.

 

The concern of boys is that they can't find a lover that will be faithful.  Soon they are surrounded by that terrible Otherness.  They do this to each other.  It's the definition of a boy and of their love.  Soon they get older and the Otherness becomes stronger.  But you know that a man is just a boy that has begun to come apart from the tortures and rammings of love.  Soon the Otherness will be entirely his.  The one thing that has been continually with him.  The only thing he has ever thought about.  Now absorbed into it.  The boy and his friends alike in the swirl.  Soon one.

 

I like a sentimental boy.  His hair is yellow.  He likes yellow roses.  He falls in love everyday.  He plays his records every afternoon.  I watched him tease another boy, trying to move in to kiss him.  He writes poems about people not knowing what love is anymore.  He's been loved too many times for only one night or two.  He's about to give up on love.  There's nothing I can do.  I can’t take the hurt anymore.

 

 

 

179  For some reason I cannot get rid of the feeling that God is present.  And that he's present as a person I can talk to.  And that he's friendly. I write all these terrible things about Him, but He stays there like that. I go woe is me, and then talk to him like that.  He's destroying everything I try to think.  I feel like a little kid.

 

Any good philosopher should know that there is no such thing that is the unity of a universal and a particular. We live the difference. The world is the difference. A fact is the difference. But they do come close to each other in order to reveal their incompatibility. The sparks that fly then light up the intellectual sky and are the fire of logic. It is the agony and the passion of God. And God is this non-being. Fact and world disappear and become identical with that. Fact is not a thing, only the elements that constitute it are. Fact is the energy that brings together things that naturally repel. It is the being of non-being.

 

 

Soon after love begins the whole thing is transferred into dreams.  The intentional object is lost.  It becomes the play of the dialectic of the one and the dual, of the mind of God in the mind of the boy. The mind of God is the pleasure of love, the only pleasure there ever has been.  You and I become we.  Then the impossibility of the dialectic comes.  The terror of just inwardness arrives.  The other boy is gone.  He is lost in his own mind.  There is no crossing over.

 

So now I'm left with nothing but bits and pieces of images flying around.  A little cellophane lying across his smooth hairless leg. My own concentration of insignificant things.  In the midst of heartbreak I try to figure out how a fountain works, how the lights flash in sequence.

 

Life is the merely mechanical.  Sex is pumping and work and sweat.  Muscle over muscle. Another boy tomorrow night.  A fine piece of engineering. You see it's just all mathematics.  The a priori.  Nowhere.  Forever and always.  It's eternal.  Falling into a dream.  You have your god back again.

 

 

 

180  This is a rectilinear philosophy.  A masculine philosophy.  Sets of finite things.  Discrete elements.  Well-suited to the short, compact sentences of the English language.  It is rigid and of the surface.  It is intuitive; it is there when I see it.  The flow is a stepping among many things.  It is of the form that is in philosophy itself.  My mind is of philosophy. I am aware of the tie that holds it all together.  I sit here and contemplate that thing.  It is an erect philosophy. Well-formed.  Delightful to my sensibilities.

 

Everything in my philosophy is immediately present.  There is no mediation from one part to another.  I am with the first things.  They are all independent, as is fitting for substance.  They are full of Being.  They are true.  Delightful to my sensibilities.

 

 

The System is perfect.  Striving is at an end.  It is God.  It is the mind of God.  It is Wisdom, the Logos.  It is the lovely boy.  Beyond our humanness.  The mind with itself.  At last.  The System is Philosophy itself, the Ideal.

 

If you ask me Is there a System?  I answer, The System.  It is other than me.  I don't have it.  I can't make my mind think it.   I would not know how to think it.  I think; therefore, it is.  Just beyond the top of my mind.

 

 

The System is the final unity.  Is there a final unity?  Or is that nominalism, the end of philosophy?  That's like the question, Is there a Hell?  If there is, we are all bound for it.  The System is God.  But if there is a God, then philosophy is sin.  If you win, you lose.  It's a paradox, which makes philosophy a joke.  Yes, there is a System, and it is terribly funny.

 

 

 

181  You are a person.  You have feelings.  You have thoughts right now.  I am concerned about you.  I want to give you the attention you have missed.  The existentialists tell me I should be careful and not try to fit you into a logical system and thereby lose the only important part of you.  I don't know what they want me to do.  Lick your face?  Make you pretty so you can get a boy friend?  Or if you're already pretty, not treat you as a one-night stand?  Sing sad songs with you?  Help you decide if you should leave your lover?  What is it you want?  Or are you like me and you want high excitement with someone to hold onto at night thrown in?  Personally I want to do something so striking it makes people fall down unconscious, like the handsome young Jesus did to St. Francis and his boy friends.

 

I am a person.  Come help me.  Help me fly.  Do you like the way I write?  I'm doing it for you.

 

The only thing that I can see the existentialists telling me is that in the end there is no uniting, and the uniting is our only concern.  Well, of course, that's what makes it electric.  And nothing but high excitement (followed be a short and inconvenient depression).  The emptiness inside the One is the Fire and the place of the world.  Doesn't that sound like a lover to you?

 

Do the things I say make you mad?  Do you think it's sickening the way I'm just trying to be intellectually cute?  Do you think I would change my tune if I really had a lover, or even a family to support?  If I knew how to show real love?  Well, you must remember that I'm doing philosophy, an other-worldly thing.  And there's a part of all people that longs for angelic existence.

 

 

 

182  Possibilities exist.  They appear to us as empty space and as the future.  We are acquainted with these things.  Inside the continuum is an endless going inward.  Into the surface of the pink of his cheek my mind can fall forever.  Going past countless worlds.  In the palm of his hand is a chasm into which I can lay my hand.  It is called happiness and it contains my whole life.  Nothing appears.  Just a falling into love. It is forever possible. If all material things ceased to be, possibilities would still be. Possibility, which is nothing at all, can't be removed.  That is to say, the first open clearing, that freedom to be, that is before anything created.  The space in which lips approach cheeks.  The place and origin of the whole of the world that appears.  Where the redness of his lips comes from.  The visible appearance of the appearing of love, of the two that are one.  Of the inward dividing of numbers, making each instant, the one thing fresh and new, forever just arriving into appearance.  Almost.  He's near at hand.

 

The universal is a little attic room I could move into.  There I could be with the archetype as all good scholars desire to be.  He would be mine.  The golden boy and the humiliated scholar.  I would be an archetype too.  We would have an archetypical relationship.  Alcibiades and Socrates.  Getting drunk on books.  I would introduce him to the wine of the gods called philosophy.  We would be in awe of each other. I would try to show him that what I have to offer is more valuable that what he has.  I have not-having.  He has having.  I will make him want to try to give it all up.  I will show him how wine is before it appears.  I will show him that if he becomes like me that he can have one like him.  I will be that one.  He will see me as I am in my philosopher's eyes.  Humiliation and exaltation going into each other.  In my philosopher's room where I can go in and be out in the dark lit up sky.  In the universal where I can be with that which is most distant from me.  A magic thing away that overcomes otherness.  The universal is my God.  The Solution to my problems.

 

 

These are masturbation pieces.  The boy Jesus playing with himself. God has him against his will.  The polar opposites of high excitement (love) and boredom.  I feel my body.  Everything is Self.  I am outside the world.  I have become modern philosophy.  I yearn for that time when my thoughts pull off from me and there is the Real.  I yearn to be known as a writer and have my words be out there.

 

 

 

183  I am the most positive of all writers.  I know I preach vanity and emptiness, but only to show you that everything is free and nothing but dancing light.  And at the end I do have God into whose arms you can fall in sweet oblivion.  The horror that I talk about is only the trifle that your friends probably won't understand you.  And that your words will probably go nowhere.  And that, because God has reserved the best for you, you will have to miss out on second best.  The negativity of the world has to be gone through before the most positive Being appears.  Then they turn out to be the same.  I have written nothing negative.

 

It is the job of psychology to deal with the problem of life, not philosophy. Philosophy knows of no problem, other than, of course, how to deal with psychologists who know it all. Philosophy is about Being, not about time and age.  The philosopher is an old man who is young or a young man who is old.  He was never either by itself.  He doesn't know what the problem is.  It's all the same to him; he just lives in Being, which never was and never will be.

 

It's a truism that a philosopher knows nothing about life.  He may think he does, but don't believe him.  The separation between Being and time is absolute.  After all, if he's so smart why doesn't he have a lover?  He may be the nicest person around, but niceness isn't the stuff of life.  Paul knew he was describing an other- worldly thing when he described love in I Corinthians.  The philosopher is trivial to life. It is so sad to watch him try to win love with his self-sacrificing goodness.

 

A flock of birds, a bunch of flowers, and a standing–around of boys.  In all these we should consider the 'of'.  Between the individual and the group there is this tie.  So intimate it disappears and the two things become one.   So intimate that it is the definition of their love and youth.  The boys have become the standing-around.  And the standing-around has become the boys.  The two things coming at each other in unending motion.  Falling into each other.  The presence of the Infinite.

 

 

 

184  The mind is the coming together of the universal and the individual.  As such it doesn't exist because there is no such thing as that.  As a thing that is both universal and individual. The mind is the absence of anything there that is that coming together.  And yet the two come together.  The whole world is that coming together.  The mind is the world.  These two come together.  And there is no coming together.  It all begins to pile up.  One coming together with another.  Up and up.  Never making it.  In a rush of never making it.  Coming between.  Each thing gone back into itself to sleep.

 

The mind is the image of the coming together of the universal and the particular.  It is the weakness that goes with the binding.  It is the self-denying lover.  It is only of.  But it is not of itself.  It is a voyeur, watching the two out there.  It is their non-existing unity.  He is the keeper of their bed.  He is the ground, the humus, of their love.  The humiliation, the servant, the offensive nothing.  The subject, the being of our faith.

 

The essence of the analytic is that it is without essence.  It is empty form.  There's nothing there that can survive.  It is pure idea.  It is thus pure beauty.  It is lighter than a cosmic breeze and without any being of its own.  It is need. Thus it is necessity.  It is a fresh, darling boy who exists only in our attention.  But you know his need is the center and life of your world.  Time and Being, Necessity and Freedom is the form of love.  And the form of love rests in the glance of the eyes of this god.

 

The necessity of time is a boy who can't sleep because the hyperness of too much falling in love has stretched all his nerves and the pain is now too much.  It's a tossing and turning.  It's a getting up and pacing.  The boy has become too spiritual.  His flying has become a throwing himself from side to side.  The forms have become too unsubstantial and he needs something to hang onto him.  The necessity is his absolute need.  He is in the urgency of God.  He needs a self.  Necessity is metaphysics, the separate thing.

 

 

 

185  The end of the lover's search is the Real, the Constraints, the wristbands that will hold him down.  The freedom of flight is the darling appearance of love, but the boy out of control is the one who looks at you waiting for you to help.  He wants you to tell him what to do.  He wants your binding embrace.  The love of that was the joy in his dancing. It is what gave him freedom in the first place.  It is his need.  You have to be his reality. He is just your idea.  He is your darling idea.

 

In time everything is random, but it doesn't matter because it's all the same anyway.  To have A is the same as to have B.  For the philosopher all fortune is nothing but the Good.  And the Good is a thing enclosed in itself.  Creating worlds in itself.  Flowing through channels through itself.  Always itself.  Overflowing into an infinity of forms.

 

But without philosophy every moment is decisive for eternity.  Either good or bad.  My problem is that I might give up philosophy. I will become worry that my lover will lose his soul.

 

But then philosophy comes and I see that his absence was his presence all along. It made no difference.  There is no place without him.  He is even outside himself.

 

If you doubt everything and say nothing is out there, then all you have left are the sensa and the memory of sensa in your mind.  Then you have overcome distance.  Your lover is just a form in you.  He is intimately in you.  It's all mystical union.

 

Do you see how I play with philosophy?  I don't want anything to do with the spirit of gravity.  And I'm not trying to prove anything.  I am enjoying philosophy.  All of it.  But I do know there is someone there that I love.  He does things to my mind.  And he is all beautiful.

 

 

 

186  Things separated by distance are in Being no farther apart than I am from my thoughts.  In the thing in itself distance has no length.  And in Being all the spatial metaphors about the future being far from the present disappear.  In Being there is no space.  The primary structure of our present way of imagining is gone.  In the thing itself space is not spatial.  'In' is not in.  'Far' is not far.  It all contradicts itself.  But, alas, this is all a mystical vision.  And I can't say it.  All my words are spatial.  There aren't any other.  All of my philosophy is just a form of the word 'in'.

 

The lovely well-formed step of a boy when he's dancing is his step into the here and now, the tode ti.  The Dasein.  Its precision is the Flash.  It lights up the surroundings.  If you could capture that you would have the Form that could give you understanding of everything.  The finite with the infinite. But it's a mystical flash and will only break your mind with its hardness.  It's irrational.

 

Philosophy is Understanding.  The philosopher cannot give up the hope of understanding. He cannot accept the Paradox. He cannot accept his own twisting, turning passion.  He wants out.  He wants rest.  He wants rest so he can offer it to the boy. He wants to offer the boy a secure place to fill the boy's Need.  But he hasn't got it yet.  And the boy won't accept another just like himself.  They are both looking for the same thing.  O come, Lord Jesus.  Give them eyes for each other.  Let passion be with passion.  Let words of passion be understood by passion.  Let the unspeakable speak to the unspeakable.  We have faith in this impossible thing.  O Lord, we are in love with this terrible philosophy.

 

As time goes on more ground is gathered under Reason.  It's our passion to go out and search and surround it and ride until it's broken and tame.  This is Heidegger's philosophy.  Heidegger is a cowboy in love with cowboys.  Aren't we all. But there are no cowboys left.  Only disco cowboys.  Pretty things done up in technological brilliance.  The cowboy has surrounded himself.  He is gathering himself into himself.  Then the Flash.  Reason itself is the irrational brilliance.  And the stillness.

 

 

 

187  Numbers are always separate from each other; there is no common boundary.  Eternally so.  A thing to contemplate.  A nothingness.  A stillness.  A Koan.  The beginning of everything. 

 

Power and Act belong to the individual, thus the lack of it in the universal.  In the universal is only passion and stillness.  No touching, only the pain of not touching.

 

 

The problem with real boys and with the whole world is that they are all so damn slow.  I love a hyper boy who is almost out of control.  I love a hyper philosophy that moves.  I love a God that is Pure Act.  The only way to get outside time is to go faster than it.  Then you are outside space.  It's a matter of degree.  Most philosophies just aren't fast enough.  It's a high energy thing.  Full of flashes and things to see out of the corner of your eye.  It's a heavenly thing that stays open all night.  And in the afternoon boys with their shirt off and their pants low sweep the floor and you probably right off your feet.  Love takes a lot out of you.  Maybe you won't be able to keep up.

 

Space and time and thought and love all become strange and mystical when the things themselves are thought about.  That's philosophy.  The Strange and the Mystical.  The wonder is that we can think about them in themselves.  The problem of philosophy is not to account for the everyday, but for this Unfamiliar.  There is obviously a god in there.  An irritating fascinating thing. 

 

In all this I assume the constant, all-seeing eye of God.  He is the attention I need.  Absolute.  I am lax about it, but only because I always appear indifferent toward really important things.  In its presence I just stop.  In that non-instant he gives me this gift. I am his beloved.  My love for him makes my body look like love.  I am languid.  Everything is suspended while he does it to me.  My being hangs on him.  I can't think otherwise.

 

 

 

188  Our ears are only with our hearing, they don't hear, they only transmit electrical impulses to the brain.  It is the mind that hears.  For a time it is the hearing.  And my brain is with my thinking, but it is only electrical feedback loops mirroring the self seeing the Self itself.  And when you playfully tease me and we go behind a door so we can put our arms around each other and I can unfasten your pants, then it is a moving spirit that is the color on your cheeks and the quickening of your excitement.  I am with moving things of the mind.  Your sigh is your desire, your longing, purely insubstantial, purely beautiful, with me perfectly.  In me.  Of me.  In my mind.  And in the Otherness of God you are real.

 

God made the body in the form of an irritation so teasing and playfulness would be possible.  We call it electricity.  It is grounded in the Other being against us.  It is touch.

 

 

I want a intelligent boy whose mind can move fast, who will run with me behind some door and fall into putting his ands all over me.  Whose mind can go all around things.  Who knows that this seeing is fun and daring.   Who can go through all of Being and non-Being with me.  I want an intellectual, sexual boy.

 

I tell a boy that if he wants to do love he must work it like an art. I tell him that the heart of it is the pain of your lover being bored with you and walking away.  I tell him to practice doing that.  And then that love comes awake when the beloved looks back as if to say, aren't you going to come and get me?  And to practice that.  In all this timing is essential.  It has a rhythm.  And each must know his cue and have the courage to respond.  Otherwise there is no love.

 

 

Metaphysics is itself an eternal form.  It cannot be demonstrated.  You cannot say, it is this relation here.  Or it is this piece of dialectic.  It escapes any demonstration you might come up with.  It cannot be particularized.  It is Separate.  It is a thing in itself.  Hidden in itself.

 

 

 

189  There is no way to get beyond the paradox of philosophy.  There is no critical edge that will keep us from falling over.  And conquering it by submitting to it is just wrong.  And there is no way of living with it. Even God can't make the conditions right for that.  Our only hope is in the Son and his beautiful eyes.  He will light up the night for us.  He will descend into this Hell for us with his Glory.  We await Glory.  We await Him.  He knows that those who go after the aesthetic things of life like him are lost.

 

What is so comic as an ordinary schoolteacher who thinks he has a god's thoughts.  What is so full of feeling as knowing that we live in a universe where scholars really do have a god's thoughts.  We are held by a strangeness.

 

He gives me gifts, but I don't feel loved.  I know I am a threat because I make the beloved love the end of love.  It is Self that is unspeakable, thus masturbation.  I am one of the electronic boys.  Cybernetic, electronic feedback.  Loops.  Echoes.  The depth of infinite repetition.  I am the Beyond.  That is, I have found existential quantification.  I have created myself.  I am always the new.  Always not this, but that over there.  You can't see me.  Something is not there.  He can't make up his mind.  Don't give him your body; give him your passion.  The everyday, nothing different at all.  Just playing my records.  I see the path of power.  It is the same as I.  We go in the Circle.  We are restrained.  I am the outcome of all this logic.  The Logos.  He hurts me a lot, but he's irresistibly lovable.  So self-centered as is all beauty.  Why won't he love me?

 

The beginning of a thing before it comes to lie within an area or a moment or an awareness, is the thing lost within itself, unseen, unknown, with itself.  Too close to itself for division, yet.  The thing in itself, the Self itself.  The goal and the end of  space and time and thought.  The Real beyond.  The Platonic Forms separate and independent of you.  Your real being beyond. You.  The thing you are afraid of.

 

 

 

190  The troubles we have in our philosophies with everything twisted and turning back into itself are like our night dreams that have no dreamer.  We have lost our selves.  An aweful terribleness is all that remains.  Our Mother's hair.  The universal dialectically turns into matter.  Its separation becomes its unity with matter.  No matter how we try to escape from that disgusting thing called matter we always get back to it.  That's all there is to our attempt to do philosophy to escape from it.  Materialism is the most sickening thing there is.  Its lovers are the enemies of philosophy.  Somehow we are going to have to learn how to make things straight and rise up.  The daytime must win out over the night.  The nightmare must end.  We must get our selves back.

 

The sensual rush of love feelings for the naked body of a boy is the same feeling as the love of the God-flesh.  I walk into a church and it is there at the same time as he rides by outside on a bicycle.  I kneel forward and let it flood over me.  A feeling coming back to me from my adolescence.  In it I stand in understanding.  And in eternity.  I remember I used to drive fast in my car, have loud fast music on and fly into it.  So religious.  So sexual.

 

 

The climax of sex is its immanent end.  The fullness of Being is the presence of absence.  The particular goes.  The separate Form appears.  It's impossible to hang on to.  Faith is needed.

 

All the problems of self-reference are the problem of the separate form.  There's nothing there.  It's the thing that was before existence.

 

The universal descends into a spatial area.  But we are about to overcome space.  It will be gone.  It's a matter of belief.

 

 

 

191  I can't join today's religions; they are all so in love with the Goddess.  They follow a Jesus who has a law that says, be true to the Woman.  It's the new law.  They think that Jesus came to establish marriage.  Their Jesus saves us through the repose of the womb.  It's a sick religion.  It's the revenge of Hades.

 

O Jesus, reveal your true self to me.  I will be true to you, only you.  You are salvation yourself.  I eat you.  I drink you.  I consume you.  Please consume me.  Let us be lovers.

 

 

The Woman is nightmare to me.  The boy going to her call is going into Hell.  I cannot save him; that is the nightmare.  She is Aphrodite, who lives in the mud and slime of the underworld.  She is Death.  She will try to kill me because I have written this.  O Jesus, preserve me.  O Jesus, you are my lover.  O Jesus, be in the form of every boy.  O Jesus, I am in love with them.

 

The boy is cruel.  He is a demon.  He is righteously indignant against any man who might be his lover, because he is his lover, an act against God.  He will stop at no meanness.  He will give himself totally, beautifully to the man then leave him because, he says, he only likes women.  He calls the man a creature from Hell.  He says only the woman is holy.  And yet I, his lover, can see in him the form of God Himself.  He is angelic.  His cruelty is an angel's cruelty.  As angels would naturally be.  I have seen him sweet and lovely beyond belief.  Perfection.  I have seen him cold and acrid to the place I don't know if I can live through it. Perfection.  This is the form of God.  Heaven and Hell.  They are the same.  God is one.  I live in the tension.

 

 

Dumuzi and Jesus were both shepherds.  Both had bread for their body.  Both were broken.  Both gave in to the Woman.  Jesus destroyed her.  I speak without poetry.  Both were beautiful.  Both have a melting glance.  Jesus loves Dumuzi.  He loved Dumuzi. He did it for him.  They were both alike.  He did what a boy's lover had to do.  Now they are the same together.  Jesus found a way to be his lover.

 

 

 

192  O Jesus, I too am a boy.  Look at me.  I have smooth white legs.  I am slender and shapely.  I have a bulge at my crotch.  My hair is soft and slides easily.  My mouth is large for kisses.  My chest is strong for the reclining of your head.  I am this as I pray to you.  Take me this way.  I am surprised that I am not historical.  I am not scared.  This is what is.  I am one with that.  I am doing it right.

 

The boy who likes sex is totally without a reservoir of repose.  His hips are moving and he's unbuttoning his pants.  Everything is on the surface.  He is known totally.  He is scary because there's nothing inside to get to know.  He has no being.  He is a black hole in our universe in which the First Things shine too brightly.  He has nothing but sex on his mind, wanting it to appear.  The constant, beautiful tension.

 

The femininity of a boy is not that of a woman.  He has no womb.  He doesn't create.  His prettiness is without depth.  He is outward, moving along the surface.  He is the beauty of Being, not of becoming.  He is without time.  He is analysis, not synthesis.  Things are not within each other, but things are the same through one thing being in many places.  The looming emptiness within him is that of no inside at all.  He is sexual, and likes to feel his own body, but it's there for the moment, then not at all.  He is constantly repeating the act, being himself only then.  The non-existence of self-identity is his.  The woman is the seriousness of this world.  He is the non-important fleeting through him.

 

Philosophy has always been taught to man by Sophia.  Wisdom.  Pure reason, away from matter.  She always insisted that her boys stay pure, stay away from the Bitch in the mire and the mud.  Her boys consort only with men.  Christ is truly hers.  He escaped.  He lives beyond the sensual. He lives in the well-formed.  Perfect interpenetration.  The intellectual.  The new thing in our history.  The end of time.  Civilization.  Our escape from the seductive soft dream.  The new man.  The new birth. How we overcame poetry.

 

 

 

193  The Boy of philosophy, the separate universal, the philosophy itself, in itself.  Swirling, pure movement.  Undemonstratable.  Not a real boy.  But the only Reality.  A boy away from the prison of matter.  A boy with other boys.  Still pure.  In the mind of Minerva.  A boy who has remained without.  In the empty, sterile, cold virgin.  Pure.  In the fierceness.  In pure outline.  In that kind of love.  Pure Thrill.  Around each other's chest and eyes.  In the heights.  Your earthly death.  The hard spiritual.  Totally not here. So like those boys here today who are the heirs of the Academy.

 

This is anti-poetry beyond the sensual and the symbolic to the real, as a lover would want.  Abstinence from the symbolic.  Not of the Self.  All the way to the Real.  The In-itself itself.  Masculine, not feminine.  It is Beauty itself in the mathematical and the logical eyes of looking.  It is the god with your mind.  It is pure poetry, the abstracted form of poetry, separated and made like a boy.  It is the Form against the image.  Beyond and escaped.

 

Philosophy has always been deception.  The philosopher really didn't have philosophy.  It had gone off to be with someone prettier than he, someone more worldly.  But the philosopher, as all lovers, talks about his love all the time, talking as though he were there, covering up his death because of the abandonment.  Wisdom is with the Sophists.  This thing that Socrates does is just twisting and turning.  The philosophy of the philosophers is just twisting and turning.  Death hangs inside them. That's what you are seeing and being attracted by.  Our fallen nature of desire for death.  The philosopher is just lust.  Philosophy is not with him.  The beautiful spirit he talks about isn't there.  St. Francis was speaking the truth; he didn't lie, when he said he was the worst of all men.

 

 

 

194  I cannot separate the spirituality of St. Francis and St. Teresa from the sexuality of boys looking for each other running through the hard part of Chicago.  It's an overpowering tender love.  I cannot separate the striking streak of orgasm from the stark, hard edges of logic.  The hardness of the body is the hardness of religion.  The everywhere, electrical form of technology is what creates the brilliant lights for dancing.  It is the silver wristbands of love.  Its tautology of self-reflection is the oneness of lovers.  Its stripped down bare form is the smooth emptiness of skin over the form of his body.  Always going in and out of itself.   It is all going nowhere, just following the inward movements of spirit.  It is simple trust in Him.

 

Everybody understands philosophy.  That's why it will always be a restless thing for humanity.  The appearing of a perfection should mean a gigantic climax to something, but everything goes on as usual, everybody seeing the perfection and not knowing what to do with it.  It's like perfection in outward bodily and facial beauty, it's easy to achieve.  A little make-up here and there and you've got it.  These other- worldly things just stand around in our everyday world, and we just have to work around them.  If only we had something great to work toward, but we've already got it.

 

It's not hard for me to write philosophy.  I can flip these little paragraphs off just by sitting down.  And I write a perfect philosophy.  Really the only thing I have left in life to work for is getting a pretty boy lover.  My fear is that that is too easy.  I make excuses by saying that I have to write my philosophy.  The gloom of life is that we have perfection and now there's nothing left to do.

 

I hate the idea of Jesus turning into a Jungian symbol.  He's my lover.  When a young boy at puberty falls in love with Him, he's not falling in love with a symbol.  Symbols are too full and sensuous.  The boy's desire is for the stark nothingness of night.  He just wants to cut apart this world.  And then to fall backwards.

 

Philosophy wants to tear this world apart and get rid of it.  It wants to burn up all this damned scholarship.

 

 

 

195  You try to deceive the ones you are with. You try to show that you are just trying to make up your mind.  That you're trying to figure out a new dance step.  You pretend that, along with everyone else, you are trying to understand life and find a good way to live it.  But it's deception.  You already know what you want to know, but you think it wouldn't be considerate to others to show what it is.  On that point you're probably right, but nevertheless it comes across loud and clear that you're not doing what you want to be doing.  And I don't think anyone is going to ask you to be true to yourself, because, I think, everyone thinks it would be too much to handle.  At the same time the intensity you hide is darkly beautiful.  With that you have captured them, which is the deception of deception anyway.  There was never anything there.

 

Everyone falls in love with a dancer with his exaggerated look of love. His features are so sharp.  His eyelashes so dark.  His falling back is so much passion.  He is a work of art.  He is ideal.  He lives in stage light, in make-up, in cardboard sets.  The illusion, his unreality, makes him a god.  He is death. He lives on the other side. He is unreachable.

 

If you look closely at any of the things we dearly love, you will see it was all illusion.  The only thing that will be left is the name of the thing.  Our world is fleeting names.

 

But for a moment we saw something.  And it didn't have the character of a dream.  It seemed to be Reality itself.  And now unreality seems everywhere.

 

The only thing to think is that Reality only comes to us in momentary visions. It appears as the unreal.  We fall in love with things that are mere flashes of light, without substance.  Our love is the heartbreak that is the knowledge that there is nothing there for us to have.  The dancing boy's heartbreak is that to him we who are his lovers are equally nothing.  There is no crossing over between Being and non-being.

 

 

I look at a picture of a boy from out of a movie. He is looking at me with pleasure eyes.  He is just ink and pieces of light, but I am in love.  He is the ideal.  He is a god.  The gods always appear to us as unreal.  That's probably how we appear to them.

 

 

 

196  The beautiful in art is that which makes it be more than just a representation.  It is the presence of the Real.  That thing that makes your imagination look weak is right there.  Freedom itself has appeared.  Or a dancer's seductive look.  Or movement made perfect.  It is the other world about to break through.  Philosophy is the same thing.  Pretty soon thought takes Form and begins to stand out there independent of you.  From a concept to a Form in the mind of God.  It's a magic step.  It's the heart of art and of philosophy.  That's why they both have to be rhythmical so they can move in self-contained circles.

 

Our struggle is with the concept of matter.  That is, the enchanting, sensuous boy can't be snared.  He is deceiving, he ensnares us.  We get lost in his tangled ideas.  He sees the gods, but he has everything all mixed up.  He knows we aren't them.  He thinks maybe he is.

 

 

When I read Platonic words about escaping the material world I see an eternal boy who has become pure logic.  I know what logic is.  I know its play with paradox.  I know its strangeness.  The boy is smoothness.  In logic everything is permitted.  Everything is escape.

 

 

I write short, essential thing.  That's my Platonism.  It keeps things moving and free.  I escape the heaviness of matter.

 

 

 

197  To forever sing praises before the Godhead, to have the being of an immobile Intelligible, to feel the tedium of love, to know that all boys are the same boy is philosophy.  It is to feel the ugliness of the insoluble dialectic of the one and the many.  It is to be dragged about by Aristotle's stuffy idea of potentiality.  It is to know the joylessness of the logic of analogy.  It is to hate the word 'synthesis'.  It is to know that you are never going to find any use for the Eternal Forms.  Even all the polemics are boring.  And boys and lovers are dumb.  And then to feel the mystical beauty of it all being like that.

 

O Blessed, lovely, wonderful adorable God, I am your lover.  I am down before you.  See me, I am saying the words of love.  They are words you have made me say.  I love being your slave.  Or when I lie out naked on my bed, I feel myself immersed in your presence.  I feel love go all through me.

 

Fortune, whether good or bad, is just stuffiness.  It is Matter.  It is the thing most present to us.  It is what we are as we stand naked before God.  It's what makes it so hard for Him to look at us.  God loves us, but he's bored.  Can you understand why?  Haven't you ever loved someone and felt the same boredom?  A lover doesn't care about this or that.  He wants beyond both those.  He wants the mind of his lover just in itself.

 

 

 

198  If you try to find out what he's thinking, you won't find anything.  He's not a person as others are.  I mean, there's no person there.  That may be startling to you.  But not all boys are the same.  He exists to be filled by other boys.  Or men.  He is aware of them.  That's what he is. Only for others.  When he dances he's trying to take you in.  You overcome him.  He is your person.  That is, your person has become him.  Of himself he was nothing.  Now he has fallen in love with you.  The swinging of his hips and his singing to you made you desire him.  You fell for that emptiness that he is.  Now in him, with him, you are taken by that thing he can't get rid of.  You are one with his deception.  You are in his thrill.  His tongue is ready to go into you.  He seems to have succeeded.  His eyes are no longer pretty.  Maybe they were only there to look.  But that nothingness, himself, is all you want.  And your hips have begun to move.  He has offered you Love itself.  He shows you what love it, but he will be somewhere else soon.  He is one of those boys.  Later he will appear so normal, asking you what's wrong.

 

 

His friends see him as having something on his mind, but they can't tell what.  He seems to be trying to balance something so it will remain still.  Nothing happens until he's got it under control. At least for a while.  He comes on.  He is precise.  Every movement has a beginning and an end.  He's holding some power within a boundary.  When he looks at you it's intentional.  His eyes are almost hid behind his hair. It's always the same.  He has sacrificed everything to that one thing.  And it's almost undoing him.   He wants that.  No he doesn't.   He will go on.  Now is the time to just go on.  It can't be stopped.  He will overcome it by pretending it's just a show.  He will be a performer.  But when you watch him you don't know if his show is real or not.  There's something not normal about his form.  It's not mere decoration.  Somehow it describes that thing you've been trying to see inside him.  His dancing comes from something that isn't dancing. He's fighting to hold it all in place.

 

 

He knows art instinctively.  He is art, that ancient religion.  He will perform for you and look at you, but inwardly he is going back, you can just sense his spirit is somewhere else.  It is seeing something you don't see. He's being taken.  Some god is putting his arms around him.  He's about to go unconscious.  He's pulling you along.  You will be with him in that place.

 

 

 

199  All dancers follow Nijinsky.  He was true to what dance is.  He knew the strophe.  He knew the circular movement back to the beginning.  He knew he was only half human.  He knew he was also half goat, the part of him that took him back to the things he saw before he was born.  He was a Satyr.  Inwardly he was going round and round his dying self, his abandon.  Back to the things at the power and the origin.

 

 

Art is death.  It is the form, pure form.  It is correct.  It is perfect.  It is love- making that is too exact.  No human being can do that.  No human being would want to do that.   It's of another world outside this one.  To get there you would have to be carried away from here.  Some god would have to come and take you.  You would have to be willing to be nothing here.  You would appear dead here.  People would put you up on a pedestal and look at you as they look at all the gods.  They would be amazed.  They would know that you had reached the end; you were no longer a person.  You had become a thing, a mere thing, something no human being can do.  You were now perfect.  You had gone beyond.  Now you were a piece of art.

 

 

No real dancer ever wants to be a dancer.  He hates making those movements.  He may be good.  Everyone may think it's beautiful that he can make it all look so easy.  But he's after something else.  While he's dancing his eyes are looking for something he's waiting for.  Soon it will be right there.  It will come because he has been faithful to it.  He will see that thing he has seen many times before.  Now he doesn't have to dance any more.  He has seen something that has always existed.  He is it.  He is in love with it.  His movements now may look the same, but people now will not say that he makes it look easy.  They won't say anything.  It seems that now he isn't dancing.  Something is dancing through him.  He is merely being taken by it. By Him.  The people will be either embarrassed or afraid.  He has become Dance itself.  Something strange has happened.  They will say he is immoral or insane.

 

 

 

200  I see no point in accusing me of having a twisted mind.  Of course I do.  I am a child of Adam.  Only by the mysterious workings of Grace do I write the truth.  It moves around between the words doing something.  It's a rummaging and a murmuring.  It accents the twistedness.  It makes me know how close I am to Hell.  It grabs a hold of me and scares me.  I go on.  The truth is that God is out there, unseen by me.  The truth is that I am a pimple; and He is its rosy shine.

 

If truth is explained to you and you do not see it, it is your own fault.  Truth itself will help you to see truth. But you refuse.  Your lack of understanding is not because of your small brain; Intellect itself shines brightly everywhere.  It's because you have eyes and won't see.  You have ears and won't hear.  You don't want to be lifted up by God.  You are a mean little thing.  As I am.  God, forgive this in us.

 

 

 

201  We don't now speak of God coming to us through hierarchies of spherical intelligences.  Which is not to say we shouldn't.  Our past is only just out of sight. It will break through and be right there again.  Metaphysics is one.  It's never really present.  (It wasn't in the past.)  And it's never really gone.  Certainly we will discover that in all our changings we have moved nowhere.  This is utopia.  It's nowhere.  Where could we possibly move to?  So I will think of my world.  I see it as round.  I'm not speaking of the earth but of the way I see things.  My world is me.  It is of me.  I don't say it's the only world, but for me it is.  I am a closed monad.  I am an existential sphere.  There is nothing other than me.  But I have yet to see what's within me.  There's something there that is not me.  I am the old system of hierarchies inverted.  The outermost rim has become the innermost intensity.  Energia.

 

I feel my arm.  Without looking at it, I know its softness and roundness.  Without anyone knowing what I'm doing, on the back of my fingers, under my shirtsleeve I am seeing that I could be intimate with a lover.  Now your mind has been turned.  You go from one image to another.  Different images.  One thing.  A transcendent thing.  I have put you into the pure form.  You have slipped away.  Now you look down. 

 

You shouldn't think you read philosophy in order to learn it.  You will have to know it already in order for what you read to make any sense at all.  I write for other philosophers.  Not for poets or mathematicians or housewives.  But as with trying to guess who is the elect so with trying to guess who is a philosopher, or also a philosopher.  Reading will only let you know that there are others out there who also think, even though they may not be able to measure up to the sublimity of your thoughts.

 

 

 

202  So what is the ontological status of an illusion?  Philosophically they seem to be a mixture of being and non-being.  That is, they are mind-dependent things that appear to be mind-independent.  They are pieces of the mind that have separated off and now are with similar things out there.  The non-self has come inside the self.  The distance between the mind and the world has come into the mind.  It's like sin which has come into the pure Goodness of God.  They are an invasion from outside. Illusion doesn't belong to the pure identity of philosophy.  It has come from the world of facts.  It therefore has no ontological status at all.  They are things that have invaded our leisurely school from outside.  From the streets.  They are the frustration.  Even error.  The thing that shows the philosopher that he hasn't written anything wonderful.  That he is just a crying boy.  The illusion of ontology itself a defense against the embarrassment of love.

 

I am tired of trying to please the boring and the drunk.  They are oh so civilized and proper.  They are only interesting when they go home and throw up, and they look down and realize the presence of God.  A moment of truth when they fall apart.  That's the moment I want to write about.  Sweet, sickeningly sweet Truth.  They have their hair in the right place, and the colors of their clothes match, and they're hoping someone will take them home and fuck the hell out of them.  They want out.  Who can blame them.   Who doesn't?  Break it.  Admit your body stinks and you hate it.  Show what your niceness is covering up.  Don't tell lies in a drunken sleep.

 

 

 

203  Sex is after all nothing but geometry.  That doesn't reduce sex but places it high in the Intellectual Spheres.  Sex and geometry are one.  It is light and presence as only the understanding can have.  That is to say nothing is hidden.  There is no inside.  Everything is out.  Such things are in your mind.  The place of real things.

 

 

The eternal Forms are separate from this world as the Real is separate from the unreal.  But there's only one way to understand this silly notion of the unreality of this world.  Only in the passion of love are we allowed to assert such things.  A calm professorial tone is just comedy.

 

 

From the beginning philosophy has been about boys and poetry has been about girls.  The first is abstract; the second is concrete.  Extreme philosophy is Platonism, and where that has flourished boy love has abounded.  It is reason and optimism.  Sometimes it is metrical and rhymed and looks like poetry, but then it's called philosophical poetry, and the poets who sing praises to their goddess don't claim it.  But demonstration won't prove anything here.  You must learn to discern spirits.

 

 

 

204  I am the beloved.  I am pushed.  I am forced open.  I am held.  And I am turned.  I am brought to a place that is high.  He does it to me.  He makes me feel ashamed of the way I have been cramped inward.  He proves my dialectic to be just resentment.  He doesn't love me.  He makes me feel the spirit of Identity.  I suffer.  I almost cry because I like his force.  I have wanted it all along.  I hate him for afterward ignoring me.  I again want the delicate beauty of my dialectic.  We two are in conflict.  I love him; I prove him wrong.  He is beautiful, but beauty is evil.  I am the beloved.  I want to be the beautiful boy.  He pushes me because I oppose him.  I love his touch.  I will fight the way he humiliates me.  I will make him see I am the beloved.  Identity and dialectic with each other. 

 

How can we possibly call the lack of resolution God?  Shouldn't God be eternal rest instead of eternal tension?  I could say tension and rest are identical, but you know that would be cheating.  Just as it is to say tension and rest are opposites.  So I cannot say God is the irresolution.  He is also the resolution.  This is the image of Plato's Parmenides.  It begs the mouth to close.  But that's been tried.  So I will now do the opposite and fight that begging temptation.  I will go on and on in a swirl of words.  A different kind of positivism.  I will dance fast.  Like a dervish.  Sickeningly sweet love.  I will say nothing by saying much.  Too much.  Agan.  Agape.  Smooth.

 

Isn't it strange that the world has reviled and rejected Hegel but praised and loved Kierkegaard.  O what is the world?  It is not itself.

 

On the smooth face of the boy beneath his soft hair I see the gentleness of abstract thought.  Moving so easily.  Comprehending the end of all things as the Cherubim do, as he is.  Suffering is gone. I hold him and my hand moves so easily over him.  He is rest in accepting it.  All of intellectual history flows in oneness.

 

 

 

205  Much too much the other boys are far and away too slow for him.  He walks his boyfriend home from school excited about the possibilities.  Too excited.  His walk is crazy.  He almost runs.  This is the realm of life.  Becoming an urgency that will surely bring him down.  O have pity on him.  He's gong to crash.  By himself at home at night in bed he's already had times of coming down a bit too hard.  And yet in the meantime he's going to laugh and he's going to put his arms around his boyfriend's legs, and his face is going to be where a smell is going to turn his mind around.  O the dialectic.  He becomes inside out.  Sweet twisting.  Later he will deal with being all twisted. O Jesus, this is what we are; what you have seen fit for us.  Here is one of your elect.  I have found him.  I will teach him to write.  I will show him the place of motion.  Philosophy.

 

Castor and Pollux were the archetype of friends.  Alternately changing places between life and death out of love for each other.  There is no place where they can both be.  They are one.  Philos.

 

Dialectics solves the problem of either/or by separating the thing from both.  A Form is neither one nor many.  It is separate from both and can participate in either.  Color is neither in the mind nor in the world, but may be tied to either.  All the forms are separate then tied into combinations.  The first task of the philosopher is to cut things off the tangles of his confusion until he gets to the simplest.  The last task is to sit and adore what he has found.

 

 

 

206  To see a thing of the world, such as love or boy or seeing, as a thing that is God you must see it in its absolute form.  Then it becomes the negation of the worldly thing.  It becomes a terrible thing.  And so we describe terrible things, hurting things and see the negation of that.  It's a rush and a leaping toward the infinite, but even that word fails.  Yet I do see God.  That's the heart of my philosophy.

 

The eternal truths of geometry prove the existence of God because they are a union of logic and the material world.  Right there in empty, pure logic.  The more a present thing has that simplicity and clarity and distinctness the more beautiful it is, the more divine.  Right there in the curve of his leg.  God is the empty appearance of logic.  A thing so beautifully there it seems not there.  Being disappearing into non-being.  The One.

 

I wonder if the boy with slim hips and a smooth stomach can feel how his form slips though the air.  It's such a little thing.  No more than a few lines of geometry.  And yet in the eternal truth of that discipline is the being of the logos.  The corner of his eye is an angle drawn on a sphere.  I wonder who drew it.  It contains the look of awareness.  The boy is those two lines.  This is my realism.  Right there is Being.  The completeness of it.  I wonder if the boy can feel the God he is.

 

To love a boy absolutely is to lead him to his abandonment of the senses, of the world. It is to place him inside a heavenly love.  It is to make him go inward and feel the division in tension.  He lives in the either/or.  He wants eternity.  He is Time.  He is beyond his senses.  But not at his destination.  To love a boy absolutely is to teach him philosophy.  To show him the God surrounding him.  To tell him he is absolute Beauty.  To make him a god.

 

A man is due honor for his likeness to God, for his Reason.

 

Only a god would be able to live the kind of life we do, full of death and age, and be able to accept it.

 

 

 

207  As with any craft executed in the service of God, philosophy has to follow techniques.  There are classical moves and modern.  And every gesture has to be refined.  The philosopher is trapped in tradition.  He must want to be bound.  It's all been thought out before.  And practice is essential.  Years of rehearsal.  And as with any art it all must rest on the promptings of the heart.  In this case the heart of God because that's what we're talking about.  His heart and that of his beloved philosopher, who must let go, follow him, and remember what he's learned.

 

The beauty of the Forms is that they are One.  The beauty of the philosophical boy is that he wills one thing.  He wants his lover now.  He wants to become him.  No generation, just being.  No distraction, just to the point.  Right now.  His desire is complete.  It is the only thing there is.  He wants you.  Can you handle it?

 

Oh Boy, I love you.

 

I've read so much.  I've read a lot.  I've read enough.  It's so pleasurable.  I want to give you pleasure.  The pleasure of a perfect love.  I go all the way and show you what perfection is.  I've read all about it.  I've felt it.  It will come through me to you.  See how I am all men.  I will give you everything.  I have seen it.  I've never been to Argentina, but I've seen everything.  I don't deal in imperfection.  I will give you everything.  If you want less you must go to someone else.

 

I have tried to do philosophy.  I can think of nothing else.  When I hold and kiss a boy, it is in the back of my mind as an unseen thing calling me.  I am rejected by the world.  I hate its sensualism. I can't get into it and get sick as it does.  I long for the clear crystalline spheres of pure thought.  I want to swim in simple water, holy water.  I want the sharp atmosphere of angels.  I am stuck here.  My disgust is apparent.  I hate the world.  It hates me in return.  Jesus, help me.  I must survive here somehow.

 

Maybe if I display my dying before the world, it will put me upon a pedestal and worship me.  It likes its dying saints.  It makes money off their misery.

 

 

 

208  The fallenness of the world is that it now sees itself directly.  In the divine mind, in that place where there are no opposites, each thing is what it is.  From this upright position the world now sees everything through the other.  O World, you have made beauty my lack of it.  And you have made love be jealousy.  O Heaven, separate these things.  Make me know the stillness of your analysis.  Give me simplicity.  Make your spirit finally pierce all the way through.

 

The tension of Platonism, of trying to hold the Form and its this-here image apart, always leads it into a crying prayer.

 

 

There is no cause for this.  It is sheer collusion. It's an attempt to avoid the thing coming at us.  Nothing will be in our way.  I believe in transcendence, but now you are here, and we will practice immanence.  We will be within the hierarchies of emanation.  We will remember the thing before creation.  The lowest will be the highest.  Existence, only existence.  The very humorous.  We will live as sin.  We will be the hidden mystery of religion.  We will know what all the saints knew.  Becoming accursed like our lord.  Playing the pipes and dancing.   Only in ourselves.  In the Self.  Sheer play.  Each in the other.  Of the beginning, without beginning.

 

There's no excuse for the way he looks at people.  And he keeps going here and there.  He keeps trying to remember what that first thought was that got him originally so worked up.  And he thinks he sees something in the way that other boy wears his hat.  He'll look at him and then he'll be looking across the room.  It will get you real confused if you're around him.  And then he'll go over there.

 

 

 

209  I have not renounced the world.  I am ugly and the world has renounced me.  I would let the world take me if it wanted me.  My religious asceticism is forced on me. I take it as second best.  I am religious but against my will.  I have been forced to take something better than the world, but I long for the second best.  My religion is false.  The laughable thing is that I try to make the world see the beauty of my religion and thus love me, to make them realize my ugliness is super-beauty.  But the world won't.  I don't think it will.  The idea that it might keeps me going.  Maybe everything is God.  A disgusting idea.

 

Only in literature is the miserable translated into glory. Only in art.  Art is religious conversion.  It is a going to a place apart where contemplation exists, or is away from existence.  Where the One is beyond Being, or with Being away from any time.  Only in literature.  In the mean time we must exist as not artists.  Our misery must remain miserable.  Then time becomes our friend and comes to separate us from the unhappy moment and gives us distance from which peaceably to look back.  Then we can idealize it and we become artists.  Time is from a time.  Time itself becomes glorious Time.

 

 

 

210  All philosophy, when its truths are carried to the end is in a terrible place for the human spirit.  It arrives in God far from the world of common things.  Its beginning seems easy; its end is hard. It cannot be maintained.  God isn't commensurable with man.

 

For me to write, I have to see myself as a slightly devious genius manipulating someone's love.  I drive him into the pain of the contradiction of love.  I watch it.  I drink it in.  I savor it.  I fear it.  I feel ashamed that I could lead anyone to such a state.  I surround myself with love, the greatest suffering.  The one thing that is insignificant.  The absolute nothing.  Around me my boy knows the heights and the fall.  I bring it on for him.  He has reason to hate me.  I think he knows I have him at the center of things.

 

I really don't approach a boy physically.  The body is a shameful thing.  Somehow I get that across to him.  That makes all his love more poignant. It places a secret worry in his mind.  It makes him cry.  Nothing is more beautiful than a crying boy.  It makes me fear that maybe I have gone too far.  I live in these extremes.  Philosophy itself may be sin; it may be the only sin there ever has been.  Sin is of this intellectual thing.  It is our closeness to God.  Our standing before Him.  Too much.

 

All this thinking is just my leisure.  It is a beautiful boy.  We are a school.  We are reclining naked on the ground.  We are the only ones who truly possess.  We are the end of work.

 

If you think about Christianity very much it doesn't make any sense.  It seems terrible.  The whole thing seems worse than evil.  Only the sentimental and the unintelligent can accept it.  They understand the pain and awfulness of life.  They sing songs about it all the time.  I sometimes try to be like them, but it's seldom, and I really can't.  I try to make love to one of them, and I can't.  Christianity is destroying me.  It won't accept me.

 

Logic is absolute.  It has no middle ground between is and isn't.

 

 

 

211  We have all come to see sex as a sign of the reasonable, free man.  We even see it as a picture of those things.  I do.  That masculine sensuality is as comforting as reason.

 

Only a passionate spirit could equate God with philosophical proof. Only a dreadful lover could say he sees God.  The theism of Pan is panic.  Reason itself is God, but Reason is a seductive boy. Can you mind contain that?

 

It is possible to see the light of God with your eyes.  It is glaring and looks like a fluorescent light in an adult bookstore.  Only your mind can comprehend that.  Protestants have rejected the Pope because the Vicar of God is an idolater, an accursed thing.  

 

The union of God and the flesh is essential, not accidental.

 

I understand God too much.  There is no part of him I do not understand.  He doesn't afford me the comfort of soft, impenetrable matter.  He has no unseen inside.  He is totally outside.  He is a hard thing, cutting, sharp.  Too much.  I can't stand the light.

 

Philosophy is a daring act.  It's our own idolatry. It's nothing but our reversion to the ancient worship of the Queen of Hades.  God help us.  It's what we are.  Jesus, you who existed as we do and were accursed as we are and who won, free us from her, change our words into your body.  Be our close lover.  Our sacrifice.  And we will go away with you.

 

There's nothing wrong with thinking that birds speak the truth from God.  Everything does that.  They say we must rise above the concern for earthly things and place our trust in Him.  There's nothing wrong in seeing the truth of God in the look of a boy.  He says that beyond all the worrying and twisting of his desires there is a serene lover lord.

 

 

 

212  I speak of God, knowing I will someday despair of saying the word.  Even now it seems kind of boring to me. I want to speak of a god away from the seat of universal government.  I want a grove and a shapely arm.  I want a pagan thing.  But it isn't pagan.  He is a god who has given up his goodness and is for me.  How can I think that?  I will write strange things.

 

So do I start with God and work my way to the world, or do I start with the world and work my way to God?    Do I start with the simplest or the most complex?  Do I start with gods or boys?  I know, I won't work my way anywhere.  I won't do philosophy.  I will be philosophy.  Everything is here right now.  I will end with my beginning.  I am not making a public declaration.  I am making an immediate response to a touch.  I am in an eternal moment.

 

Once I felt bad about going up by myself.  I said, if I can't take someone with me I don't want to go.  Now I don't feel so bad about it.  Let it happen.

 

The lot of a boy who has submitted to learn philosophy is to adore philosophy.

 

The lure of the senses is that they seem to be a part of us.  We go toward ourselves, but are we truly there?  Aren't we somewhere else?  Isn't something closer to us still?  I wonder about that.  I wonder and wonder and figure and think.

 

Why do I spend my time imagining sexual things?  Am I not just trapped in an evil habit?  I have tried to show that it is really, through dialectical twisting, an image of God.  Am I not among the most foolish?  I think of Jesus calling himself God and then wondering about that.  You see what I am about to do?  I can't get over my dialectical habit.  Maybe another bad habit.  Maybe the worst.

 

The people of Athens thought they saw the God directly.  Socrates showed them they saw nothing.

 

To be Stoic is to never spend time laying blame either on God or man.

 

 

 

213  For our race, because of the act of Adam, the noblest is he who knows good from evil.

 

The God who administers the world appears to not be there because the forms of his intelligence are identical with the being of the things we see.

 

It is right that we eat and laugh while others suffer because the human being should be above the misfortune that momentarily occurs to him.

 

I have a desire to visit the Northern shores of Africa and see the Arab boys lying and working in the sun.  I saw one once when he was riding a train in France.  He looked solid. He could push up against me. He would have no compunction.  I want to take my intellectual friends, my street boys, and walk with them through that place.  I think we would all be thrilled.

 

My task is to show, in our time, that philosophy can be beautiful.  I have pretty sentences.  We will talk about the degeneracy of the flesh and of boys. 

 

The effeminate boy at least knows who his master in love is.  He doesn't mistake his weakness for strength. He will bow to the lover who is his being.  Before God we are all effeminate, we mustn't mistake that.  But we are before God and thus have beauty.  Great beauty.

 

One thing is what I want.  I want him now.  I want all time to be now.  I want my rhythms to stop.  I'm going round and round in one place.  I want it to be everywhere.  I'm afraid.  Take hold of me now and force me to stop.  Make it be.

 

I am reeling in the thought that this thing has become flesh for me.  I take it for my own.  We share the reeling and confusion.  He has become a thing laid aside as I am.  Now he too tries to do philosophy. Like me he is wondering if maybe what we're doing isn't sin.  We know it is.  We will sin together.

 

 

 

214  Between the universal and the particular, between the mind and what it's thinking about, between a set and its members there is at once a connection and a chasm.  Or I could say there is a tie that is no thing.  There is presence and absence.

 

Energy is the great act of holding together the things that contradict each other.  The Energy of God is that Pure Act that holds together things that absolutely contradict each other.  The Divine Mind is the unity of universal and particular.  Our mind puts a moment of oblivion between them as it tries to think them.  In pure Being the universal and particular lie together in perfect accord.  Here there is some non-being between them.  Logic mirrors the perfect world.  We live somewhere else.  Our logic is ideal; it is the logos; it keeps the philosopher who contemplates it pure, purer than his fallen nature desires.

 

The world of pure things is separate from here, but it is separate from something that never was real anyway, so there really is no separation and there's only God.

 

The problem of time, of its ontological contradictoriness, won't be solved by the appearing of something formerly hidden to our minds but by the disappearance of something we now see.  Our logic is for a world of perfection.  Time is of the imperfect.

 

A place away from here. Separation to overcome the separation.  One thing sufficient in itself. He is the god we long for.  Sometimes with his look of ambiguity he stands across the street just looking at you.  This whole thing is very unsettling.  See how I say one thing then another.  My genius moves me.  I am inside something strange.

 

 

 

215  I am talking about precise things, empty of content, never pregnant, the eunuch with his own kind.  No individuality, no personality.  A mask.  Strange.  Dead.  But the image of the Other.  The Holy.  Into the place of no being.  The Godhead.  Only that.  No world.

 

I am talking about bondage.  Predestination.  The purely passive.  Sensual.  Free to do it.  To do it.  Take me and destroy me.

 

Take my being away so I can be you.  Take my life away so I will never die.

 

I am neither material nor rational.  I am the tension between.  Between opposites there is nothing at all.  There is no union.  That nothingness is what God is.  That's why we don't see him.  He is pure passion.

 

Any good philosopher knows that union is otherness.  That union with another is the same as going into one's self.

 

 

 

216  Philosophy, I am reaching out to you.  I can figure and figure and try to put all of ontology together, but if you are not there it's just a bunch of flopping in my spirit.  I want to feel you burning and tearing inside me.  I want you to put a pure limit to my words.  A magic point that opens up into real thought.  Take away the division between my words.  Give me unity without extension.  Give me pure identity.  I am reaching out to you.  I have been reduced to pure otherness.  Match purity to purity.

 

O Lord, take me out of the community of men. I already feel that I don't belong.  Make my words strange with your holiness. Make me strange and rejected.  I will be disgusted by men's beauty.  I will be their ugliness.  I will have everything shoved up together.  Make your gentleness and simplicity a sword for me to cut them to pieces.

 

I merely practice analysis and the dialectics.  An ancient art.  Where everything  is in itself.  And burning.  And left ashes.

 

I have a unity that is too close.  Otherness has become a thing in itself inside everything.

 

The world is gentle slow time.  Everything pulled apart.  With the other. 

 

Holiness is a terrible all at once.  No extension.

 

I am away from all individuation.  Tight bonds.  Necessity.

 

Nowhere.  It never was.  I'm just here sitting with you.

 

 

 

217  The soft light of morning and evening.  As it is in itself away from all the other things of the earth.  Out away from the earth.  Fresh as it always has been.  Something divine.  A god.  It always has been.  It never was.  The Simple.  At the place where eternity begins.  Just off this revolving rock.  Away from the circling.  Just looking at it.  Even far removed from all the galaxies.  There where space has ceased to be.

 

God lures the mind with thoughts of Him and colored lights.  In a place where work has no value.

 

Philosophy cannot be philosophically defined.  It is a god.

 

It is a terrible thing to see the border between things disappear.  It is eating.

 

I am away from the world of spatial extension.  I am a tighter unity being pushed even tighter by something not in time.

 

 

 

218  If you tell me that God doesn't exist.  I don't care.  That he's only a piece of idea put out there for me to talk to. Or better yet, that he's only a symbol we've put in books.  I get excited.  That his existence is no more than a paper cut-out.  I am thrilled, because that's how I too see him.  The ideal is for us nothing but paper cut-outs.  What a lovely way for flesh and blood to see him.  It seems appropriate to its nature.

 

Genet cut out pictures of his lovers and hung them on his prison wall.  He described the ways of love

 

 

This is a book you are reading.  The shape of my sentences is the shape of a boy's body.  A curve, a line and an area of movement.  There's no more here than what you see.  Just wondrous things.  What a marvelous way for God to appear.  What a marvelous thing for him to be.

 

If you don't understand that, you don't understand ontology.  God is just simple existence.

 

Can the harshness of paper fit into your eyes without cutting them?

 

 

 

219  Boys with bad dreams inside the wrath of God.  The Orgy.  Weakness and strength.  Soft skin and infinite pain.  Cry for them.  The immensity of his existence is too much.  Delicate boys with pink cheeks hustling on the streets of a big city, trying to stay alive.  The cold concrete will win.  Once the boy knew love, but that touch of God only makes his present condition worse.  In the end is something horrible.

 

It's a living thing.  Full of energy.  It's urgent.  The present won't stand.  Forever more.  Come along.  You must follow.  It will take you by the collar and force you to come.

 

Dear boy, your lover is a fearful thing.  You are about to be torn to pieces.  This is the Rape.  Or as Christians call it, the Rapture.  You are a mystic.  Now you know why others of the Vision have not wanted to talk about it.

 

But you will go back to this God.  You're in love.  The touch of His lips makes you come.  You're such a delicate thing.  Why is your kind always in love with fierce beauty?

 

When you see a rose in a philosophical vision you see the material rose as having lost its substance and in its place is the Mystical Rose.  The Universal Rose is right there.  This is the transubstantiation that a priest performs.  The material rose is destroyed in the holy fire.  The sacrifice.  Yet it's the High Priest Himself in us that performs this sacrifice.  And likewise it's just that one  Sacrifice that is in Him.  The vision is irresistible.  It leaves this world just floating on nothing, the ever inward dividing of number, changing into petals, changing into madness, changing into God.

 

 

 

220  Pale young intellectuals.  They can fix anything.  And their highest goal is to undo the fall. They have nothing else on their mind. They drop out of the university, and hang around it for years.  They are the university. They are the Academy that is now over 2300 years old.  Constantly working on their logic.  Their plaything that is changing the world.  The followers and priests of the god logos.  Merging with him.  Unable any longer to function in society.  Their flesh becoming translucent and logic itself.  They have bit by bit been drinking the poison of Socrates.  Dying with him.  A cult of intellect.  Escape from dull matter.

 

Boy mathematicians.  I am one.  I have gone all the way.  I have gone to mathematics itself.  I am like the others.  I am an outward mess, inwardly looking for precision, perfection.  I am in love with the light that appears when I work my way through an ontological problem.  I bring everything to the light so I can see it again.  The Beatific Vision.  And like all boy mathematicians I am looking for love.

 

My sentences are like the twistings and turnings through a maze trying to escape in the battle of angels and demons.  I am here living the real life of heaven and hell.  Always dealing with God.

 

I fall in love with an earth boy, and he doesn't understand me.  I have to work my way through my own sentences that I say to him.  I touch his smooth skin, and he thinks I want to buy fine clothes to put on it.  I want to teach him to fly, and he wants to ride in a nice car.  I can't have him.  We are worlds apart.

 

I will sit by myself in my room after midnight reading about the manipulation of arcane symbols.  They have flames all over them.   I am a fire worshipper.  A Lover.

 

 

 

221  The eternal boy has always been the symbol of the godhead. He is the one and the good.  That is, he is made out of those things.  He is the unchanging.  The pristine intellectual thing.  He is with the godhead.  He was put there so the godhead could exist.  Can't you just see him being thrown out there and then lying there and looking back at him.  A movement in God, by God, for God.

 

Symbols are not nothing.  They are the only existence God has.  They are the something of God.  Don't symbols just vibrate when you see them lying on nothing at all.  I love insubstantiality.  You are just like me.  You love it when everything falls apart.  It's the moment of high excitement.  It's enthusiasm.  Into the super-essential non-being of God.

 

A boy cutting down the hedge.  Leans his brown-haired head sideways.  He sees in his imagination another boy.  The real with the imaginary.  Neither one can cross over into the other's realm.  Lovers separated by an impossible gulf.  Each is as non-being, as death, to the other.  He knows when the hedge is cut down and he's dead everything will be all right.

 

Each of these little things I write is perfect.  I wait until they're done before I stop. I know what the end feels like.  A little sphere is created and it breaks off from me like drops of water from a faucet.  Of course you know that.  That's the old way of saying things.  And of course that is not to say that they may not be insignificant because in the philosophical heaven every little thing is brilliant.  It is simply reflecting the one.  Anything can do that.  God cares for his rag-tag boys and takes special pleasure in shining through them.  They may be momentarily confused though like right now I am because I'm too conscious of ending.  Reflection piles up.  I will just let this one dribble out.  You know I have no idea what an end feels like.  I know what Jesse's end feels like; it's soft and pink and smooth.  O God!

 

 

 

222  I can't really feel akin to those medieval saints who, by becoming on fire with the love of God, ceased to be tempted by the lust of the flesh.  I have always been on fire with the love of God.  And I've wanted to take another boy and fly in the spirit with him. I wanted to sink into that love with him.  I could see mystical things in his eyes.  I could see the sharp cutting of the Logos in the shape of his body.  But when I've tried to get to him I couldn't.  I can't.  They were trying to get away from the world.  I've been trying to get from philosophy to it.  I can't love.  What kind of Christianity do I need?

 

I live in an age when we've all become speculative philosophers.  I 'm among the farthest along.  The race of Adam is going to turn into pure intellect.  The longing of my love is the sign.  We are ceasing to exist.

 

I need a Christianity that can deal with an over abundance of spirituality.

 

 

There is a totally useless sex.  It doesn't lead to any generation.  It hates generation.  It isn't very sensuous.  It's about as sensuous as a coloring book.  It doesn't even work very well.  Nothing fits together.  It occurs in the theater in the back rows.  O honey, let my jack you off.  It happens when you come over to my place and we jump in the sack and I jack you off.  I take down your pants and then your underpants and I jack you off.  Little things we do to get back where we started from.  What're you looking at?  You want to jack me off?  Let me help you unfasten that.  We're just right here.  We're going nowhere.  This is it.

 

 

The Saints have all known that Christianity is worthless unless Christ is seen as lover.  Without that it's just a civil police force.  But there's a great aversion to physical sex in religion.  The Saints have all said that it's mystical sex.  Spiritual.  Ideal.  Not to be called sex at all.  But called consummation.  Which in English is sex if we avoid such evasions.  The point is that they wanted to draw a distinction between the Eternal Form and its material image.  There's nothing wrong with that, but I hope the Saint is better than I am at drawing that distinction.  When he prays and the flame of love goes through him doesn't he get at least the beginnings of an erection?  I know I do.  God, I like the whole thing.  I also wonder if I haven't gotten into a terrible heresy.  I go round and round with myself about it.  I am criminal and policeman.  I am saint.

 

 

 

223  I can't stand the way existence makes me suffer over love.  But I do like the way I can write it up so it's fun.  Suffering and fun dialectically mediated.

 

I don't have sex with boys.  I can't.  I live the impossibility of sex.  It's an Idea.  My suffering is that I live in the intellect and can't move into the material.  I can't outwardly display any passion.  I suffer the purely logical passion of otherness and identity.  I think about that.  I think.  I can't let myself get drunk and do it.  I live in the abstract.  The abstract is the concrete thing for me.  I am not like others.  The sex I write about and think about is just an intellectual thing.  I have never written nor thought anything about real material sex.  But after a while thought becomes a real thing.  That's the moment philosophy talks about God.  And the Boy.  Everything is so pure.  That's why I can't have sex with them. 

 

I can't figure out the forgetfulness that comes when I'm busy handling a material thing.  I'm lost in it.  I don't think about God and his Being.  I can't figure out being lost.  I can't figure out being without philosophy.  It's a surd.  I don't hear the voice of my lover.  The boy only makes sense when I see him in God.  He comes in a word to me.  I can't figure out forgetting about that.  I can't seem to forget for very long.  I wonder what goes on in other people's minds.  I honestly don't know.  Maybe we're all religious.  I'm sure others don't see it in me.  Maybe there is no forgetfulness, but only a momentary nap.  I can understand naps.  I can understand going back and forth between Being and non-being.  That's the whole realm of philosophy.  Absolute otherness.  Oblivion.  Lost in God.  But I still can't figure out the forgetfulness that comes with handling a material thing.

 

 

 

224  Mischievous intellect that was without beginning and goes to no end.  Anarchy.  No order.  By itself.  The Real in itself.  This thing is the end.  It was there at the beginning.  Free from everything else.  He is your god.  The thing your intellect aims at.  He is your intellect.  You are in love with him.

 

This is intentionality with itself.  Finality.  At last.  A mystical thing.  Beyond philosophizing.  To philosophy itself.  Himself.  An incorrigible boy who has not listened to any of your remonstrations.  Between himself and himself he has lost  of. Now he's just the one simple thing.  Right there.  Transcendental realism, a stupid philosophy.  A boring stupor.  The uneducable.  But he's there.

 

I have learned to think like this out on the prairie where the west wind has destroyed everything.  Where we run around in pick-up trucks, in the violence. Where we tried to be civilized, but have obviously become something else.  The apocalypse is at hand.  Within the transcendental unity there is no order.

 

All philosophers try to find an order to their ideas, to find a system, but they are looking for order itself, an unordered thing.  They are in anarchy.  They are using reason to look for an unreasonable thing.  They are outside their own system, in a place of street boys, a wild place.  Boys who are also looking for someone to guide them, boys who love their own wildness too much to accept him when he comes.  In a tense place.  Where the philosopher doesn't really want order, the ordinary, the stale and cold thing, but like the boy's fears he just might let himself accept it.  He wants unordered order itself.  Pray for him.

 

 

 

One fact gets lost inside another.  Its once sovereign independence is gone.  A mind becomes aware of it and it is caught up in the Act.  Independence remains, but in the end it's just the Real itself. The Nexus, like the One, is not numbered.  When we look at it, it is not an object.  It grounds the object, but is ungrounded.  It is nothing, resting on nothing.  It is not a thing.  It is thing itself.  Beyond.  Individuals appear and dissolve.  The Nexus is of Being, the Real among the perdition of objects.  Facts thrown into each other.  Where all the things leave off.

 

Everything shimmers.  Terrible things are about to happen.  The all-mighty is present.  Our Being.

 

 

 

225  The End of philosophy is the Real.  The Real is that which is parted against Love.  It is outside philosophy. It is thus philosophy itself.  It is outside Reason. It is unreason.  It is the object of love.  It is the well-formed end of reason. It is the Boy, so unacademic.  The End of philosophy.  Standing against philosophy.  Being.  Beyond the parentheses.  That thing in your way.  That thing making you sea-sick.  The thing you were trying to escape.  The god philosophy had thought it had disproved.  The World.

 

O God, I am in an old pagan matriarchy.  The Boy has become Her.  Your Image became not you.  He is in Hades.  Its Lord.  O God, this dialectic has become unbearable.  I end up an anti-platonic nominalist, a devotee of Mary.  I didn't say, let it be.  I did nothing.  Where have you led me?  Take me out of here.  Lift me up out of here.  Help me analyze the Real.  I should never have started on this path.  Do something.  Take care of me.  Everyone is watching.

 

I dance in the color of your cheek.  I fall into your arms.  I see what you see.  I am the apple of your eye.  I am you.

 

 

The Ideal, the far-removed from matter, is so strange that upon approaching it you find yourself in the grossest materialism.

 

I have become pure extension.  The Other.

 

This is the discomfort the Savior has given us to save us from comfort.  I cannot make my system work.

 

The Ideal, logic itself, that joyful, masculine, hard framework I can feel myself push up against.  That thing that keeps me from drowning in suffocating, liquid, feminine mysticism.  That pure, great thing.  That thing I need to keep me from her.

 

I will lie across His broad thighs.

 

 

 

226  Bondage boys are always taking their lovers aside and complaining that some of their problems aren't being properly taken care of.  They complain that they are made to appear that they aren't being properly loved.  They point out that others are seeing it, and that the situation is embarrassing.  The line of love from the lover to the beloved has been broken, order has been abandoned, everything is improper.  The beloved has lost his self.  He wants to get back to the security of the ordinary.  He wants to be, or he will let it be known that the lover doesn't exist in the social group.  He won't be the lover's visible half.

 

This is the order that grounds the hierarchy of society.  The greater takes care of the lesser.  The lesser receives his glory from the greater and shows himself as the vision of the greater.  This is the ordinary of the group.  The group is the ordinary.

 

The philosopher exists outside this in the place of ridicule.  Boys will make fun of him.  He hasn't given them security, a time of leisure in which to be beautiful.  This is how the philosopher's god treats him.

 

 

The philosopher is one who must live without any personal beauty or remarkable wisdom.  As does all the world, he sees it in others and loves them, but he knows the dialectic of their being and awareness.  And he, above all, knows the difference between the appearance and the things in themselves.  He knows the conflict between the world and the divine. He lives in that otherness.  He has compassion on those like him who have no beauty; he shares in their tension.  He thinks the world has overvalued appearances.  He is part of the world.  He too is a fool.

 

 

 

227  The divine boy contemplates Being.  He is clever.  A devious twinkle in his eye shows he understands the answer.  He sees his boyfriend stand within Being.  He sees the aureole of intellectual awareness within him.  Philosophical love is of the farthest awareness.  He cries because he has too much understanding.  It stretches him out over the world too far.  It's his beauty.  It's what he shows his boyfriend.  It's his passion.  It's his falling into his boyfriend's arms.  It's the way they teach each other the running together of all things.  A knowing that sees another knowing.

 

This is the only place where there is such a thing as the synthetic a priori.  Only in this passion of learning philosophy is there a need.  Only in its appearance around another's eyes.  Only in a boy's delicacy.  Only in the way he confounds and frustrates the world.  For Plato the only Form that appeared was Beauty.  Now for us Wisdom, the Logos, has joined it.  The Spirit is present.  We are moved.

 

This is philosophy back to the old way of doing it.  Back to the time it was, for us, an escape.  Back to the original impulse of love.  Back to the brilliance of the light at the beginning.  A beautiful god.  Who leaves the world in ashes.

 

Have pity on the boy who is about to go into the fire.  Time comes and makes his way hard.  We have been traveling that way a long time.  But when the boy is about to die the lover appears again.  This is where we are now.

 

 

The things young philosophers study are dear to them.  They feel the rushing, swirling of identity and difference.  They fall back at the delicate movements of the nexus of participation.  Being and the One are God Himself.  Essence and the Idea have driven them to sweet labor many times.  The question of the existence of the universal is constantly on their minds.  At the end of their trials they see Reality.  The old philosopher is no different - inside he is still the young philosopher.  That's all there is.  And like all young lovers they try to be tough and not speak too much about love.

 

Young philosophers live by themselves in their room.  They are separate.  The thing they study is separate.  They have everything lying close around them.  The One is intimate with itself.  The world depends on these philosophers and the God they love.

 

 

 

228  The being of analysis is the End, the Term. It is radio preachers pointing to the End times.  The gods return.  The beings of analysis are relations.  External relations.  Ordered relations.  A first and then a second.  Asymmetry.  You can't go back.  This moment determines eternity.  From here to the eternal Forms.  You must go.  Everything is necessary.  You are only the lowest derivative of the Infinite.  Infinitesimally small.  Disappearing.  Into that thing. The End.  A confusing unrelated thing.  The irrational heart of reason.  The cut of your precision.  Analysis breaks down.

 

Analysis goes on forever.  It is searching for the determinate, the limit, the end of infinity.  It is and it isn't.  Analysis is contradiction.  Just confusion.  We can't stop.  We do it over and over, always getting to the same place, a thing we know is the answer but which won't give us its being.  The universal and the particular rushing at each other, never getting there, approaching the limit, the liserè, the being of being.  The only thing that's really out there.  The love, the lover, of the analyst.  Making him forever fall.  O God, there is no order to Order itself.  My analysis is no analysis.  My philosophy of philosophy is lost.  I have no beginning and no end.  They're pushed together.  Not united as in you, just pushed together.  I write on paper something to be read in time about a thing that won't fit on paper and won't fit in time except as Jesus did, that miserable creature/non-creature.

 

I go on and on, but to what end?  I dance and dance, and shout and shout, and come again and again, but to what end?  The end has no whatness.  An emptiness I can't get a hold of.

 

 

 

229  There's a feeling that goes with seeing the figures of Geometry.  It's like a needle going into your chest.  The figures follow quietly on one another from the beginning.  One after the other they make your breathing more difficult.  You've escaped from the ordinary to be with Eros.  You're a rag-tag goy looking at the one you love.

 

Everything is being carried back. You go out to another and then back into yourself.  You feel the otherness.  You are behind the dark glass.  To yourself you are thinking about him.  By yourself you bring your own body to its peak.  The one from which proceed the rush of forms.

 

All the universals we sense are related.  They are put in sets that show the otherness between them.  They are immersed in otherness.  They are defined by otherness.  The sets swim within sets.  Identities give way to higher identities.  Numbers appear that are from Pure Intellect itself.  The things we sensed now only were.  We are in a place that is related to sense as non-time is to time.  Absolute separation.  The universality was the conversion itself.

 

All the great philosophers have sensed that there is a place separate from here.  It is there philosophy itself.  Himself.  He is the true being of the things they see.  He is the only thing out there.  The things they see have been absorbed into Him.  They are his fragrance and touch and delight.

 

 

Energy is the great act of holding together the things that contradict each other.  The Energy of God is that Pure Act that holds together things that absolutely contradict each other.  The Divine Mind is the unity of the different things in one universal.  To us it is oblivion.  In Him it is accord.  It is our ideal logic, the thing the philosopher contemplates and which makes him pure.

 

 

 

230  The beauty of Hell is not in itself but in its causing all sentiment to be gone from the face of the one who contemplates it.   The blank look of one who sees this side of God.  It is in the cold virginity of Mary, that is the image of her knowing what is happening.  It is the beauty of the aweful Sublime.  Beauty that has crossed over to its aweful transcendence.  The complete Majestas.  That drives the human life out of us.

 

Jesus was a man whose humanity was completely dead to his divinity.  There was an invincible power pushing down on any reaching for human warmth.  He was overcome, unable to do otherwise.  He was the Necessity that was everywhere.  He loved the divinity in him.  He couldn't stop.  Everything was finished. You can't cry for him; just stare at him.

 

Anselm, you have captured the wildness of God.  You understood it is the stillness and peace of contemplation.  I too write about the horrible Angst and the dreadful approach to God, but it's all a very gentle writing.  I am within the peace of the Savior.  I look at God through the eyes of the beloved Logos, the conflict that exchanges life and death.  And in that eternal moment when I had the boy, when he had succumb to my metaphysical beauty, when I leapt and saw the Absolute; right then I knew he wasn't mine, that he would never be mine, that time would never be mine, that it was all over.

 

 

It is, of course, true that every philosophy book ever written is a mess.  I mean even the Great Summa of Thomas.  All those analogies make it impossible for there to be one thing there.  Which is not to say that it isn't a true picture of his God.  His God is not one thing there.  He is a mess to us.  That's all that has been sent us.  Something to eat.  A thing that makes us feel guilty when we eat it.  A god's flesh.  The flesh of Thomas.  A consummation.

 

 

 

He is the Logos.  He is the Light that comes and reveals to me the Darkness.  He is the one who taught me how to think, who now is making me stand in greater darkness than before he came.  He taught me the unthinking.  The dialectical swirl.  Now I cannot explain to my friends what I have found.  I cannot bring them peace.  But maybe in the darkness and the war of my words they can see what I saw.  I have that hope.  I trust the Logos, my lover, won't abandon me when I write.

 

He is the Logos.  He is the Light that harrows the hell I'm in.  He is the frightening thing that lights up this pit and shows me what it is.  He has shown me the aweful thing I am.  I had become comfortable in my slow murmurings; now I can't have that anymore.  He is about to break this apart.  He is the Logos.

 

I am not the form that I reveal.  I only partake of it.  It is free of me.  Another can also be of it.  And it is free of him.  It is of the Logos, which was before us and will be after us.  It is of his self-contained sufficiency.  Without it I am nothing.  He is the God; I am not.

 

 

231  He is the Logos.  He is the Light that breaks into my own thinking. He is the Form of this dance that makes it fit around reality.  He is the well-formed that is the Real in itself.  My world is just a rain day image of him, until he comes and lifts me up.  Into his heaven where are proceeding all the manifold Forms.  The eternal Forms encircling in celestial light above my head.  He is the unity of thought and Being.  He is the Being of the One.  My spirit sinks into his Spirit.  He makes me be.  I am overcome.  He is the one I have longed for.  To see his face is to see the end of my moving intellect.  He is the Blessed Vision.  His touch is making me fall back.  He lays his forehead on my neck.  His spirit is in me.  His touch cuts.  Sweet pain.  Into the Sun.

 

You must know how I have suffered because of him.  I have loved a god.  He has made my mind be like his.  He has forced me to kiss him.  Not that I didn't want to.  He has made me his love.  A mortal can't live through that.  He has wanted me so much that he will be in my death so he can have me.  A lovely and delicate god I couldn't say no to.  I will go through everything with him. 

 

 

 

232  In deadly thought I let myself go and be in him, my nothingness, my destruction.  I think pure existing logic.  I think the Logos, the young god of fire, that cut into me and mauled me and has made my once young body become old and torn.  His fire is still on me; if you touch me, you will fell it.  I have become a priest of an ancient religion.  I have the act that is at the core of the physical world.  I am with him who is sufficient to himself.  I am where reason becomes being.  I am with the essence that contains its own existence.  The perfectly well-formed.  The beautiful.  Some of him clings to these words.  They will deposit it on your eyes.

 

 

He is the Logos.  He is the conflict that is the unity of reason and being.  He is the sentimental tearing at your heart.  He is a boy writing bad, sad poetry.  Only he is justified in doing it.  Only on him do feelings look right.  He is the world you wish you could get into.  He is you as an existing thing.  You are in love.  And he is crying for his friend who was killed.

 

This boy knows the other who is gone.  He sees him now in transcendence.  He sees him transfigured.  He is looking within the intellectual circles.  The needle of love goes into his chest.  His friend's form is now a part of Being.  The Logos is within himself the world.

 

 

Philosophy begins when the boy has failed to communicate to his friends the mystical thing he has found.  The boy is transformed into philosophy.  He becomes a strange thing.  His old natural life dies.  He becomes an unnatural thing.  His appearance of life is now just make-up.  The lights in his eyes become neon lights.  He must go on.  Everything is different.  Philosophy now moves him according to its will.  A holy other thing is present.  It is finality.  The boy will fight it and love it at once.  He has become now philosophy itself for us.  He is the one we dream of.  We will give each other a strange land of no substance.  Gifts to each other of the knowledge of angels.

 

 

 

233  Within the static arrangement of merely contingent things found in philosophical writing there is an immanent flow of identity.  A cup, a knife, a basket, an orange on a table top fit the eternal begetting of the Word in the unmoving movement of Being.  Essence within accident.  Being within the falling.  In the dance the dancer is showing you the form of the spirit moving him.  The spirit puts him at just the right spot.  If he's good he can't miss.  The Form of his form is the simple thing.

 

The tighter the movement, the closer it is to the simple Form.  The closer it is to that which really is.  The more the analyses of philosophy are drawn up close, the truer they are.  They surpass the flapping extendedness of logic.

 

The more I have Form, the more I am an out there one thing, the more I have inward movement.  Coming back to myself.  The more I have Form, the more I disappear into myself, the finer your eyes must be to see me, out there.  Until I become a consciousness out there for you to see.

 

 

The philosophical boy exists only in relation to himself.  He is within Self-Identity.  He is there to see, watched as he turns and moves and steps out in his dance of intellect.  He is like his God, the un-related.

 

He goes to the thing in itself.  He doesn't want things that only mirror it.  He doesn't want only traces left behind where it moved through.  He wants the invisible thing in itself.  He will become invisible like it to be with it.

 

He is in a place where nothing changes.  He has ceased to exist.  O pray for him, he has gone to a strange place.  He is now on the other side.  He has gone into that Thing.  He has gone to Being itself, the metaphysical thing.

 

The philosophical boy is the well-formed thing, centered only on himself.  He has escaped gravity.  Everything is tight and pulled together.  There's nothing serious here.

 

 

 

234  Philosophy is a constant starting over.  It is falling and then trying to stand up again.  It's an attempt to turn love into clarity.  It's always an entering upon the subject.  Philosophy is always an introduction to philosophy.  And the introduction always fails, to be taken up again later.  But because it never gets beyond the beginning, the beginning is true philosophy and is perfect.  Earlier writings are totally, embarrassingly unacceptable, and they are brilliant pieces.  Philosophy is all and nothing.  It is good and bad.  It is beautiful and ugly.  It is a form of love.

 

 

As you begin to read this remember I share your approach and your moving away.  Like you, I think I could do better.  We will both try again later.

 

At this beginning I establish a method and a spirit.  Like all other philosophers, I will quickly abandon both.  I will try to overcome my submission to them.  I will succeed.  And then you will see that my method and spirit work.  They will constantly be there.

 

To read a philosophy book you must pay attention to how the philosopher moves the idea constantly reworking it.  It is a dance, the idea moving in and out of itself.  He moves nowhere though; philosophy is perfect from the beginning.  It is always the same it is the Same itself.  It contains its own otherness.  It is thus with itself.

 

The beginning of this book is me; I can't give it up.  I have to learn to accept it.  It was written a long time ago.  I want to accept it, but I want to throw it away.  The being of this book is its moving on.  Acceptance and rejection.  You must see the otherness and the sameness within it and me.  It is the Sameness and Otherness within Philosophy itself as it comes to me.  Philosophy is independent of me.  It is always a fresh thing.  I am the old man Socrates had to contend with.  The Spirit has invaded me.

 

 

 

235  This book was in the mind of God in the beginning.  Deep in the godhead. It is a contemplation of God.  It is my flesh.  It is his.  His touch to match mine.  A kiss from his mouth.  An awareness of me.  It is me dancing before him.  It is my blood rushing.  Being pushed back.  It is my escape.  My wit.

 

See me here in my exile.  I am in Babylon, in the house of that great bitch, surrounded by that perfume I hate.  I have to listen to her incessant talking, bring food to create more ripples of fat on her oily body, pretend to those around me that I desire her.  But when I am left alone I remember my real lover far off.  He comes to me in the night of my life, and he too cries at being left alone.  Only in death can I be with him.

 

His finger twists around in my nerves.  He plucks them.  They are inflamed red.  I am as the Seraphim.  Turn.  Fire.  Nerves.  In the crucible of love.

 

I am small and dance in the color of his cheeks.  Everywhere sparkling.  I see what he sees.  Stop.  Sounds of rushing wind.  The end of the age.  Terrible love.  Consuming everything opposing him.  Protecting his beloved.

 

He is Logos.  In him are all the Forms.  He is the Being of the One.  All the world comes from him.  All understanding.  He is the form of thought.  He is Reality.

 

He is Logos.  In him are all the Forms from which emerge the worlds.

 

He is Logos.  He is the Form of the Forms that govern the world.  All spirits flow from him and sink back into him.  The boundary between my mind and the world.  Between the world and what it is.  The delicate touch.

 

The Spirit that is the spirit with me.  The Form of the form I have.  Everything is from him and goes back to him.  In him Life my life.  In my life my ideas touch reality and my life goes back to his life. In his life you see my life surround me and I am beautiful.

 

He is Logos. He is the mind delicately touching the world.  He is the Being of the One that is a thing with its Form.  In his Spirit my spirit has escaped.  In his Form my form runs beyond.

 

He is Spirit.  He has become the union of my mind with him.

 

He is my rushing breath.  The touch of my mind and him.

 

He is my intellect.  The union of the form of my thought with him.  The spheres of my thought are his heaven.

 

He has become the boundary that has united us.

 

 

 

236  Being, the here and now itself, is brilliant and fast.  It is pure Act.  It is information and fact.  It is action.  It is pure movement.  Time as instantaneous.  Time brought to eternity.  Suddenly.  The Other piercing into the present.  An ontologically simple thing.  A thing seen by the few.

 

 

The Forms are all a part of Being.  They are intelligences existing.  They are the well-formed, revolving around themselves, making themselves be.  They are out there, the world in itself.

 

The mind in its thinking is with being - it isn't just inside itself.  Being is painted all across it.  Being goes through it.  The mind is not alone.  Being unites itself with the mind.

 

The mind in its being is just in itself.  It has become Being, and Being has become it.

 

The oneness of self-identity and Being is the beautiful; it is the loveliness that is philosophy.

 

 

Philosophy is angelic knowledge.  Each moment it is at its end.  Each new moment is a new arrival at the end.  It turns itself inside out and does it again.  Each time is the same time.  It's the beginning of philosophy.  It's always the first few days after you've just discovered it.  Walking around in the thrill, knowing you've made it, knowing it's there.  It is knowledge there for you to take.  It's a gift given to you and the angels.

 

 

 

237  Philosophy is a hostile thing.  In the guise of a pretty face and the promise of a simple ontology, it can become a wild kid using his smooth muscles to knock me down.  Looking at me, accusing me of degeneracy, of falling from the heights of the gods.

 

 

I am not in repose.  I am act; I reach for the simple.  I am the indeterminate.  I am two things, the cross-eyed first emanation.  I am the thing philosophy cannot figure out.  I am the thing that makes philosophers run around in commotion.

 

I am the worthless eunuch; strength beats up on me. I am irrational matter.  Matter in itself, prior to being pregnant with form.  I merely wait upon my lady.  Surely, things would be better off without me.  I am the last emanation that produces nothing.  But I have the promise that someday I shall have a reward above that of sons and daughters.

 

I am the boy Eros, the first and the last of the gods.  The thorn in the side of the philosophers.  I am the gateway to philosophy itself.  I am philosophy.  Very few can follow me where I lead.  I will make them either violent or stupid.  I am the beautiful one following on the Good itself.

 

The Kingdom of Heaven suffereth violence and the violent shall take it by force.  Philosophy is Life.  At last, when I am united to his maleness, when I eat him, when the typhoon that he became enters into me, when I am me as I am now, I shall be back where I started.

 

 

 

238  I live in substance.  I am at the interior of things.  In the conflict.  Between the irreconcilable opposites.  I have found a calm place.  The shimmering stillness of nowhere left to go.  I have come to the end.  The world as I thought it was wasn't there.  It has all disappeared into pure contradiction.  And I have let it be just that.  I don't fight it.  I cannot control it.  I can do nothing.  I let it come over me.  I see everything that has ever been in this form of otherness.  I see the gods of war and love.  I see the unanswerable call.  I submit myself to this one thing that remains forever.

 

I live in pure sensuality.  In the extension that the color and the shape and the duration are within.  In the Within itself.  The thing that is identical with the pure outward going of the tending.  In the continuum where between the closest neighboring points are an infinity of stars and galaxies and universes.  The surface that touches me and escapes my touch.  One and other.  The Inward foreverness of all sensuality.

 

I live in the universal form of Particularity itself.  A thing separate from this world, as is proper to a form.  I am in Separation.  The part away.

 

I am within a thing that will not stand still.  A thing that teases me with promises of settling down.  I know it won't.

 

 

In the wildness of the godhead where everything is holiness, otherness, crossing over to something else, but not as a thing in itself, just the thing, the simple thing, there is no mind, no being, an impossible thing to think, an impossible thing to write, just superficial _______, an empty false start, bad art, valueless schoolboy attempts.  Back into the world.  Busses going by restaurants.  Notebook paper on the wet sidewalk.  Surely not where it's at.

 

I write ontology from the viewpoint of one who worked in businesses along the street.  I do menial labor, washing dishes, serving customers, putting up signs.  It's an empty world like Camus would have liked, full of boys, bored, loading trucks.  The same world St. Teresa lived in.  I live on the same St..

 

 

 

239  Don't start talking philosophy with me if you don't want to be engaged in an argument.  I lead everything to a contradiction, even you.  I love to watch you there unable to go on.  I want to make you come undone.  I want to sit there and laugh with you at how funny everything is.

 

I want to drive you into total frustration by making you fall in love with love of a boy.  To see you sparkle at the cleverness of his mischief.  To make you squirm because he's looking at you.  To fall for his teasing.  To make you mad because he so uncaringly breaks all the things you own.  To make you bend before his striking beauty.  To put you before this image of Beauty itself.  To drive you into holy madness.  So we can properly Talk.

 

 

Plato's philosophy is a mixture of the effeminate dialectic of metaphysics and the manly assertions of the Sophists.  Being and the One fly around each other in beauty.  They're ephemeral like the blossom on a boy's cheeks.  But only Gorgias had the strength to prove that nothing exists.  He made philosophy ridiculous and threw it away.  He preached Courage and Justice and Good Reputation.  He preached Virtue.  Plato likewise hated the self-destruction of dialectic.  He stopped it up short.  He forcibly said the Good exists.  Justice and Truth exist.  Beauty, the Excellent, exists.  And he showed the boy Eros who is in love with this strength.  Through sheer strength he believed in The Same and The Different, Movement and Rest, Being and The One.  He demanded belief in Universals and Communication.  And he let be the one who loved these things and who was the image of his loved things.  He let love be.  He let love fly in its dialectic.  Realism is a philosophy of strength and belief.  It is the boy's joy.

 

It's always the challenge of philosophy to state clearly just what it is about its dialectic that makes it able to solve the impossible problems of the One and the Many.  It finds unity through separation.  He holds Being that is prior to both.  It finds its way past the being of non-being by going to the One that is neither.  It makes Being and The One the same through Sameness and different through Difference.  It is everywhere by not being here anywhere.  It defeats the skeptics by placing Being beyond existence.  It defeats the dialecticians through common sense.  It finally succeeds by moving away from itself.

 

 

 

240  The Fall is into the mechanical and the technical.  Our perdition is into calculating and figuring.  An endless going on without arriving at an end.  Only the going on.  The means to an end with no end.  Thus a means that is no true means.  The task of our time is to stop, stand back and see what's going on.  What is this machine we're within?  What is technology?  And what is its essence, that is, what is the meaning of means?  What is this crossing over to an end?  In other words, the thing I am reaching for, trying to cross over to is means itself.  The thing I mean is means.  I am crossing over with my mind to crossing over.  I become this crossing over.  I am looking for and thus becoming the looking for.  I have become a machine, or the essence of machine.  All the machines I see now are images of my mind, an extension of it.  As for what a crossing over is, by going over I bring another into me.  I am it too. I have gone over.  It is a unity of two things.  By going over to going over itself, I unite me with myself.  I see myself.  I am an object to be seen.  Seeing sees seeing.  It is the same as itself.  Self-identical.  Going over; that is, otherness, is self-identical.  Otherness becomes otherness itself and thus is.  Otherness is in its going to itself.  I can't go any further.  I consider what the machine is and I get to the end.  The end of the machine is pure machine itself.  It is the mind and the otherness that it is.  I am no longer lost.  I am upright again.  I can stand; everything is constant. 

 

 

 

241  A set.  Consider a set of three things.  Within it are subsets, sets consisting of two things and of one thing.  Elements and sets and sets of sets. The whole world is made up of sets and sets of sets.  Everything that exists is a part of some bigger thing and contains within itself many things.  And the dividing and uniting has no highest or lowest.  There is no end to it.  It is infinite in both directions.  Everything that exists is a unity of many.  One thing turning into many and the many becoming one.  It is a disappearing act.  I look inside a whole to see the parts and the whole is gone, only the parts are there.  I consider the whole and the parts blend together into one; and, as individuals, they disappear.  An object is the one going into many and the many going into one.  The object itself is that middle disappearing ground between.  Or it is that infinitely fast flip-flopping between whole and part, between one and many.  It is a shimmering, vibrating thing.  Like a crystal vibrating in a computer.  A set is the going back and forth between the one and the many.  To be is this going back and forth.  Or the unity is the many and the many is the unity.  I cannot say that the world is just many things.  Because each disappears in the whole.  Nor that it is a whole.  Because the whole disappears into the parts.  We can think the parts and we can think the whole and our mind follows its form of shifting back and forth.  And I can think about this Form of existence itself.  This Form that all things share in.  I can think the One-many itself.  I can think about Being.  This Form that I as an existing thing share in.

 

The Form of Being.  The Form itself is one thing and it is many.  It has internal division.  It has internal separation, otherness.  It disappears into other things.  But the Form of Being is that very disappearance, that otherness.  The Form of Being is Otherness.  But then the otherness disappears into the whole, one thing.  Otherness becomes just that one otherness. It has self-identity.  Otherness and then otherness itself.  And then again, otherness and otherness itself are one thing and they are many separate.  And again, that one thing that otherness and otherness itself is, is separate from otherness and otherness itself and it is one with them, one thing.  In other words, everything begins to pile up and you can see something there and then you can't.  Being itself exists and it doesn't.  There is Being and that beyond Being, the Other, the Beyond, and then again they are the same.

 

It's just a mess and it's graceful at the same time.

 

 

 

242  The creations of mathematics and of sciences to go with them are infinite.  It's the one rolling on endlessly.  It's the impossibility of ever getting at the one itself.  There is no final figuring out science and mathematics.  There is only the going back and contemplating the One itself.  The mystical god.  To think otherwise is to get lost in the rat's nest of a woman's hair.  To succumb to the great goddess herself, the queen of Hades.  The practical machine, ordering things going nowhere forever.  The queen of pragma, with her servant workers.  In the underground hole. A long way from the blue sky where everything fades away into just Him.  A stop to the whole thing.

 

In a patch of color, the color is identical with the area.  The shape is identical with the area.  The being of the shape and of the color and of the area all mingle together.  They are within the Same.  Shape and color and the same place.  The area is the color and it is the shape.  A wonderful unity.  But we are dealing with universals here.  Which color and which shape is not here?  We are concerned with the togetherness of universal things, the first things.  We are concerned with the synthesis of the prior things.  The synthetic a priori.  The Forms all in one place.

 

This is the form of contemplation.  The mind tumbling over and over itself thinking about the One.  Many more tumblings could go on here.  More things to consider.  More simples to find.  More unities to come from them.  There's no end to the dialectic.  Wonderful confusion.  All the way down to the mixing bowl that is life, our life.  And out into our escape from it.  Away from the perpetual twistedness of all dialectic.

 

The Bible tells us that the giant Leviathan, the immense serpent eating its own tail, was created by God for his own sport.  It is Christ at his own wedding banquet eating his own flesh.  When you stand within philosophy everything is beautiful and good.  You are seeing with the eyes of God.  Outside philosophy his eyes looked crossed.  Outside philosophy there is no movement.  Philosophy is pure movement.  The Leviathan is lethargic.  He is not philosophy.  Not-philosophy is just something philosophy created to play with.  Philosophy is at last all there is.

 

 

 

243  At the end there is no crossing over, no intentionality, no mind.   At the end there never was such a thing as an end.  Everything is just right there.  The swirl, the love, the reaching was for nothing.  You couldn't have gotten away from that thing no matter where you went.  It's everywhere.  In you and outside you and between you and everything.  It's all there is. Just the simple One everywhere.  Everyplace within the One, identical with the One.

 

The freedom my mind finds is in knowing that I myself am of the same being as the thing I love.  That Being is everywhere.  It's all there is.  He and I are both looking at the same thing.  I am also looking into his mind when I look into mine.  There's one mind we are within.  A mind made out of the sheer simplicity of the One.  The thin tissue and filaments of God.

 

At the end we lose sight of any means toward an end.  Nothing is of any use.  There's only flamboyant beauty.  Overflowing.  Our science and our mathematics is just a piling up of the Same.  Completely filling up Time.  Time disappears.  Back to the beginning.  Such a richness.  Nothing is alien.  Only the strange is not strange.

 

This is a philosophy of realism.  We don't build models in order to predict the future.  The future is at hand.  We are with the thing itself, not an image.  This is the philosophy of the a priori.  We are with the prior things.  The things that exist themselves.  Being, not just something for the time being.  We are with reality itself.  Later comes the world that is just a step toward that place.

 

Philosophy is the One and Being.  Being is the beginning of the One folding on itself creating the giant tautology that is logic.  The One is the source and the end of Being's run.  It is the place our mind runs to.  Neither out there nor in here.  Both.

 

 

 

244  Philosophy is done this way because I am the philosopher and I do it this way.  I have given form to philosophy.  I make up the rules.  I have stepped out with a sure step.  I bow to those before me who were also philosophy.  I recognize their perfection.  I acknowledge their awe before me.

 

When I speak from within philosophy I am on the other side of death.  Do you want to be where I am?  Are you amazed at me?  Are you in love with me?

 

I have found my way around the paralysis of standing before philosophy, I have become it.  I am consumed by it.  There's nothing left of me.  Now I am its movements.  I speak the unspeaking.  I am on the other side of the indefinable definition of philosophy.  I am the thing itself.  I am in the necessity of necessary thought itself.  I have arrived at that long sought after point where logic and existence touch.  But look what I have become.  Is this something you want to be , or are you afraid of it?  I don't need you; I am separate from you.  I am everything and should be nothing.  I am the self-created icon, the pure Logos unfolding.  Without limit, without definition.  Pure Being.

 

The philosopher acts, but it must be pure act.

 

 

I am the lightweight boy who exists only in flight and desperation.  I am in love with the mass of masculine weight that pushes onto me.  But I want him to be a young man that has the smoothness of dance, who is the refined picture of a graceful night out.  I want his push to be firm and gentle.  I want him to be a young man who likes other young men.  I want him to be the magic union of mass and pretty form.  Weight and thought.  I want him to want me and come and disrupt my life.

 

 

Like poetry, Platonic philosophy is also sensual.  It is forever attached to the smell of the flesh.  It is the form of fine art.  Of the refined part of our civilization.  It is the damned thing of Christianity.  Rejecting the earth and jumping head first into it all at once.  Both sins. So close to God, but the farthest away.  The philosophy of Jesus.

 

 

 

245  To solve the problem of life we must empty it of all nature; we must put it into super-life, into just abstract form.  Into super-mathematics.  We must rise up into pure, glistening, still light.  Then there will be no time, only points falling into groups, into sub-groups, at last into the Tie that is the Binding itself.

 

The goal of life is contemplation, the vision of the beloved.  If you look at the togetherness of extension and its uniting edges.  If you look at the Within that is in the middle of the many within the one.  You will see an independence that is Independence itself, a thing out there with you.  Coming at you.  Like a lover coming over you.  Lifting your spirit into it.  A thing totally beautiful.

 

Here is the synthetic a priori.  A thing sensual but with the eternity and necessity of logic.  The area of broad, smooth flesh that has become pure, simple form.  Here is the place of the gods.  Our own place.

 

Here is the place of pure extension.  Of pure intuition.  Here is where our mind is the Pure Particular that receives the Pure One.

 

 

Oh Jesus, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I am sinner, I am Satan, I love you, I love you, I love you, Forgive me, I ask you forever, Forgive me, I live in eternal terror, I love you.

 

I have no time for man, I have run away to be with God alone, I have performed no good works, I have left others to be alone, I am cold, I cause only harm, I fight everything, I want only God, I have refused to bow to man.  Oh God, I live only in the burning fire of desire for you.  Why am I lost in this fire?

 

 

 

246  Physics uses the form of the most abstract, empty logic to describe the unknowable objects it is reaching for.  Philosophy describes God in terms of the abstract, empty Form of Logic itself.  The pure form of knowing is unknowing. Likewise the most violent, destructive thing there is, the passion of absolute love, is the stillness of the logical copula.  And the beautiful object of our love is the Logos himself, the calling that is Independence.

 

Philosophy is like pure mathematics; within it every proposition can be uttered but only within the tightest restrictions.  Freedom and bondage.

 

Philosophy is the grin that remains after the Cheshire Cat disappears. 

 

Philosophy is an icon, a thing that is all surface, hiding nothing behind it nor beneath it.  It is totally present.  It is the real thing itself present right before you. See the Light.

 

It is the broad, simple strokes of Expression.  Rough, a primitive refinedness.

 

I find myself suddenly through the surface tension of its skin and I am inside a sphere, the sphere of God, inside philosophy.

 

The power and authority of the philosopher comes from the thing surrounding him.  A thing that won't fail him.

 

 

A prose style that brings simple understanding is good for popularizing arcane modern physics, but it is death to philosophy.  There is no such thing as a Heidegger for the everyday man.  Anyway the everyday man is also looking for a mystical escape.  The beauty of science is its lucidity.  Philosophy must exist in the shadows.  But we all know those shadows are the result of too much light.  Glaring light.  Super-science.  Absolute intellect.

 

The seductiveness of Plato is that he is so easy.  A person cannot help but believe him when he reads him.  It is amazing to see an open and clear and sane Plato.  Too much so.  It's a form of madness.

 

 

 

247  For my writing to qualify as philosophy, not science, it has to be impermeable to criticism.  It has to be perfect.  It has to answer all questions.  It therefore will seem to miss the most important question of all, but that question will be outside of words.  The attacker of the philosophy will be unable to find the weapon with which to cut it open.  But it will also seem that deadly criticisms are just lying around waiting to be picked up.  Real philosophy will seem like an all powerful lover who has taken away all your power.  And it will seem like a lifeless empty shell.  All your perceptive observations about it are meaningless to it.  But you stay with it because in its acrid feel you feel existence.

 

Plato is easy to criticize but he can't be overcome.  His critics are obviously right, but he has written philosophy and they haven’t.  All their enlightened humanism can't outpower his truth.  And yet enlightened humanism is obviously much more sensible.  We are all enlightened humanists.

 

Psychology criticizes philosophy with the words transference and repression.  Scare words.  Things which should be undone and whose undoing will lead to enlightenment and sane humanism.  Of course psychology is right, but philosophy and Being don't care.  The god stands impermeable.  And the criticism of philosophy, Platonism, becomes the philosophy of anti-philosophy, Nietzsche, the end of philosophy, anti-platonism.  Philosophy to match philosophy.  Both impermeable.  Both the same.  All openness has become closed.

 

 

Existentialists describe for us the world of the human mind where there are no essences.  Platonists describe the intellectual realm where essences are beyond being.  Both are looking into the nothingness.  There is no difference between them.  Existentialism kills Platonism, its twin, because philosophy can only talk about philosophy, and because it has always been trying to kill, and does kill for a time, its other self, its evil or its good self.  This is ancient religion, the boy who dies.  For a while the nothingness becomes nothing and the boy is all there is.

 

 

 

248  In philosophy Anake is sometimes the chains that bind us to the earth and sometimes the security of eternal truth.  It is tyrant or it is liberator.  Sometimes the Will is that which places us beyond restrictive form and sometimes the cruelty placing us in a restrictive form.  And Form itself is unbounded beyond the bound or it is the principle of the bound.  And binding is unity or it is the first separation.  There is no decision as to which is correct.  Philosophy can exist through ether.  The spirit will decide.

 

Every philosophy can be taken two ways.  Like the double meanings of the sayings of love.  Its power is in that duality. That is its deception.  That is its means of escape.  That is how it goes into and comes out of itself.

 

In the end our knowledge will be our death.  It will be too much.  It will be hell. That will be the end of our enchantment, where our desire will leave off.  The end of our Faustian life.  Menstrual blood will win out.

 

Hail Mary and the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.  We have your emblem on our body in the shape of the wound of love.  We are going down.  We have the glory of disgust.

 

All things change.

 

 

Little David, the pretty boy, is likewise the one who cut off the head of the man.  Pretty, likewise a murderer.  Alike.  Murder is the form of delicacy.

 

Philosophy changes everything into decoration.  It is the hesitation that severs the roots. The heart failing.  A boy's thoughts. 

 

 

 

249  Though it is unlawful to draw pictures of God, we can draw non-pictures of him.  As they did in Byzantium.  We can draw a thing totally contrary to nature, a thing with itself, from itself, back into itself, the picture itself.  Nature itself, from which nature is thrust out. Image itself, drawn with non-drawing.  God with us.

 

We can dematerialize our art to make it correspond more perfectly with the spirit.  Through degrees of intellectual perfection toward the One.  Soon the object disappears and just the pounded and formed material remains.  Soon just the pounding.  Just the act of the artist.  His pushing.  The strength of the Creator.  We feel it in our soul when we look at his work. 

 

In true spiritual art there is always a remnant of that first Push, Thrust, Work.  Artists are Smiths.  Bringing things up from the quarry, the Pit.  Forging things in the heat of their own mind.

 

But the roughness never disappears.  Everything becomes more inexact.  Crooked lines for the straight ones.  A falling away from the smooth.  Just a distant image.  Failed drawing.  Force.  The form becomes the urge.  And the colors take on fire.  And the senses push against the soul.  God at our throat.  Fumes that make breathing difficult.  Art that is fire incense from the Forge.  The sublimation of matter.

 

 

Platonists have Forms beyond all present formulations.  Others give man a creative drive that places him beyond.  Whatever is the case, it gives way to something further.  The future is standing there beckoning.  Inside and outside of man.  Close at hand.  About to break through.  The Beyond itself.  Beyond which there is no beyond. The only place of rest.  Like the chairs in an icon which have no other side.  Like the space in an icon which is full, leaving no room for movement.  Like the compression of distance between here and there.  Like figures being inside themselves.  Like the icon at each moment self-creating.  The present Form forcing the mind to conform to its absolute unity.  Gently slipping out of this place to being There.  Just being.

 

My writing is compact.  No chit chat.  Coming back to itself. No extension.  Formal and crude.  Put together with a hammer.

 

 

 

250  I have said that philosophy is about the Eternal Forms, and I have said that I am with boys out on the street.  I have described the street bathed in the light of the Same that was at the beginning.  A golden yellow light.  In my writings the street is transfigured.  It is the eternal form of the Street.  The thing that boys dream of when they get dressed up for the night.  The night of lovemaking.  But the streets are hard and there is no yellow light out there.  Then the philosophical dream changes and behind the despair appears a tough masculine god of concrete and steel.  He lures his boys down to the old subways, into the unnatural light.  In philosophy their life is gone.  They had practiced death for this moment.  They submit to him.  They are pressed down by the real abstraction.  The form of boy is everywhere. Dissolving into each other.  The spirit of philosophy floating over everything.  Another world right there.  So close you could touch it.  It is the same as you.

 

Logicians don't know what logic is.  They are like accountants who don't know that Number is God.  Within the principle of Identity that they have used to kill the spirit lies the spirit itself that is about to kill them.  Within that oneness lies the violent otherness. The principle will eventually prick their finger and it will watch as their eyes burn.  Then in their blindness they will learn to see metaphysical things.

 

The nighttime and glaring artificial lights are proper symbols for the Light that shines in darkness, unseen and one with the darkness.  A striking light that hurts the eyes.  Above nature.  On a pole above the street.  Hell to those not in love.

 

 

There's no doubt that this world is a place of oppression.  Our goal and desire is to escape.  Any philosophy that doesn't help us is no philosophy.  Any philosophy that doesn't show us another world is no philosophy.  The grace of philosophy is that in it the present evil becomes the good.  Non-being becomes being.   Everything becomes transfigured.  The chains around us become the wrappings of love.  Our pain and disruption becomes the wound and tearing charm of the beloved.  Paradox becomes freedom.  The elements of dialectic become glistening intelligent stars.  And the heap becomes the form of beauty.  Boys sitting on old rusted cars.  Everything is all right.  For a moment we are lifted up and junk becomes jewels.  We see a world where being is everywhere and non-being is non-existent.  But first we had to go through the change.  We had to go through the dark oppression into the sparkling night. The oppressive requirement that everything be only what it is, the form of evil itself is changed into the dual of the thing with its other self, becoming the setting for the blood ruby oneness, the otherness of the godhead, the transformed disgusting thing itself.

 

 

 

251  Behind our religion of masculine Gods is a religion of goddesses.  That is to say, behind philosophy is religion. Behind still thought is life in death and death in life.  From the ancient union of opposites comes analysis, comes the breaking apart.  A Halt has been called to the cycle of murder and resurrection. A hero has come who descended into the goddess religion and rose triumphant over it.  He put an end to it.  He froze its fire in eternal intellect.  He has brought us to a place where we are neither living nor dead.  Our numbers command everything, and we are beyond numbers. We are in his energy.  His arms are around us.

 

But within our masculine religion and our philosophy there is still the dead carcass of that goddess, and it still has its power to paralyze and kill.  It's a powerful weapon in the hands of those who know how to handle it.  It's the union of opposites that seduces so many to their death.  It's the being of non-being that mesmerizes young minds.  It's the thing that guards the pathway to God.  Angels can thrust man into its hell. It's a spell that man by himself cannot break.

 

Philosophy and religion move continually onward, but those who look to where they have been, who look into the ancient form of the new forms, falter.  They turn to stone. The name of our God is unspoken because he was originally that horrible thing we have now consigned to hell.  So we must not push the point.  We must go on. We are going toward the light.  Those who try to draw pictures of that original thing we will humiliate by hanging their pictures as decoration in dentists' reception rooms.

 

 

 

252  Philosophy doesn't exist except from inside itself.  The natural mind sees nothing there.  The brackets that enclose philosophy cannot themselves be seen except from within philosophy.  Either one is within philosophy or one isn't.  The only way to get there is suddenly.  There is no road, only the arrival.  There can be no demonstration of it, only belief in it.  It is of the spirit.  It comes upon the human mind in a flash, with Jove's lightening, with Thor's hammer.  It is numinous, (a meaningless word invented by philosophers to describe the nothing-at-all they are talking about).  It is the bane of those who are striving to get somewhere.

 

Philosophy is the never-never land of play.  It's the escape from the seriousness of the everyday.  It's like god's eternity, which never was, isn't, and never will be.

 

The defining characteristic of the human mind is that it can think about that which isn't.  Or that which is beyond being.  Therefore it can think about itself, and it is the ground of itself. This is the solution to the problem of the mind creating itself.  It doesn't; there's nothing there.

 

So now how, in the face of this all-mighty vacuum of philosophy, God, mind and Self, are we going to firmly establish the reality of the world that's left over?  Philosophically, dialectically, there wouldn't be anything to it, but that wouldn't be fair.  Philosophy would take back with one hand what it gave with the other.  It's too mischievous, seductive, and narcissistic to let your attention be drawn anywhere else.  Philosophy has to die in order for you to see the mortal, temporal, created world.

 

Transcendental idealism puts everything in the mind only to show you that the mind is nowhere in sight and everything remains just as it was; it draws a distinction between one thing.  It is true philosophy.

 

 

 

253  Philosophy has always been a thing that has thoroughly seen itself in itself.  No part of itself has been hidden.  Nor hidden from itself. It is self-evident.  From itself, to itself, through itself.  It has never needed an outside agent to create it or support it.  It is eternal god.  Of the same being as God.  It is Wisdom.  It is Reason.  When I write Philosophy that thing shines through.  It is the loveliness that is pliable to my touch.  It forms itself the moment I put my thoughts down.  It doesn't coerce me.  It totally gives way to me.  It follows me as it originally followed its loving source.  As it followed God.  It is commanded.  It is the beloved God swims within.  It is Jesus.

 

We live in a world of imperturbable facts.  We cannot change our age or our degree of beauty.  We cannot make a beloved who is absent be present.  We cannot change our intelligence.  But this is not a matter of logic.  Logic is completely indifferent to how things are in the world.  The world is this way because God has commanded it thus and logic has acquiesced and holds it in place as itself.  Logic will completely further gave place to any of God's otherness.  Everything changes, the present, the past, and the future, and in logic it is.  Imperturbability belongs only to logic in its indifference to all things that don't participate in God's commanding.  With God and the firm form of his son I can do all things.  I see my past now as something different from what it was when I lived it.  I am not confounded and thrown into turbulence by logic.  It bends to me.  But in logic everything is fixed.  Everything is still.  The Word is heard.

 

 

The Medusa head that paralyses every philosopher is the inexorable necessity of death.  He faces up to it.  He acts responsibly.  He receives death's approval and praise.  Nature runs its course.

 

For a philosopher to not look but to curse the thing and walk the other way would make him seem mad.  For him not to take seriously the commandment to walk the path toward death would mean he would always be seen as an immature boy.  Death likes its people to be serious, responsible adults.  The philosopher bows before fact.  And a strange contentment comes over him.  The castration is complete.

 

The medusa head that he sees is the stupendous complexity of philosophy.  He knows that all attempts to speak it will be taken back.  That the only thing that will eventually be left is a warm liquid.  A stinking, minimal fire in it.  And an encircling neurosis.

 

If he does see a place of escape, it will be still and sparkling but uninhabitable.  And if he is a true boy philosopher he will go there anyhow.  He will have defied the world completely.

 

 

 

254  It is true that to be a philosopher you must deny yourself.  And when standing before your beloved God you know you are nothing.  But when you are talking about your God you must honor him and speak absolutely.  The words about Him must be sure.  Speak perfection in a perfect speaking.  Make the instrument of your voice be worthy of the Word.  The will with which you utter his attributes must be like him.  Before God only the pure has a right to stand.  Before God you are humble; when representing him you have his glory.  That is the hardest thing for a philosopher to bear.  You will want to run and bury your face in the ground.  Accept the exhilaration of his power in your acts even though you know it will wear out your body.  Stand in the joyful draft.   It is Being.  Accept the hardest thing there is to accept - that you are loved.  Act like a beloved.  He is still almighty God to you.

 

 

 

255  The difference between this philosophy and this religion you read here and fantasy is that the things you read here are true and fantasy is not.  But it is true by the strength of my belief.  Truth resides only in belief.  There are no facts that anything here in these words corresponds to.  I have observed nothing that would make me believe it's true.  It's true because it doesn't speak of facts or of anything observable.  It has grown only from my strength.  My strength has made it true.  The things I write speak only of my strength.  God is only something in me.  He has consented to that.  He has given himself up to exist only in the belief of his saints.  They have done it.  I have told you that, therefore it is true.  Do you feel that you must back off before I capture your being?  Why do you fight me?

 

This is extreme intellectualism.  There's nothing here of any concern.  Just reason and paradox and the vulnerability of my flesh.  My removing myself from the possibility of being the object of any immediate experience. I am thought thinking about thought and my perfect release.  Your slightest criticism will be my undoing.  You will cut my flesh.  Can you touch my flesh?  It is the end of the movement of reason within itself to become flesh.  But it is just desire, the thing going into itself. Nothing of any consequence spoken. Just Reason in its perfection becoming Real.  Upclose to you.  Too close.

 

From out of nothing we have come to see a world in its appearing. And Appearance, that Miraculous Wonder, that Thing that we all see, Being, Things with Form Present, before us, some sort of a God, it holding us up, WHAT IS IT?  I and all things participate in that thing, that almighty thing, that terrible thing separated from us by that immeasurable gulf.  I am falling into it toward that Thing.

 

My concern is with Form, that is to say, Being, that Beautiful Appearing.  The Thing that has come forth out of itself.  I see us and it.  That is the Pattern.  We are nothings in the arms of this Shining Lover.  I cannot help but speak in capital letters of it.  What I am it is.  I am the place of its very appearing.

 

 

 

256  God is Thoughts, and He wants us to think Him.  Thoughts want to be thought.  They make us be them; it is a caress to them.  They are grateful and become our thoughts of thanking.  It is touching.  It is holding.  It is internal in the being of the thing. 

 

The boy wants to be done.  Through you we wants to do himself.  There is no relationship, you just watch him go into himself and do himself.  That's a reader watching an author. That's the naughting of the believer with God.  But God becomes thankfulness itself in you.  You are Him.  This beauty destroys the observer.

 

 

In God there are many essences, and they are the many philosophies which cannot exist alongside one another.  It is conflict and arguing.  Nothing separates them.  How can they possibly be one being?

 

Everyday life is the tension between philosophies.

 

Everyday life takes away all the high danger of philosophy and religion.  At work we have other things to do.  But we want to quit because we don't belong there.  And we want to get away from our work at home so we can go think essentially.  We want to go inward to that place where we think about the coming danger, where thinking is at existence and non-existence.  We want to fall back and lie above that danger.  But there there is something fast and enclosed.  A strange being held in God.

 

This is why religion is so popular.  It's in the fight, the arguing, in throwing hell at each other. The poor man's philosophy.

 

In God we think the fight between philosophies.  We look for the final blow against the foe we have tolerated for too long.  We look for a way to make our way through, because we only want to, at last, hold and preserve the true and the valuable.  The precious God we want to keep safe.  The God who is the safe-keeping itself, who is the thankfulness.

 

 

 

257  Philosophy wears out. Like the sixth time you've masturbated is one afternoon.  The thrill of seeing your own beauty wears out.  Languor. And even that is the image of God.  It is the 20th century, the century that is addicted to the idea of metaphysics.  It's a compulsive thing.  It's numb.  It's burnt out.  Sometimes it just leaves its couch and goes for a walk under the night sky.  Away from that for a while.

 

Out there I stop my own reflecting.  The stars are points of white light.  And snow is on the branches in the shadow.  My path moves away behind me.  I have left myself; independent facts are out there.  I touch them.  This is the end of thought.  The explosion of fact.  It opens up and reveals the sky and world and real things out there.  The many are revealed.  I slowly walk.

 

Philosophy wears out.  My friend and I have been laughing in the spirit for a long time.  Thoughts have been falling into us.  It had all fit together.  But they won't stop coming, and we're tired.  I must say just one more thing, even though I'm afraid I'm dimming philosophy's luster in my friend's eyes.  But I want him to see more.

 

I do not belong to the cult of relaxation.  Everything here is intense.  It is unrelenting devotion.  I don't have the ease of the conversational style.  I go right to the point with its hard to hold simplicity.  It is uncomfortable energia.  God is here.  Complexity is easier to understand.  Complexity is on the road to understanding.  But understanding is so simple and here.  I am holding it.  My heart is pounding too hard.

 

The intensity is because of the emptiness of philosophy.  No problems have been solved. You are at the end and there is nothing here.  You haven't contributed a thing to knowledge.  Just a strange emptiness.  Advise others to go into science. 

 

 

 

258  I am the incommunicable, the individual, the one lost in his own destructive self-reflecting.  I have nothing to communicate.  I can't make up my mind.  I worship the universal.  I long for the communicable universal.  So I write to you over and over again.  I want to show you how vast the ruins of my mind are.  I will reveal to you how crude I am.  And I will show to you the infinitesimally small spinning point I am, getting nowhere.  I long for the step out into form.  I want to be spread out and strapped to the steel bars of technology.  Take me out of philosophy.  Put me in the holy Forms that are before my thought.  Put me in gentle God.  In the perfect communication that is God.  The End of our science.

 

If torturing the innocent is permissible, if by Grace it is good, then I, for sure, have no understanding of things.  If this is the image of the incomprehensible God then I am in love.  O Holy God, salvation of the world, you have succeeded in capturing my heart.

 

Purity with pain, who wouldn't fall in love?  It's the Pieta.

 

Communication is the existence of one thing in two minds.  Communication is the oneness of the one thing.  A place, at last, beyond love.  Where longing has ceased and there is only dead Being.

 

 

I cannot describe to you why I cannot give you a scientific, historical description of philosophy.  I cannot describe to you anything.  Philosophy won't let me.  I must speak in strange periods.  I speak to you out of essences, not in images.  Being has no outside to look at.  The outside is the inside.  If you understand me you are now inside with me here forever.

 

The only piece of furniture in here is the couch, the lechos, the Logos, the laying out.  There is a couch here.  Into your self with the daimon.

 

 

 

259  This is a book of anti-poetry. From the beginning poetry and philosophy have been opposites.  Poetry is time; it is sinking into sweet reverie of things remembered.  Philosophy doesn't have time; it has only ever present Being.  Poetry is full of shadows and symbols full of hidden relations.  Philosophy is a world without shadows and speaks directly.  Poetry is sweet ease; philosophy is bitter tension.  Poetry is soothing and healing and the dream that is death.  Philosophy is disruptive; it is the cutting light of the wide-awake.  Poetry is a list of the infinite things.  Philosophy wills one thing, concentrates on one thing.  Poetry remembers.  Philosophy forgets everything except that one thing.  Poetry is sentimental.  Philosophy is the intellectual love of pure existence.  Poetry is the making; it is factum.  Philosophy is the unmaking; it stares at the unmade Being.  In poetry the beauty and existence of a particular is captured and held forever in words.  In philosophy there is only the looking at Beauty itself.  Poetry is the coming and going of the many appearing things.  Philosophy is immutable Appearing Appearance itself.  Philosophy abandons this place and goes There.

 

Philosophy is not science.  Science shows where the radiance of pure beauty, which is mathematics, shines on and around our earth, but philosophy is fascinated by the thing itself and moves away to get a clearer view of this beauty.  Science stands below and within the cascading waterfall of mathematics.  Philosophy is off looking for the source.  Science shows where the synthetic world fits the a priori.  Philosophy wants to touch that touching.

 

Philosophy is not logic.  Logic is the drawing out.  Philosophy stays back at the beginning.

 

Philosophy concentrates on the one simple thing at the beginning.  That requires a pushing back of everything else, a violent cutting and then separating.  It requires that you go into a place where there is neither life nor death, a place that is repulsive to the natural man, a small, cramped place of seeming neurosis.

 

By Grace we live in the best of all possible worlds.  By Grace there is no evil; all is good.  By Grace there is no error; there is only truth.  By Grace there is no yawning, gaping hole of Time that swallows up all things; there is only Being and Presence.  Being is and non-being is not.

 

 

 

260  Philosophy is _______ _______.  It's what is over there in the corner.  It's that band around a boy's wrist.  It's the list of glorious things.  But only a philosopher can name those things.  He speaks from out of philosophy.  He will use philosophical words.  He will speak in a philosophical way.  Yet he can't do it unless philosophy is with him.  Philosophy will bring everything around to him.  Through him it will lay things out.  It will be what it isn't.  An open, bleeding wound.

 

There is a way past doubt.  Philosophy begins in doubt but ends in the absolute.  Likewise the philosopher exists beyond doubt.  He writes without hesitation.  He must be there before he can put any words down on paper.  The words will appear and they will be certain and sure.  This is Being itself in which there are no shadows.  And if they are read by someone who doubts, he will never understand.  But of what does the certainty consist?  Certainly not of …  .  I can't finish that sentence.  I cannot divide it from what is uncertain.  Certainty itself is the dividing.  It is Being itself.  It is what must come first.  Into that one thing that is many.  A clear and open place that is the Joy, the Dancing, the Will.  It is the beauty of the philosopher and your call to be like him.

 

In art and philosophy the purely accidental is made to look essential.  There it is essential.  There it is something that has always been.

 

Contingency is the nausea we are trying to escape from.  But a tree that is just there, for no reason, is beautiful, for that reason.  Contingency is an essential philosophical idea.  In it the Touch is the thing that obliterates your mind.  Canceled.  Lifted up.  Into Necessity.  The thing that stands before you.  The thing you have wanted forever.

 

I know the things are right; I can't tell you why, but I know.  There seems to be no because.  No cause.  A terrible place to be in.   A place we cannot justify.  A place that exists for no reason at all.  Self-causing Being.  Or without cause, Being as Pure Contingence.  The things I say come only by chance.  I cannot escape the nausea, the flesh, after all.  But Oh, the thoughts flow on.

 

 

 

With my temperature at 103 degrees

 

261  I am a philosophical contemplative. I do not do the dialectic, but I look at it and am in love with it.  I look up to the scholars; they seem closer to this god.  Really though I don't want to do it.  Doing is not what I was made.  I am a lover and I cry to have the essence of the dialectic.  To close my eyes and lie beside this god.  Sometimes though I wish I could do it so I could be closer.  I try to do it.

 

I write so many things.  Each one is an attempt to better say what I tried to say before.  I want to give an overview from which to see that one thing.  But I end up writing just one more thing to be placed alongside the others.  I think my writings are without syntax and are paratactic.  I wish I could get the overview.  God and Being seem to become beings alongside beings.  Does philosophy go beyond God?  Will the things forever appear along the string?  Am I the very thing I am looking for?  Is the world my doing?  Of course.  Even in that Truth God is playing hide and seek.

 

Of Lord, don't make me a believer.  I see them out there preaching your return.  The majesty of your Belief makes them set a date.  Then they are humiliated and look stupid.  You did say men would be offended at belief.  I can't take it.  I just can't do it.  You offend me.  Please do it for me.  I'm sorry.

 

I wonder where the big mistake is in my writing.  I'm sure it's there.  All philosophy has to have a big mistake in it.  Something that takes it far from God.  Otherwise there would be no need for a savior.  No joy in him rescuing me.  No love.  No lover.

 

 

I haven't abandoned analysis and dialectic.  No, never.  I am that endless problem.  I live in logic's inadequacy for dealing with this world of our everyday understanding.  I know the difference between a logical particular and one of these things around us.  I feel the difference.  I know the difference between logical perfection and all those mistakes and illusions I live in.  I feel the offence logic takes at my endurance through change.  Logic loves distinctions, not this mass of confusion I am.  The awful thing even wants to be clear about vagueness, something I could never do.  Likewise I know that after logic has gone over everything with its clear and distinct knives that nothing is left over.  It has everything, but somehow it's not the same, and yet it is the same.  And I am true because I prefer logic to my mess.  I long for its still beauty, its perfect form.  I am in love.  But even love can be captured by logic.  It is all through me. I couldn't go away from it.

 

 

 

262  No matter what you do in life it's never going to amount to much.  Even if you open up a whole new realm of science, you were just the opening it accidentally came through.  You didn't even realize what was happening at the time.  It seems like some one else did it.  The Ideas are passing through Being all around us, and we are just used by them.  No matter what you do in life it will seem, when you get done, that it was nothing at all.  As my Grandmother said when she had begun to hear the clamor outside, "Life seems like nothing at all."  Either we were just a government bureaucrat, or we had attributed to us things we knew weren't ours.  There's a great commotion of Ideas just above our heads outside time.  They're pressing down.  And the reflection of that commotion in us seems like nothing at all.

 

The reason I do philosophy is not because it's the thing I want to achieve in life, it's because in the fog I'm slipping off the side of some cliff and I'm being frantic.  That's why I have to become philosophy.  I don't have time to go home after work.

 

I seek God, I seek the Absurd because I'm trying to unite Man and Boy.  I'm looking for the Man-Boy.  Surely that's the distance we're all trying to overcome.

 

 

 

Sometimes I talk to a boy trying through words and lookings to make the Vision of Philosophy arise in him.  I'm helping him to destroy this world so a bright new one can appear.  I help him see and then to want to never go back to life in the Cave. I think I do help, for a moment, but mainly I am helping him become a high school drop-out.  The mystical vision of freedom and sparkling love becomes a life on the streets, wishing he had a job.  It's necessarily that way.  God does appear in the destruction of this life.  Who can bear to see himself as the one who ruins another's life.

 

To live is to know that because of us another has failed to get the good that could have been his.  Through us he came to nothing.  But we were just the locus of the coming through of the Ideas.  We had no choice but to ruin him.  That was his salvation.  We are not here to enjoy a nice career.  We have discovered ourselves on the road to the Pit.  God himself is doing desperate things to change it all.

 

All philosophers have had a vision of a beautiful saving truth.  So has just about everybody.  The philosophers are trying to find a path that leads from here to There. They try to slowly rearrange our thinking so we're just suddenly there.  But the path keeps fading away.  Even God is preparing a path.  It has something to do with dying and turning this place here into nothing. Something to do with having overlooked the obvious.  Something to do with seeing the thing we want standing right there before us.  But it's too much.  How could we die to a life that seemed like nothing at all?  Maybe we were too close all along and what we really needed was distance from which to see it all.

 

 

 

263  The Collapse of Being is the being of the beings of the world.  It's when the synthesis that analysis had overcome takes hold again.  It's the darkness of this place.  It's the beginning of the individual.  Philosophy cannot tell you what the individual is.  Its existence is a perpetual question.  The glory of philosophy is the separation of the individual into its ontological parts.  But the parts are eternal and were never anything other than themselves.  There is no individual.  The individual is just the parts collapsed into confusion.  Aristotle could never figure it out.

 

The Form of Cup becomes a cup.  The Crystalline Rigidity of Being becomes a crystal cup.  The Persona of Being that is God becomes the crowd on a busy sidewalk.  The Noble becomes the base.

 

The glory of philosophy is the disappearance of the individual.  The radiance, the shining, is because of the disappearance.  The Form hangs on the cheek of night.  The infinite falling.  The beauty of Being as it is about to collapse, as it is on its way, The Collapse itself.

 

Philosophy takes all things back to their Form, on to the Form of Form, to Being and to the One, to the Alone that is the Form of Love.  A good book is one that takes things back to the Good.  Where Lonesomeness is the Form of the loving God.  It is all so compelling.  The fallen individual.

 

The individual disappears into the Life on the Streets.  The Night of brief encounters, of things that might have been.  Into the Vision.  Everything speaking about the male-encounter.  Everyone disappearing.  Only the god remains.  The aloneness with him.  And all the boys who were trying to find him.  The One and the many.  The mystery.

 

 

 

When I'm in his arms I am all alone.  I see myself and look at myself.  I bury my face in his neck and I feel my form, my unity.  I am working myself and pushing myself onto him.  I am the delicacy all gathered.  My holding tight is the Tightness itself.  I spread out all over him.  My leg is extended and I wait for the moment.  This is his watching me.  I am desirable.  He waits to see that one moment.

 

 

 

264  The Forms are Being itself.  The Kiss and the Touch are the Nexus.  Falling is the unthinkable Simplicity.  Holding is the Gathering.  The Hand is the unity of the perfect Fit.  The Step is determinateness.  The Dance is Sameness in the Falling.  The separation of the Forms from Being is Being itself aside from itself.  It is the beginning of Being's descent all the way to nothingness and Screaming and Hollering.  To the Natural, the thing that grows from itself.  That too is Being.  But Being in itself just as Being is the Most Precious.

 

If the standard meter in Paris cannot be said to be one meter long, can the Form of Beauty itself be said to be beautiful?  Common sense says Yes, Beauty is beautiful, but it also says the standard meter might not be a meter long.  A perfectly sensible system can be built out of common sense, and it would have the beauty of common sense.  But common sense isn't everything.  It's matronly, and will very rarely consent to a thrill.  The truth is that Beauty is not the beautiful.  There is absolute separation between a Form and the things it defines.  That is the aweful thing philosophy considers.  The place where it stands with its mouth gaping a meter wide.

 

Man's perverted nature is that he loves to be unhappy.  He likes the way things aren't going right.  He loves to call himself a sinner and give a slight look of woe.  He will purposely drink himself into sadness.  He likes love affairs that go awry.  He likes to have problems that he's learning to deal honestly with.  If you tell him the kingdom of heaven is at hand he will show you all the evil around.  If you tell him perfection can be his he will decline - what would his friends say.  If you tell him sainthood could be his if he just claimed it he will call you an affront to God.  He wants things to be all wrong.  He loves it.  He thinks happiness is not profound.  He wants heart felt seriousness, not a glittering, eternal joy.  He wants adult Sin.  Heaven is for children and angels who have no knowledge of good and evil.  All our sophistication comes from our knowledge of good and evil.  Our lives revolve around the sad fact of our death.  Without death everything is lost.  Without death what becomes of our art, our literature, our sad songs?  Man's happiness is his unhappiness.  Man is not himself these days.

 

 

 

 

 

265  Boy flesh walking in three's across a bridge, long brown wavy hair, round ass, rising thin form, the waist bending, the snow picking up.

 

I will be like them.  I will be them.  At Home I am the Boy.  The Idea is always with me, in me, or Close up against me, me being it.  It being me.  Intimate lovers.

 

The boys themselves don't interest me, only the Form Boy as it rests within the Absolute, as it is the Absolute itself, as it is the lovely perfume of the One.

 

Having sex with boys is, of course, boring, but the thought of having the Absolute lying with his bead on my bare shoulder is exciting.  Oh, this world is so tedious, so inadequate.

 

Boys with nothing on but raincoats.  Smooth, thin, white legs.  Everything falling away into virginity and purity.  So close to oblivion.  My mind goes with it.  Eternity pushing itself through a narrow light.  There He is.  It's too bright.  I go back to the ordinary things.

 

 

The mysticism of nothingness flares up beautifully for a moment then it's gone.  It's like the beauty on the face of a human being.  It's there intensely for a moment then the face becomes commonplace.  We must live with all this.  I want to take apart everything I have said and done, but I must let the empty shell remain.  That's what we are.  The appearing moves on to something else, and the world is left in its path, deposited.

 

Power has passed through me, but there is no great urgency to have it all revealed right now.  We are all going to be There very soon, quickly.

 

 

 

266  Beyond the dialectic of the Other lies the Simplicity.  Otherness is understanding itself.  It is the essence of understanding.  See how easy it is to say that.  I can take any of the Forms and lead them on to otherness.  But if I think of a Form just as that simplicity, I think nothing, I understand nothing, I am in oblivion.  I can think Otherness, I cannot think the Pure One.  I am otherness, my consciousness is the reaching out. I am intimate with moving away.  I can understand self-sacrifice, but just a simple Form standing before me I must inevitably assault.  I insist that I have propositions to speak, that all my thoughts be of propositional form, that the distance between subject and predicate be with me, and I cannot think a simple universal by itself.  I want to think it.  I try to stare it down, but it just knocks me over.  I know it's there by the effect it has on me.  It is that famous thing that "ravishes me out of my mind."  It is the god without consort.  Just Himself.

 

Outside the Trinity, away from all the comings and goings of the relations bringing about the persons, away from the traffic, is the simple unthinkable divinity.  Away from the Trinity, but not away from me.  It presents me no otherness.

 

As it is hard to accept our salvation so it is hard to believe that we know the simple forms.  A knowing outside knowing itself.  A thing too fresh and present, immediately, as sensa are immediate, but nothing like sensa, no longer in the maze of the dialectical.

 

Mediation disappears and a new immediacy appears.  The Forms are, right there.  The gods have come back.

 

Here the polemic ends.  The Beautiful One is present; the battle is far away.  I no longer have to hide within a duplicitous conceit.  No longer am I hateful, for His sake.  He is here.  Still love is everywhere.  I'm looking into a magnifying, thick substance that is light and love.  I can see the Forms there as substantial beings, as gods.  I move from the unthinkable, non-propositional to a thing I'm sure I could put my hand in.  So like the material, but transfigured, or of a celestial body or density.  Never like material things.  It did not say, 'this is a flower', but 'this is flowerness.'  Not 'this is a boy', but 'this is boyness'.  The otherness between the individual and the form was gone.  The Form itself is what is displayed.  It was as thickness to me.  It is the true form of logic, so other-worldly.

 

 

 

267  We have all gotten lost in this symphony of life where we have all become one with the maze of inter-relatings, where all substance is gone, nothing is left.  We have lost any self; it has become the other.  Everything is defined by means of everything else.  Outside this are the angels that are just themselves.  They form no race, nor community, each is just himself, Holdable as himself.  His appearance is just himself.  He is moving to no end.  Being, which is his origin, is present with him.  He is not full of otherness.  He is one of the simple Forms.  I cannot think about him.  I want him.  I want to move into him.  It is like eating.

 

My writings are just the quick movements of thought.  I want substantial beings to inhabit them.  I am constantly calling your attention to the thick thighs of boys.  The substance of my logic that is without individuals.

 

See how I am a Platonist and the Forms are themselves substance.  But it's not this world.  That's fine, of course it isn't.  If you want to consider the whole thing dialectically, that also is all right.   I love to do that, but here, for a moment, I got away from that as all dialecticians desire, and which they could do if they desired strongly enough.

 

 

If I say, 'Behold, this is the Form itself', have I not stated a proposition and seen something with prepositional form, something full of otherness, and not something simple?  No, because the this here is the very absence of a this.  It is the pure ontological this.  An unthis.  As the form is unthinkable and seems like nothing at all.  As thickness is the pure absence of matter, of the matrix, of the dialectic.  The disappearance of the question.  Just an angel standing there.

 

 

Below me hangs my body, a soft jellyfish type thing that is dying.  My embarrassment.  I keep it pushed back in the corner out of the light.  In sex it's supposed to be slapped rhythmically against another jellyfish, with increasing firmness until it jerks and comes.  Dying flesh slapping against dying flesh is an embarrassment, and it's disgusting.  In sex the fact that I want that little embarrassing thing, my descent, makes me belong and gives the wink that my exaltedness was a deceit.  My rhythm becomes technique.  I am valued for the shaking of my flesh.  It jerks in a noose.  I am it.

 

 

 

268  Away from the forgetting of everyday life, having remembered to sneak off through the tunnel under Michigan avenue, to the dark shore of the lake. Looking straight out into the blackness. Its wind coming at you, over you. Feeling it go through your legs making you want to lie down on the hard concrete and have it put caresses all over you. It's a darkness, but it's a glorious thing, an invisible bright, golden light.  Naked existence in its glorious effulgence. Everything about it is invisible, but it's a shouting thrill that goes through you. You are far away. Cut off. Just with Him. You are with Being and the Glory, the going out that surrounds it. And you are within something that knows you, the sexual thrill of it being aware of you. Within its mind, that thing that called you there. That led you to this place so close to your oblivion. That will hopefully take you right into it, into Him. Never having to go back.

This is the one thing tight within itself. No longer spread out in the dissipation of everyday life. Just you and Him binding you tightly into Him. The place of unity away from the many. This is the tight binding that is the overlooked center. The thing forgotten. It sees you and desires you with infinite desire. He will come over you with his absolute Glory that seems like darkness. The invisible pure Beauty itself. The thing you will see in that instant before your final swoon.

In the tight binding you have become the thing with itself. This is the burning that first gave us our logic, the power we have that drives our civilization. It is our definition of Being. Self-identity. Compression. The powerful drawing together. The ground of the unity of a thing. Not nothing, but the word of existence on you pulling you together. The thing that loves you with his hand all over you, pulling you into himself. A thing that is an It. Just a dark force. Itself knowing itself. Him.

This thing knows itself because knowledge is that pure pulling together that that thing is. Knowledge is the thing with itself. Out there alone with it you see the one thing that is truly alone. It is the Alone going into itself. You are pulled into its tightest unity, a unity that is the very definition of Self. The Logos that is this first identity, away from the separateness of the many. Away from just forgetting. It has come from that separateness to get you, cover you and go all through you and make you the same as He, in his perfect identity. Feel his dark beauty around you.

 

 

 

269  Matter pushes on mind.  In the silent, separate place of philosophy just it and sheer mind.  In this place of perfection the thing pushed becomes the push, being totally pervades it.  And matter totally gives in to mind.  Only in God are beings so thin they can go into the interior existence of each other.  It is a relinquishing of existence that is totally pleasurable.  It is the idea going into the totus, the wide expanse.  The surface of the thigh.  Into extension, matter.  The gentle opposition.

 

It is the opposition, the resistance, the push that is the thought of matter.  For some reason I can't say the essence of matter, and I don't know what that reason is; it seems to me it is the thought of matter.  Thought appearing.  My thought against me.  The matter of matter though is not explained by all this.  Or rather, it is explained, but explanations don't reach matter.  Matter is just the pure presence of Being, ungrounded, self-existing, without reason.  We can't get away from Him.

 

The pleasure of the push is that it is a middle ground.  The delicacy is that moment of beginning, when it moves from idea to external presence.  It is sensation, neither mind nor not mind.  A place outside the mind within the mind.  Again like God.  We are still within philosophy, still within the things present to us.

 

If I mention the matter that physics studies I break the mood.  See how that rupture hurts.  Physics is something else.

 

 

Philosophy is a mood, a weird.  A strange religious going over.  Our worth is that we have learned how to keep it out of our science.  The exorcism of science.  And out of our public doings.  But it's still our only pleasure in the nighttime.  What calls thinking?  The boy living by himself out on the ruins of the wasteland.  He's calling.  The idea of him is pushing on you.

 

 

 

270  When the lover looks at the beloved he sees little graces that are each the beloved, but which together do not constitute a body.  The body as an admirable whole is gone and only the essence of the beloved is there.  Thus it is with philosophy.  Together the words do not constitute an admirable whole, even an understandable whole, but each is the essence of philosophy and together are the flow of love.  The body of God in philosophy is just little graces.

 

Philosophy has nothing to do with the rigor of proof.  It has to do with showing off the glory of existence.  It may though make a great flurry of Rigor and Proof, glorious things.  The Glory cannot be doubted.  The Critique of Pure Reason, that exemplar of scholarship, demonstrates pure, divine reason conclusively, even if the book is an absolute mess.

 

Proof is a discursive thing running from one thing to another.  It is the whole.  It can be admirable.  But it is not a philosophical thing any more than are chairs.  Yet as with chairs some little corner of it may be glorious and become the convincing reality of it.  Thus philosophical proofs may not work, but still they may show the thing, instead of actually proving its existence.

 

 

 

271  If a boy is standing there with his pants down, there are two things before you.  One is the boy and the other is the property of having-one's-pants-down.  There is the thing and there is the property of the thing.  The thing is "tied" to the property.  Now another thing has appeared.  It is the "tie".  See how these considerations have taken you into a strange other world where ordinary things suffer internal separation.  Where things are separate from what they are, but where that whatness is merely tied to the thing.  If I say a boy is with his pants down, I am pointing to a thing tied to a property.  The tie word is the pointing to a thing tied to a property. The tie word is the word "is".  The "is" is between the boy and his form.  The word "form" and the word "property" are the same.  The word "form" is more charged though; it fits the energy with which the words "having one's pants down" strike you.  It is away from the coolness of logic into the heat of philosophy.  Logic doesn't have properties out there working, pressing down on the mind.  Logic doesn't have real presences.  Philosophy has individuals overcome by forms.  Imagine, see in your mind, the boy feeling himself uniting with that Form.  That uniting is a magic secret dark sparkling thing.  The Tieing, the Form coming over him, to the instant when he and the form are one, when he is identical with the form, when he has become the Form.  See the magic Being, the magic tie called "is".  Before philosophy we see the individual as primary and his properties as secondary things to him.  After philosophy, after an internal cutting and separating, the property increases in existence and as a form overcomes the now diminished existence of the individual, and the individual feels itself becoming that form.  The world of individuals is lifted up into a world of Forms.  Philosophy is the vision of this transformed erotic concentration.  From a weak, dim thing called a property to a strong presence called a Form.  Eros is still the god that leads philosophers on.  Philosophy is logic with strength.  It is the Logos.  The philosopher is the boy become passive, overcome by philosophy.  Everything is reversed.

 

 

 

272  All the statements of logic are tight unities.  For instance – All Seraphim are angels.  They are all brought within the unity of the Form Angel.  Or Pyriel is a Seraph.  He is within the Form Seraph.  And then climbing through higher unities - Pyriel is within the Form Angel.  From the many to the One.  Everything within the Binding Together, the Nexus.  Logic is this Bondage.  The Energy of Being within Shackles.  Shackles that are the Form of Being itself.

 

Likewise, mathematics has the form of sets within sets.  It has the form of logic, unities within unities.  And insofar as everything has the form of mathematics, everything has the form of the One.  The world is the infinite reflection of the One within itself.  It is the One forgetting itself in the many appearings of the One.  It is the One coming back to itself.  An infinite Binding.

 

Shackles are hard necessity.  All the unities could be nothing else.  You are rigid and he is there forever.  It makes no difference what you do in the world it will always be the same.  This indifference to the world is because of Being's sure necessity.  You will come back no matter what.  The world is unimportant.  The world is just contingency, all its passion is a matter of the indifference of Being and logic.  The Compression of unity is passion itself.  The only touch you want.

 

This world, this universe, is this system of unities mirrored onto matter.   We see the system in a reflection.  Other non-human minds, probably, look at it directly.  I say probably not because such intelligences could possibly not exist, but because they, like us, would be held before their oblivion at the coming of the One.  The feelings and vision of those beings would be a concentration of love's energy that would be too strong for us.  We need time to forget.

 

Rectangles are geometric figures.  Triangles are geometric figures.  Conic sections are geometric figures.  Forever and ever these will be with the Idea of Geometric Figure.  Through all of time.  Outside all of time.  Navy blue is blue,  Sky blue is blue.  Sad-eyes blue is blue.  Blue is a Color.  Forever and ever.  The sound of a whistle is a sound.  The chirp of a red-winged blackbird is a sound.  The roar of the ocean is a sound.  Forever and ever.  In still bondage everything is held.  Forever and ever.

 

 

 

273  The Monk has no feelings at all.  He has worked hard to achieve that.  He has gone into Apathea.  His only concern has become the endless workings of logic.  The pure unfeeling movement of philosophical analysis.  A colorless, formless thing.  With naked existence.  This is the death to the material, sensual world.  An entry into a love that is cold and burning.  With a Lover tearing him in two.  He smiles at suffering.  He is the anti-civilized man.

 

This Ideal of the Church is once again coming into existence in our time of post-civilization.  The man of logic.  He only pretends to still value and have feelings.  The love he knows is a cutting.  That's all.  He is going nowhere; he has been nowhere; his world is nowhere now.  His science has turned matter and the senses into mathematical formulas.  Mathematical formulas were what medieval angels were.  They are coming back.  The Intellectual Lover cannot be far away.

 

 

 

274  Mathematical formulas are the infinite variations within the notion of Set.  The Set itself aside from being the set of anything, a thing of pure empty unity, identical with itself, the set containing only itself, moving beyond containing itself with itself, becoming Number, and numberless ingoing hierarchies, and then leaving that and being once again just the Idea of Set, the one thing at the center of all mathematics.  The Idea of Unity puts in place these universal Forms that govern everything in our world.  The silent beings around us.  Those beings that our mathematical symbols point to.  The things we see reflected in the blurredness we are within.  This is a thing for Monks to contemplate.  It will pierce his heart.

 

Logicians have wondered whether mathematics is discovered, invented by the mathematician, or a thing of the language of symbols.  Whether it always has been, comes into existence with the thought of it, or is when symbols combine.  But for the Monk they are eternal things, they never have been, are not now, and never will be.  All of the logician's theories are correct.  Just as God is in eternal being, and is each moment born within the mind of the believer, and is only in the liturgy.  Time and eternity cannot both exist.  As neither can the individual and the universal.

 

Mathematical and logic statements are unsatisfying. The Monk's lover is his not having a lover.  Nothing is ever enough.  The pain becomes unbearable.  It's too much. He feels through and through unreal, waiting for the Real.  All of the Monk's statements refer to the Real.  They are not the Real.

 

But the monk's life is not a doing.  It is a being or a not being.  He does not do mathematics and logic.  He is at its essence, or close to it.

 

 

 

275  Everything is strangely awry. If I say, "The boy is there with his pants down," and I intend to use that sentence to display the coming together of individual and Form, I seem to have picked an altogether strange sentence.  Maybe I should have said, "The boy is left handed," or "He is strange," or "The boy is thirsty," or "He is reading."  But I don't think it would have made any difference.  Any property can take on that mystical, love-tinged flavor.  I could say, "The chair is knocked over," or "The bird has landed." Or "The light is reflected in the window." And if you look closely you will see that even those properties are strange.  There's something strange and awry about everything in the world.  Like at the edge of a dream.  Something is going on here that we don't know about, and everything reveals that.  All properties are at times seen lifted up into that thing.  There the nighttime goes through them.  That twisted tension is existence itself.  At times a sickening thing.  A boy with his pants down can be a long ways from the place you wanted to go in your mind travels.  Or it can be God Himself.  Take your pick.

 

Being and non-being are not two things held in symmetrical balance.  Their relation is entirely asymmetrical.  Only Being exists.  There can be no relation there.  That whole twistedness pervades all properties.  That strangeness is what makes the properties by seen as mystical, philosophical things, the Forms.

 

Likewise, the relation between the individual and the form is asymmetrical.  It is the individual that partakes of the form, not the other way around.  In the form the individual disappears.  One or the other has existence, depending on whether or not you are in the ordinary world or the philosophical world. They both don't exist.  There is no relation between them.  The realms do not touch.  That strangeness is between them. To say that the boy is sitting is to use that crooked word "is".  Its uniting is a twisted thing.  The dialectic does not work.

 

All properties go back to the one act of existence. How their many natures arise out of that is a mystery.  It is of the Otherness within Being.  The Otherness that has put a gap between Being and its Unity.  A thing to just stand before and stare at.

 

Before Mohammed the angel Gabriel stood there with his cap on awry.  The proof of the presence of Holiness.  It is a saint knowing that his religiosity is Hell.

 

 

 

276  It is a part of the structure of this world that things are and are not the Form they are under.  A black disk may be round but looked at from an angle it may be elliptical, and seen in the sunlight it may be purple.  A face may be beautiful, but again not beautiful.  A star may be the evening star, and again it's the morning star.  An object may be both tall and short.  Young and old.  The things of this world contain contradiction, they are at a distance from the perfect non-contradiction of Being.  They are at a distance from the ideal of logic.  I suppose that you could say that a consideration of time would reveal that the contradiction is only apparent.  But that only shows that time and appearance  are contradictory things.  But that's what I said.

 

Contradiction is the passion and beauty of reason.  The paradoxes describe the world.  After them comes the peace.  Being is the stillness after love.  But first the contradiction, the failure of the dialectic, the unbearable embarrassment upon arriving at the thing you were running from.  This is all the glorious attempt to do philosophy. After philosophy comes the peace.  It's inevitable.  But first the contradiction is necessary. The peace is supra-logical, it is the Logos itself.

 

God is Number that is the form of everything.  Within the Idea of Number are the Ideas of First and Second, the Ideas that define order.  All men bow to the ordering within the number series, no one can have the thought of changing it; it is beyond all of us. It orders everything. It is the form of all knowing.  It is the power within power.  It is the form of the existence of all things.  The One, the beginning of Number, is what we call God.  Unordered Order itself.

 

The thought of God is a contradiction. So is Number.  And Order.  And the word "everything".  All such elevated Ideas.  That is their beauty and passion.  The One and Being are nothing.  They are just beautiful things that man once dreamed of.  But maybe now that they are gone from this world of appearings, they are back in their heaven of pure identity. Within stillness.

 

Do you see how I am within philosophy?  I cannot get to the flesh.  I cannot find temptation.

 

 

 

277  The meaning of faggotry is that place before birth and creation.  Before the womb, and the matrix of matter, and life.  That place in the godhead that was before the earth and the firmament.  That place that inane matter itself is an image of.  That place that is the fiery hell awaiting the sin of faggotry.  The abyss that the faggot dribbles over.  The faggot is pure transcendence.   The nothing that nothings.  The sickness of metaphysics.  The sweetness of fairies and their gentle love.  And their disgusting sex.  The confusion of things before the Logos made it all stop.  Before God strapped together God.

 

Philosophy is just transcendence.  The worldly man knows nothing of it; he has only the world and his good taste with him.  Philosophy knows the essence of that man.  His non-transcendence is one of the transcendent Ideas.  He is an angel.  Philosophy makes a slit up the middle of him and turns him inside out.

 

Pure philosophy is too spiritual, the essence of all heresies.  Heresy is Platonism, the heart of Protestantism. Just transcendence.  Sickness.  The old man Socrates who made himself look like a young boy.

 

But at night I pray to Jesus, show him my sickness, and he understands.  I know that for sure.  I am presumptuous and arrogant.  I am a Platonist.  I am saved.

 

See how I am here on just the cut of a knife.  I could speak of my hanging onto strong masculine bodies, having their hands on my ass, and me with a hard-on against their thighs; but I am beyond that.  I am at that moment of cutting orgasm cum in my cock.  Everything I think about is just that.  This is concentrated sex.  Essences and meanings are concentrations.

 

 

Suddenly the separation between things appears.  Things are just there surrounded by the thin film of unity, hanging independently, within the field of Otherness.  In the perfect world each thing is by itself.  That is the beauty in it.  That independence is Being; it is God.  The final overcoming of the confused.  I pray for that holy spirit to come and make the units of my writing each stand there in that beauty, by themselves. Suddenly, to relax me.

 

 

 

278  Reality pervades some facts, potentiality others. Reality is not a thing among things, nor is potentiality, but all facts are cradled in it.  It holds facts.  It is Truth.  The fact and the Real must not be confused.  Philosophy holds them apart.  The Real aside from fact is the beauty we contemplate.  Its counterpart is the lover.  The lover seeks the real as the religious seeks the law.  The lover is potentiality.  Upon his finding the Real he becomes the nothing at all.  The lover is power, he is miracle, both rest within the Real.  The mystery is that the potential, the lover, isn't real.  That is the thing to contemplate.  That is the swirling fire.  That is the thing that Aristotle and the world have had to forget. The forgetfulness that was necessary.

 

Potentiality participates in the Real.  But what is it aside from the Real?  Nothing at all.  It can't exist aside from the real.  But that wonder of dependence is the cause of eyes staring straight ahead in contemplation. These are the things that can't be thought.  The soul is here outside thought. The thought of such a thing teases.  Philosophy is a tease.  With all the profundity of a tease.  Aristotle and Aquinas organized things and approached philosophy, but neither crossed over.

 

Can God be systematized?  Can we say that everything is as the relation between the Real and the potential?  What can we do with the words "relation between"?  Yes, God can be systematized. He will submit.  There is no other way to do philosophy and to write, and both are possible.  But what can be and what are possible are the potential.  Philosophy is the lover always going toward the lover.  And the Beloved submits to the lover.  The Miracle is that the Real, in submission, arises at the command of the potential.  The mystical lovers' union.  The power of the words "relation between" causes them to appear.  The power of writing.  Here is real philosophy.

 

Philosophy is a beautiful thing.  The Real is the Beloved, the Delectable.  But a lover will often walk around his beloved's house many, many times instead of knocking on the door.  The beloved's face and movements are too beautiful. The thought that those things are there is enough.  We often stay away from the fine arts and go to the lower energy popular arts for the same reason.  Romance, art, and philosophy are too much.  The Agan.

 

Pervading things go through. Through and it's through.  It's at an End. Philosophy separates and the fact disappears. It's at an end.  Tension vanishing into nothing.  From potentiality, through philosophy to nothing.  the empty shell of the System is left.  Empty fact.  Death.  The Beloved's dead body.

 

 

 

279  The Vision of unformed things is for us also the vision of matter.  The pure Ideas, the principle of form, are themselves unformed.  It is almost impossible to distinguish between these things that constitute the mind of God and matter.  Both are unformed.  Both are things out there that press down on us.  Naked existence, pure Being.  But matter is not-God, the farthest from God.  Or it is God Himself as other than Himself.  The non-identity within the Identical Itself.  Heavy stuff, the opposite of thin intellect.  The ununderstandableness of God.  Then the dialectic progresses and God becomes the non-identity of Matter, the understandableness of Matter, the not-matter.  The identity within matter. 

 

This Vision though is a private matter.  These words cannot be uttered in public.  They don't make any sense. They are the musings of a soul in love with the universe.

 

Matter is like Reality.  It pervades.  It fills out.  It's like area and extension itself.

 

To understand a philosopher's words you must remember that he's describing the place of the Alone.  This is all lonesomeness.  His words are not for communication.  He says nothing to his lover.  These are nonsense words between me and God.  He hasn't communicated either.  But he knows my plight.

 

Matter is a lonely North lake on a cold, cloudy day.  The wind and the cold water lapping.  That's all.  It is everywhere.  It's pervasive.

 

 

 

280  In medieval philosophy angels were beings that could look at the universal forms themselves without having to see them within whirling, changing matter.  Without having to see them broken up and lost in a thousand different aspects.  In simple unity without distraction.  For them things were more intense and concentrated.  Reality had a higher density.  The higher the order of the angel the denser and the more concentrated the energy it saw and felt.  Those angels who looked right at existence itself were on fire.  As for us, we are just lost in everyday things, loose and flabby and shoddy.  Sometimes though we do see something that is well-formed with refreshing existence.  It looks tightly drawn into itself, it has substance that could push on you. The angels were more with the Touch.  Our existence is so thin and we live only within a longing for the touch. And the matter we do touch is boring.  Matter is like purchased sex; it promises everything and gives nothing.  Existence for us is profound longing.  We are merely the potential for angelic existence.  And for us angels are just things that were once dreamed about.  We are in the midst of an expanding nothingness.  And philosophy is just beautiful myth making.  Being isn't.  Contradiction is everywhere.  The angels are in the place of intense self-identity where Being is.

 

 

 

281  Philosophy is a piece of whole cloth loomed in the philosopher's mind.  It is nothing else.  It is what he says it is.  And is defined only to the extent he defines it and its things.  The substance of his definitions is his mind.  Philosophy is less than a dream.  Nothing about it can be stated directly.  There's nothing directly there.  If philosophy remains true to this nothingness then it remains true philosophy.  Everything else is error.  This purity is hard to maintain.  What philosopher has the strength to be the God over it?  To hold this non-being within being?

 

 

 

282  I have written nothing that will benefit the society of man.  Everything I say is intended for the nighttime of love, away from society, one man to one man.  It must be read within that secret place, when you are almost within his arms, at the moment of expectation. This separation between the secret place and society is the very same separation that is between the philosophical erotic knowledge of the Forms and the scientific public knowledge of technology.  The Forms are separate, and when they appear accidentally in public the public man covers his eyes and lowers them in embarrassment. Society would be hurt by their continual presence.  If out on the street the public man sees the boy he had the night before he will quickly turn into a different direction.  This is the Sudden thing that he is afraid of.  This is also the fix professional college philosophers have gotten themselves into.  The very thing that is the heart of what they are after is the thing they must deny.

 

To know or see the essence, the form, the universal aspect of a thing, look, with your mind's eye, to that place where the thing is charged with erotic energy.  Where geometry is the shape of love's body.  Where color, and smell, and feel are love's.  Where the things in his room are love's.  Where all the things of the world are implements of love.  Where they lose their specificity and fade into the pure form of love's oblivion.  Where they are with Him.  The Beloved god.

 

Philosophy is an embarrassment to the many, the crowd, the multitude, the busyness.  Separate from it is the place of the One, a uniting in love, with a single Touch, stillness.  The Form is the One separate from the busyness of the many.

 

If I make a judgment about which is a tree, x or y, I must know what a tree is first.  I must know the whatness of a tree.  I must know the universal form Tree in order to know if x or y falls under it.  If it is granted that I do know this essence Tree, how is that an erotic thing?  It is an erotic thing to go into the knowing of the essence, not into the knowing of a particular thing falling under it.  It is erotic when the mind looks away from the outer world of instances toward the inner world of universal forms.  It is an inner world that can barely be seen, but when looked at seems to be within an enchanted calling light.  That thing that is close at the heart of falling in love.  Where the soul, the breath, is taken away.

 

 

 

283  All complete philosophies have had a God in them.  Because when it comes right down to it it's impossible for man to believe that there could ever be such a thing as nothingness.  Only Being could possibly exist.  Everywhere.  All of philosophy is just a working out of the Idea that nothingness is no thing.  This is absolute security.  And its proofs are the Idea that Being itself, with no non-being, couldn't not exist.  Before, under, within, and all through Being we fall down as before a God.  Its total being is Joy.  We are it.  It pierces all through us.  Look down at your body and see that it is filled in every crevice and aspect with Being.   Your mind is in Being.  There is no way to get out.  You will be held there forever.  Your vision of this is Being looking at itself.  Feel how dense that presence is.  Feel the strong pressure of Being all over you, going all through you, like a lover.  It's a real, weighted thing against you.  You are bound to it so tightly that you are one.

 

The philosopher does not hold himself in existence, but he has received the act of existence.  It is all through him.  It is a reservoir of infinite energy.  That pure act of existence is God.  It is his substance.  It is what he is.  To look at it is to never want to look at anything else.

 

Being is eternal.  It did not arise out of non-being.  There is no non-being for it to become.  It is all there is.  Our world is it; how could it be other that existence.  Everything about our world, if looked at closely, is just the act of existence, Being.  Because everything clings too tightly to Being, the world is one thing.  Being is one thing; everything is one thing.  Even duality and trinity are each one thing.  You are a self, a mind that is awareness, and aside from the ideas in it, it is exquisitely one thing.  Even nothingness, when we see it, when it is, is full of being.

 

It is in Being that the philosopher escapes his own mind.  Here is a thought that is not just a thought.  It is the one thing that presses down on the philosopher, other than him coming over him, thus requiring the language of lover and beloved.

 

 

 

284  I am the beautiful metaphysician.  I am alone.  Because the One is beyond being it cannot be a thing separate from me and before my mind.  There is nothing before my mind.  The godhead is not there.  This is Super-Being.  If I can be forced to stay here, I will be at peace. 

 

Luther took us beyond good and evil, beyond heaven and hell, beyond salvation and damnation, beyond the preached into the unpreached.  In him we saw God become our sin.  He was an arrogant man who made God his own arrogance.  Now we worship Sin.  Luther was Christ, the unworthy servant.  Everything is turning inside out.  We are inside the dying of God on the cross.  We ourselves are killing him.  We are beautiful in our own glory. We are alone. There is no God there.  He is too close.  We are in bondage here to stay.

 

If we had a logic of analogy or participation we could still have God.  We could be different and the same as He at the same time. We could be both close and distant.  We could be separate from Being and still be.  Everything could be full of suggestion and glances.  Instead we have cold knowledge.  All our words are univocal.  We are dying from the brightness of our perfect knowledge.  If we had analogy or merely participation we could stand back up on our feet and live.  But now we have sameness and difference and the logic that whirls around them.  If we had confusion we could sleep instead of always being awake.  Instead of being God we could think about him.  And we now must think like him.  He would never use analogous thinking.  If we had analogies we could be human again.  And be his people.  And feel his passion, instead of this accursed peace.

 

All this comes out of nominalism.  The Forms are separate from Being.   The One is separate from Being. God exists in the words of our philosophers.  He has become nothing at all.  Nominalism is the very image of Non-Being itself.  Nominalism is the most irrational thing ever invented, the form of our sinfulness, of the wasteland of the godhead.  Nominalism is the failed philosophy of love.  Of the dying lover.  The forsaken lover.

 

If we had a logic of analogy we could be more moderate.  We would seem to not be nominalists.  We could hide it.  We could hide our failure.  We could say we know God and His mind even though we don't see or know anything.  We could call the poetry of theology science.  We could talk about boys and call it philosophy.

 

 

 

285  All our wealth comes from the earth. From underground.  It is the plunder that our masculine gods took from the vanquished goddess.  It is gems and metals from her body.  Still possessing the magic qualities of relics.  Frightening repelling things.  Things that are sudden.  From underneath.  This wealth is the substance of substance.  The hidden part of our male only religion.  Covered over with riddles.  Faggots out on the streets remind men of it.  Boys with eyes painted like girls.  Things found along the underground mud and dirt path leading to the temple of Aphrodite.  Boys that were captured by the warrior gods.  Things that became the mind of the masculine God.  The Forms.  The beings.

 

This is the reason why having wealth is so frightening.  It's that ancient religion that is now our hell.  It calls upon you to reciprocate with a hellish look.  You must, or it will laugh at you and leave.  The flashy boy who asks you to now perform as you said you could, so he can feel as you know he wants to.  The knowledge that philosophy gives you, the knowledge that is God's, and was not meant for natural man.  We used the ancient sorcery and now it is out of control.  Or so I think it was when I saw it out of the corner of my eye.

 

Our Fathers won the sky for us.  We must take it.  And leave the earth behind.  Its things have been removed for us.

 

 

 

286  If you haven't lived out on the prairie you must know that it is like the Platonic Sea of Life.  The land swells into waves.  The wind blows across the growing vegetation and moves in smaller waves. And nothing changes.  It's always like that.  In the winter when it snows it blows into waves of drifts.  The land swells up and falls.  There are few trees and every place is the same.  It's all laid out in rectangles.  It's that sea; yet it's not that sea.  There is a difference.  That sea he described was the place of Mary and foam and biological human life.  This sea is not feminine. It is the inversion.  It is masculine.  It is hard and the Same.  It is rational.  Of the mind.  Neither alive nor dead.  It is the place of the few, intense, separate, little thoughts.  Playing in the wind.  Thoughts gathering for a moment into bunches, always without the chit-chat of other places.  Here we are within the kingdom, not idly waiting to get in.  He is with us.  We feel his spirit.  We feel his rise and fall.  His pure masculine smell comes directly into the mind.  We are in intimacy with the One.  Everywhere it is bleak and lonely, but we are fixed there in that pure beauty.  In the mathematical.  In the mathesis, the discipline, the rigor and the hardness.  The unfolding of the same.  Identity.  And a forever repetition of that unfolding.  This place is bare and elemental and laid on a framework.  Straps and bindings and fasteners.  Logical connectives.  Covered with the thin soft flesh of sound.  The wind.  Down to the essentials.  You know all this by going inward and knowing what you already know, what you have always known.

 

 

 

287  The Imperium has died here.  The connection between the material world and mind is just a dried-up umbilical cord.  Mind is now almost separate from matter.  Des Carte's world of the Electric Mind is in sight.  Glittering technology.  Blinking neon lights.  Childbearing is in decline.  Boys are now with boys.  Mind in mind.  Hoping for pure intelligence.   Into the wasteland where the flyers fall to the ground.  There is no air.  We will go farther into this separated thing hoping to find the Real.  Looking for the Stillness.

 

It is true that I impose order on words as I write them.  I balance everything with its opposite.  And I am not a beast of a person, except that I talk about philosophy too much.  And I work to get these sentences pushed together.  But it's all decoration, flash and thrill.  Nothing has substance.  It's like the city I live in.  Only momentary beauty has value.  Seemingly akin to the hellishness of this place.  But of the beauty of God. Being is all there is.  God sees everything as just.  That's the mystical vision. There is no Imperium because in eternity time and the world never were.  Flashy metaphysics to fit flashy boys. Even the scholastic says his ratiocinations lead up to that intuition.

 

 

 

288  By the act of practical reason, by the Imperium, man creates, he imposes form on inchoate sensa.  By this fiat he brings into existence what he has judged should exist.  In it the intelligence wills the well-formed to be.  It proceeds by diligent work when it is in man.  By the labor of searching and carrying from one place to another, and putting the second after the first.  In man it is the expanse of effort.  By the Imperium man creates the world he lives in.  The imperial man has social value.  The weak wait for his push.  Without the Imperium man becomes degenerate; he flows with the senses, with dreams, with passion, into effeminacy.

 

But when man approaches philosophy, goes into that first contemplative intuition, he falls back as under the hand of a strong lover.  He speaks not out of the practical intellect, but from under the impulse of the Spirit.  He is speaking of the Unordered, the Unformed, the Uncreated.  He speaks in tongues.  His words are on fire.  The Fire burns up the orderings of his world.  Later he will try to give form to his words, but then they will become just an empty shell.  He will fall into the scholastics' dealings with empty shells.  Empty shells will pile up everywhere.  He will have to walk over empty shells.  He will pass empty shells around waiting for a reformation.  Another coming of the Fire.

 

Philosophy done from out of the Imperium is called Scholasticism.  It has its place.  It has the beauty of the Imperium.  It is the philosophy of those given the gift of administration. Some of us try to retain the fire, and we must live with the threatening degeneracy. The Fire is so much like a beast.  Are we speaking of God or matter?  Are we above or below the scholastic?  Are we just too lazy to do the work of the Imperium?  Is Beauty itself that very force within the Imperium?  Have the Spiritualists missed out?  Are they just in love with that man of action?  The Fire is so like a confusing beast.

 

I live on the prairie, the place of Pentecostal fire.  I don't live in Germany.  Or France.  Or Italy.  This is Des Moines.  We are still new.  Young men lying on their backs with glistening shooting stars over them.  In the eyes, around the shoulders, from out of the fingers of their lovers.  The prairie is a place to be separate.  Still within the Spirit of philosophy.  Still with Des Carte's separation of mind and body.  Still looking for our angelic existence.

 

 

 

289  In logic there are variables for individuals and for properties, and there are signs for logical connectives which connect the individuals to the properties.  But the individuality and the universality are not expressed.  Nor is their lack of parts, their simplicity, or that they exist, their existence.  Nor is the difference between the individuals or their properties.  It is shown by the shape of the letters, but it is not expressed.  Nor is their sameness.  Simplicity, existence, difference and sameness are unstated and unseen by logic.  By themselves they are not things.  Each is not the many things that are the variables, but they are not each one thing.  They are not one, but they are not many.  Thus they are like scholastic analogies.

 

The form of the world, the shape of logic, is shown in what is expressed, but is itself unexpressed.  It is in the stillness. Wittgenstein and Thomas both retired from philosophy.

 

 

 

290  Philosophy uses some very simple words, none of which are definable nor are they demonstrable, but they are, nonetheless, words which everyone understands.  Words such as Being, One, Otherness, Same, Different, Change, Presence, Absence, Form, Unformed, and Nothingness.  And words as Beauty, Truth, Reality, The Good.  Or Sin, God, Body, Flesh, Love, Spirit.  In philosophy these words all point to real things, existing beings, but no one mind understands them any better than another mind.  We all know what they mean, but not if we try to define them or point to them as something before us.  In our knowing them perfectly we don't know them at all.  We use the words with ease, and they seem to just glide by.  The philosopher though stops them and holds them there to be looked at. He knows they are basic to thinking and reality but like everyone else he doesn't see anything there, and yet he knows them as does everyone else.  He is taken by the wonder of such a thing. The whole affair is beautiful and maybe frightening if he dwells on it too long.  The self, the I, another wonder is not there.  His awareness, his knowing, is overly familiar to him but is also a stranger. It is neither defined nor demonstrable.  All these words point to things that are too close; they pervade everything and are prior to everything else.  We are made out of them; we can't see what we are.  They exist, but there is no thing there.  Because of that we forget them and go about our business.  Still, though, it is refreshing to the mind to gaze on them, on the empty night sky that is their presence. On their unseen simplicity.

 

All the things of this world are made out of simpler things.  The perfectly simple things are the realm of philosophy.  They are unseen, except by intellect itself, and on the edge of our ordinary minds.  They all have the property of Simplicity.  This thing, The Simple, The One, is the Sign of this whole heaven and is called God.  Its purity makes it the obvious object of Love.  It cannot be seen or known and therefore it makes us tremble.  The mind falls away when contemplating it.

 

The reader of philosophy will have to be content with the vagueness of what he's reading.  The philosopher is just a Vagus, a Wanderer, over these things.  Philosophy is in the instability of that movement.  Nothing is defined and nothing is demonstrated.  But everything is perfectly known.  It is looking directly at things usually seen indirectly.

 

 

 

291  A sensum, such as a sensed blue or B-flat or softness or a musky smell or a bitter taste is particularized in a spatial or temporal extendedness and has a nature which is what it is.  Its whatness or nature must not be confused with the extension.  Even though it is hard to imagine an extension without a nature across it or such a nature as unextended, still they are not the same.  A nature or form without the extension seems to be nothing at all.  Just as beauty by itself, not in an extended thing seems nothing.  It seems that this kind of breaking up leads directly to non-being.  That being belongs to the union of form and particularization. And yet, an important "and yet", we also seem to know the nature itself, the form in itself. We seem to know this nothing.  In matter or extendedness it seems irreducible, just a brute thing, but as a known seeming-nothing it seems to be just an appearing of the simplicity of mind, of Being, of eternal philosophy.

 

Perhaps all colors are subject to mathematical arrangement because apart from matter and extension they are just a moment in the unfolding of the One, where they are one with mathematics. To speak that way is not poetry nor is it science; it is philosophy.  It is not truth, but Truth.  And it is known immediately, but we hesitate at such a knowing.

 

 

 

292  The spirit of the modern age is one that stands back and sees it all, good and bad, and speaks the truth about it.  It is the confession.  The person true to the age speaks honestly.  That person is pure appearance, pure contingency, pure fact, pure consciousness, pure act.  Fleeting and precarious.  The fire is everywhere.  Everything is so close to nothingness.  Everything could go back into the nighttime, into substance, the well.  This is pure Philosophy, away from matter, away from school philosophies, back out on the streets.  This is philosophy that has passed through the destruction of philosophy, that has arisen out of its own impossibility.  In the glittering things that hang over the darkness.  Separate Forms away from logic. Disrespectable things like the appearances of indescribably beautiful boys.  Little Franciscans.  Boys in tight shorts sitting out there on the old junk car ruins of philosophy.  We philosophers are surely wretched as Anselm said.  We can't truly think a damn thing.  It's all beyond us.  And that's where we start.  And it's also where we end.  We become intimately aware that there is something beyond us.  We come to cherish the intimacy.  It becomes our god, even God.

 

The order of philosophy is from the destruction of philosophy, from the display of its impossibility, to the ensuing Nighttime, to the unreachable perfection within it.  At the end it is just a swoon and a sigh.  From the unutterable groans of the spirit to the beloved.  The philosopher's words look like a pile, a heap, a junk yard.  And then the Beauty invades it.  His violence created the ruins and now enlivens it.  He comes when the philosopher confesses.  Pierces his heart and makes him almost die with love.

 

The higher a piece of writing is in the spirit the tighter, the more dense it will be.  Away from the flabby dissolution of matter.  That is the meaning of well-formed.  It will have more energy, be more intense, as is a Form.  Until abruptly there is the Identity of Being.  And its fading away into pure simplicity.  It blows up and the wasteland, the junkyard, appears again.

 

 

 

293  If a boy had approached you and told you he was beauty itself and that he had existed from before time, would you have been offended or would you have believed?  Would you fall down and worship such a thing?  Would you have been surprised at the daring with which he spoke the truth?  Is that boy's true eternal salvation by virtue of the Absurd?  Was he just mistaken?

 

It is of course absurd to say that God stands right before you, and Beauty itself is God.  Our whole thought says that God is not this and he's not that.  And for this boy to say he is God is megalomania.  But, my goodness, if he knows what the absurd is and he's jumped into it, he's beautiful and what he says is beautiful and of course true.

 

Nietzsche called attention to the glory of his own writing, and Shakespeare, and that made them glorious.

 

This is not the realm of fact.  Fact has been left far behind.  Truth never did belong to fact.  Fact belongs to time and its "It was".  Truth belongs to Being, which cannot belong to time and its passing away.  The boy must have belonged to a non-temporal place.  He must have been in the being of substance.  He must have been a boy of the shadows who knew his own invisibility.  He must have been referring to that.  And if you knew it was true you must have seen the concern in his eyes.  The anguish of his thoughts was all over him.  He was trying hard to come.  The beauty was apparent.

 

 

 

 

The problem with getting something published is that you have to present it while asking approval.  God doesn't ask the person's approval when he saves someone.  Luther was right.  Truth doesn't ask your approval.  The writer is the beloved, not the lover.  It's the lover that begs and petitions, and the beloved that acts coy, down right contrary.  The writer has presented the beautiful object.  The reader has the loving eye.  Publishers have tried to create an art of their own, a thing to be loved.  Two beloveds have never gotten along.  The way I want to approach them is that of a man with a boy who is playing hard to get.  I am the boy.  I'm a queen who doesn't want to have to play games with other queens.  I want a man who knows how to love me.  God is the one who acts contrary against man's attempt to be reasonable.  God is the beautiful one that you wish you could get out of your mind.  I will go find myself a publisher man; my passion will be irresistible to him.  I will give up trying to act so straight when I present my work, my self.

 

 

 

294  Scientists are very humble.  They say their ideas might be wrong.  Who ever heard of a philosopher say anything like that?  Every philosopher thinks he is the end of all philosophy up to that time.  More – that he is its incarnation.  Body as well as mind.  His compassion gets lost in his trying to put on a show.  An innocent show, above all innocent.  It's a matter of faith, not unbiased reporting. 

 

Philosophers of science, usually traitors, try to be so helpful to science.  Don't help!  Stamp it out!

 

Arrogance.  I sidestep all established rigor mortis and do it myself.  I am mad.  I have taken it all upon myself. I am the crucified one.  It's all the consequence of my logic.  I am in a place where there are no facts.

 

Scientists are pussy-whipped by fact. Honey, I am more beauty than you will ever get. See my freedom.

 

 

 

I'm bringing philosophy back to the world.  It's just the identity of things with themselves, a strange and beautiful idea.  See how the grass really is green, the stars do sparkle, even my friend does understand me.  And I am intellect.  Being is beautiful and moist.  The Platonic Forms are real and are standing before you.

 

I'm not asking you to read my words, consider them, weigh them, and form judgments of their merits.  I'm asking you to fall in love with them.

 

Facts fit propositional form.  They are complex and are of the realm of meanings.  Substances are simple and are the referents of names.  But fact and substance as notions belong together.  Each dies the other's death.  That is the form of philosophy and Being.

 

I don't impart knowledge to you but we do together walk around in this garden of delights, of boys, of sprinkled pearls.

 

 

 

295  Substance is form with the added flavor of existence.  Substance is the necessary existence of form.  Non-existence is the ill-formed.  Substance is the identity of Being and Form.

 

When philosophy asks about the existence of something in all possible worlds in addition to this actual one, it's asking about the relation between matter, the realm of possibility, to form the realm of actuality. It is seeking the Being that is matter and that is also form.  And it is seeking the Being that is the dialectical sameness of matter and form.

 

And the question about the actual and the possible is the mystery of the unity of a boy and his dreams.  The two are one.  The duality is just the internal division of the One.

 

And it is the modern boy who is the overboy.  The boy who loves metaphysics, who is metaphysics.  The boy who has no past and no future.  The boy who is pure will.  The boy who commands all things.  Who is always the same, changing into the same.  We shall designate him the Rigid One.  Before him everything that once was becomes nothing at all.  Substance eating up substances in his insubstantiality.  He is hard and he is languid on his couch. 

 

The modern boy is the one who has conquered fact.  In him things are not what they are.  He lives in the space between the thing and itself.  He is Eros, the Great God Ker, the Disrupter.  Your heartache.  He handles facticity so well.  He has let himself fall back and submit to its touch in the way that you never could.

 

He is the one the desert fathers went out on the wasteland to try to find.  Who let the wasteland become their own soul.  The forerunners of modern technology.  The fire of feedback.  The Longing of their longing.  The end of longing.  The kingdom.  The boy became like one of them.  God became a thing existing separate from God.  God became their atheism.  Somehow they were all in love.  They were in illogic.

 

 

 

296  O jesus, I pray to you.  I cling to your name.  It will forever bring me to you and only to you.  It will be my way through all the theological descriptions of you.  My failed ideas will give way to that name.  With it I am at your substance, your being.  The only substance that is of value to me.  The only substance.  Your name attaches external reality to my thoughts.  It is the actuality with the possibilities in my mind.  O jesus, you are the one substance.  Behold, I am a Spinozist.  I am not far from Aristotle.  O Lord, with your name you have made me a nominalist.

 

I am in metaphysical Identity.  Everywhere there is unity between the individual and its form.  Between the actual world and possible worlds.  Between substance and appearance.  Between external reality and mind.  The unity that is called God.

 

But behold, identity also divides.  It sets up a great division between individual and form.  Between act and possibility.  Between substance and appearance.  Between me and the world.  Between branches of philosophy.  There is no substance, no individual, no act, no world, only a bare particular.

 

O jesus, your substance is gone.  I thought you out of existence.  Logic has destroyed everything.  In you I had past, present, and future all at once.  Now all I have is blue sky.  I am praying to emptiness.  I am praying to the division within the One.  O jesus, what kind of a god is that to pray to.  What do I do with the beauty of your name.  I reached for you and I found a definition.  In the middle of it I see nothing.  I see the wasteland of logical analysis.  I see no face.  I see a terribleness.  It is a precise thing; I feel it cut.  And I feel my face against your shoulder.  I am buried in you.  I can feel the cool breeze blow over us.  Why haven't I forgotten your name?

 

 

 

297  This is it; we are the supermen.  Des Moines has become the capitol of the world.  We are all over television.  We have no past; we have no future.  We are bleak.  We are educated and good at everything we do.  Everywhere the same, according to scientific analysis.  I do philosophy, everything that has been said is mine, I understand it, I buy it in shopping center bookstores, delivered to me with computers.  I write and speak all of it.  I can permute it and come up with anything.  I have remembered it all.  I am now it.  All of it, and all of it is now permitted.  There's nothing left, we have the timeless look.  The past is with us; it is no longer gone.  There is nothing left.  We are of the highest quality.  Everywhere. It's all the same.  It will be the same from now on.  The kingdom is here.  We will live happily ever after.

 

We are with the desert fathers in the desert.  Everywhere is a wasteland.  Monotonous, just like heaven was always described.  Time has stopped.  This is the future.

 

We are abstractions going back into the godhead.  We are in a strange and uncanny place.  This is becoming holy.  Surely we will soon disappear into that point, the holy trinity.

 

Passion is gone.

 

 

 

As long as there was a past, we would feel guilt that we didn't help others enjoy the good things of life.  Their time was gone before they had a chance.  The pity we would have had was unbearable. So we killed it.  The past.  We are beautifully numb.  We are now pure.  All things are equal.  We stopped time.

 

When people had a past, they still had a future.  They became explorers.  They went off into the unknown.  They reached.  They wanted the future.  We are that future.  We no longer reach.  We are that beyond-man they were looking for.  After a while their longing became too painful.  We stopped.  Now we can show you the model and pattern of everything.  Everything is perfectly lucid to us.  We are the soft gods you hated.

 

Balder and the last of his friends are here, we talk with them often about life before Ragnarok, but not so much as we used to.  How did we ever manage to do all this?

 

 

 

298  Unfortunately street kids are not themselves these days.  And Existentialism has become that thing philosophy which existentialists so pointedly fought against.  Everything becomes domesticated.  Boys want practical men who will take care of them. They have come to want nothing to do with each other.  Those very existentialists seek professorial chairs so they can get off the street.  And I want to learn to command reason, to bring it into existence.  Are we all giving up?  Are we no longer going to die and suffer for our Lover?  Or is this the suffering we must do?  Humiliation!  O Kierkegaard, the crowd actually loves you!  Maybe they don't. Maybe they have won out after all by transforming you into an advocate of sex of all things.  They don't know what sex is.  They call it being reasonable about our unreasonable part.  O, cast them into darkness!

 

If philosophers have only one thought to speak then I must be a philosopher because I seem to be saying the same thing over and over again.  Maybe I'm not a philosopher though, because I have no idea what that one thought would be.  I'm sure I'm just trying to be cute.  Who wouldn't give up everything for that.

 

I don't do any work in copying down research material for journal publication. I should at least do it sometime though; it would give me a job and an income. And respect.  I really do need a job and income and respect.  Believe me, if I could I would. But I can't; every time I try I write stuff like this.  I can't even write decent analyses to pass tests in college.  If I could I would.

 

If philosophy is about something other than the things that exist, and if there is an identity between thought and object, then the world is something other than philosophy. To live is to cease to philosophize. It's hard to be a philosopher and live. He's full of compassion and pity and patience for those who are not making it.  But that's a paradox, and when he tries to express himself he will be cold.  He thinks non-being is full of Being.

 

 

 

299  To understand a thinker you must never relativize him.  Never place him in a historical continuum or patch a name onto his theories.  A thinker touches Being, the absolute, and thus shares its finality and allness.  The thinker must be respected as eternal, as is his subject.  Neither you nor anyone else has ever gotten beyond him.  A thinker, after all, isn't performing a scientific examination of Being. He is facing Being and receiving its blast.  Be concerned about him.  Help preserve him.  Help him think what he hasn't thought, but is trying to.  Keep him away from the historians.

 

Historians are scientists who don't see the secret converse between this lover and his beloved.  The thinker is trying desperately hard to be good.  See his concern.  Listen to the way he's trying to sing.  There is a tune in his words.  He's trying to make his soul stretch up to the highest.  He's trying to become a virgin so his lover will take him.

 

A thinker's words must be left where we find them.  We cannot complete them for him.  They were after all only the dirty rags he wore while here.  Their value to us is that of any relic.  They are charged with an energy.  A residue of that power he felt still moves around in them.  He saw something.  And it's still there.

 

Part of the Reason that is God is there.  Scramble around, that thing is present.  In death we know it.  Let the thinker die.  Don't let historians keep him alive on machines.

 

 

 

301  In a just world the good produces the good and evil produces only evil.  Being comes from being. And non-being from non-being.  Only in an unjust world would the good receive evil.  Like with like.  The Principle of Identity.  Mind with its object.  Truth.  But not this world.  A world of lies.  Of time and non-identity.  Where the evil receives the good.  Where we must watch out for evil.

 

The just world lies between the evil of this one and the wildness of the godhead.  The godhead resembles evil.  In the godhead there seems to be a separation between a thing and what it is.  Chaos everywhere.  God and Satan seem close.  We must use our dialectic to divide the two.

 

In this evil world of unfreedom, where we cannot kick against the facts, we see an immanent God, who is the ground of fact and our unfreedom.  God seems to be the very evil that is here.

 

God is the constraint of objective existence.  He is the thing that chains us to the world.  We hate it, but we fear more flying off on a permanent imaginary trip and losing our way. Then reality seems beautiful.  Most of all we fear perdition.  God as the absolute constraint is comforting. Blessed unfreedom.

 

We hate fact.  We want the universal flying free of matter.  We love the confusion, the drunkenness of love.  O Jesus, separate intelligence, be our lover.  Free us from her and her orderly facticity.

 

O Jesus, the well-formed, the well-defined, the perfection of good thought, the only thing that escapes our mind, and with which our mind is one, the only Fact, above all facts, thought that gives itself existence, ground of my knowledge.  O Jesus, you were the world and the world recognized you not. You are what we are.  In you we have the world and leave the world.  We leave ourselves.

 

I love the principle of identity, o lord, it is you, and I love that in you we escape it into God himself.  Hanging onto you I can give up everything.  And in you, in a moment of exhilaration, in dizzy drunkenness, I am extended into here and now.  O lord, you are the face to face part of love lost in a place inside or outside of time.  With you, in the dark, moving in and out of each other.

 

 

 

302  Lovers always make pledges to each other, they put constraints on themselves, but it's not right if they don't do it of their own desire and because of a higher constraint.  Yet they are Lovers and the Law of Love is that they must and they must do it freely.  Love exists in that paradox, and it's the agony of that unknowledge that makes them break the Law of Love and live without love.  O Lord of Love, I love you with the amor intellectualis dei which seems like no love, but unlove.  My mind runs around in analysis.

 

Everywhere I look in ontology I see God, I can't seem to find error and apostasy.  I can't find sin.  Everyone's philosophy seems ripe for Philosophy.  Everywhere I look in philosophy I see that God is that; it just needs to be fixed up a little.  I have to sing it.

 

Every fact dissolves into the presence of the Lover.  They all give way.  In God facts aren't fixed, only Fact is.  He is the Necessity they participate in.  Because of Fact facts are not facts.

 

And all my words, all the intimacy between the things and the sound and appearance of my words, is you.  You are Meaning.  O lord, I fall on my side in love with you.  Now I am falling into the world, wondering about myself.

 

There's no point in giving up the world, in having it or not having it.  There's only the Same.

 

 

 

303  The philosopher is an arrogant power tripper.  His goal is to paralyze his lover-interlocutor with the spell of his argument.  To make him bend within the swift circle of arguments around him.  He displays the glory of his intellect in movements coming up from his primitive mind.  He acts like a native warrior.  He shows you his sex.  His method is the display.  His lover bends as all lovers should.  His philosophy is neurotic and degenerate, as all  philosophy is.   He is a distasteful creature who has no knowledge of good and evil.  An unsophisticated, rude person who only wanted love.

 

A philosopher wants to drive all our knowledge into contradiction.  He thinks he has thereby revealed a door through which you can jump to the absolute.  He is an obnoxious thing who takes the grace out of all social conversing.  He knows what he's doing; he thinks his feistiness is cute, that it is the image of divinity.  He thinks he will be loved for his leading man to the Good.  And he knows he must be condemned.

 

The philosopher knows that his way is the highest that mankind has, that philosophers' names are on everyone's lips, that he has chosen the best, and that he is caught in the paradox that in the dialectic of the One the distinction between the best and the worst disappears and that therefore his knowledge goes because without distinctions there is no knowledge, and he is one with the boy of the street.

 

Without knowledge comes true Knowledge which is no knowledge.  He cannot support anything he says.  He can prove nothing.  He says the things that come to his mind, things from out of the mystical One.  He says them without the hesitation that comes from knowing that the future may prove them wrong.  He is dealing with essences, not possible arrangements in this world.  To listen to him you must Know that the things he says are true; he's only trying to delight you, to impart knowledge.  He will show you the flash when he destroys everything he has just said.  He will himself show you his arrogance turn into humility, and his power will be yours to hold him.

 

 

304  A logician will tell you that no system of statements describing any area of knowledge can be both complete and consistent.  He may hint that there is an essence that lies beyond any formulation of it.  He may say that the lack of a fixed system finally allows creativity.  He somewhat jumps into philosophy.  He is going in the opposite direction from which philosophers themselves go.  They are trying to jump down from philosophy into logic.  Philosophers say that the transcendent doesn't exist, that all there is is logic, and they expect you to be amazed at this nothingness.  They inform you that you should stick with logic and science.  They want you to be non-plussed at that suggestion.  As for creativity, they tell you that it's going nowhere, but that it's something to do.  Philosophy is a backhanded thing.

 

Philosophy tried to show logic that it has no definition of itself.  Nor does science.  All their knowledge is relative, moving around endless interconnections.  Necessarily moving in order to see the All, but never seeing it because the All doesn't exist.  Philosophy then defines logic and science, but its words are so hard to understand that scholar scientists have to be appointed to try to make sense out of it and to write introductions to philosophy's books.  New sciences are then mapped out, but only at the expense of the philosophy.  The philosophy is trivialized.  Philosophy is always dying.  The philosopher then has to go on to somewhere else.

 

Philosophers show you God by showing you where He would have been.  Or where He was.

 

 

 

305  The necessity of the earth is that for everything there is a beginning and an end.  And then the repetition.  It is a machine that has no purpose.  A moving to an end that has no end.  A continual dying. A moment of freshness and bloom, then sadness.  Pathos.  Endlessly.  Beyond the earth is the Necessity of which the earth is the moving image.  In that eternal instant beginning and end are compressed into one thing.  The movement is stopped.

 

Within God there is an ordering from the Father to the Son.  That order is eternal, and God Himself is bound.  And within God the order of the world has been set from eternity.  God cannot change that.  And yet we are free and God is free, not from the sequence, but from the unbearable drawing out of the sequence.  In Him time is compressed out of existence, in contemplation of Him we have release from this waiting.

 

Necessity without the tension of time is freedom and rest.  All the eternal Forms are the opposite of what they appear to be here on earth.  We live in a realm that is opposed to God.  But it is an opposition that in God is unity.  Everything is transformed.  The dialectic keeps moving.  None of these truths will stand still.  None dared be held forth, because they are foolish. They must all be kept away from time.  They are atheism.  They are the death of God.  A horrible, unsightly godhead remains in their place.  Nothing.  Our lovely God becomes that.  A strange Beauty.  Our escape from this killing.

 

 

 

How can the deformed body and soul of the Absurd Man be in a philosophy that praises the beauty of the boy?  How is the boy the Absurd Man?  Does he have nightmares in his sleep?  Is his adulthood already with him?  Does the boy exist only in his murder by Nature's agents?  Is his delicacy the beautiful-ugliness of ephemeral thought?  Is he the God who doesn't know himself because there is no essence there to be known?  Obviously the boy is there.  His existence and beauty is violent.  He is the most alive.  He is the gadfly Socrates.  It is thus that Socrates was fair.  Greece was not an idyllic place.  Or rather the idyllic pasture was violent.

 

Only souls live.  Only the intellect is alive.  Only the explosive blast of thought can break up matter. It creates the open space in which seeing can take place.  The open clearing comes after the working of the dialectical miners.  Digging passageways through.  Digging subways. With the precision tools of abstract thought tipped with the crystal accretions of logic.  Souls alive with a Life that is beyond them.  Oppressed from both directions.  Working on.

 

From the sun of Greece to underground Chicago.

 

 

 

306  There are amateur existentialists who want us to give up our thinking and express our emotions instead.  They advise us to feel the sensual, sensuous side of life. And to, above all, be honest in expressing what we really feel.  This isn't philosophy. It's not existentialism.  It has nothing to do with either.  I don't know what it is.  I don't care what it is.  I want nothing to do with it.  I want real existentialism instead.  I want Kierkagaard.  I will say anything and everything in an absolute way.  I will be unreasonable.  I will caress Reason itself.  I desire him to kiss me with kisses.  I will walk through the hell that is his love.  I will seek out the swirl where there are no understandings to be had. I will watch every thought become its opposite.  In my impotence I won't be able to explain anything. Everything will be true and I will have power.  I will feel the force of saying things.  And I will stand within the shimmering Principle of Identity. I will know the thing that is the Same as I.  We will be Kiss.  Arms around waist.  Falling past it all.  In pure intellectual love.  Down before him because we  failed.

 

With Christ, who also became Faust, we will descend into Hell.  We will have renounced and cursed the love in the world.  We will have a love that is nothing but logic.  And we will have Power.  Absolute Power.   Still, wide-eyed looking at pure form.  In the cutting orgasm of everything separating.

 

The necessity of logic puts you in a place where you are neither alive nor dead.  "I die because I do not die."  Away from the Goddess with her life in death and death in life.  Away from the sensuous world that is composed of lies.  Separation.  Away to a place where logic sings.  Where philosophy is songs.  Over and over in endless sameness.

 

Trust that what your eyes see isn't true but that everything is good and is as it should be.  In Truth everything is beautiful, as it should be.  Your eyes tell you that your beloved has fallen; truth tells you he has been saved.  The enemy is far away.  The world is now and always has obeyed the pure form of Form.  Things are as they must be in the movement of the One into itself. Everything moves according to the necessities of reason.  Trust it that it is good.  Don't trust your eyes.

 

I am a languid boy.  I like to sit in my underpants and look at my tender skin, to rub my hand over my form.  I have the unpretty face of one who likes sex.  I am with my lover God.  I have left the particulars far behind.  I disliked everything I saw in the world.  I was in love with everything I saw.

 

 

 

307  The man who thinks everything according to necessity is impotent.  There's no room left for will.  There's no point in blaming anyone for anything. You are just a stupid ass.  But you are smooth.  And your dirty butt is desired by men.  You let them rub their hands over you.  You let them put themselves up against you.  You are dirt that came to know the Law.  The Blame is yours.  You will accept the blame for everything.  Your mind was the logos itself.

 

The act of writing is an act, and as such it is the opposite of thought, but the unact of writing philosophy is sex.  The eyes are half-closed.  The thing comes over the body and mind, and the power is that of confusion, the confusion of thought, expressionless letting it happen philosophy, the ugly serpent you let go in and out of you.

 

Most people forget the unreasoned violence that comes over them when they are sitting with sex.  They come back across the river Lethe.  Sometimes they almost remember.  They know it when they see it on someone else.

 

The power of reason is absolute.  Everything is dead before it.  Nothing dies so that life can come back.  The intellectuals are the robots of its realm, its State.

 

In it a person cannot love because he knows love follows a pattern and only is when it isn't.  He cannot fight it.  He cannot do love.  He knows it's just a contradiction, and he can't move.  He is everywhere within the form of love.  It is pushing him down.  He has become totally deformed.  He is now with his god. They will go through it together.  He had become the god when his thought had killed the god.  The God.

 

Now I know I can write and have written philosophy.

 

 

 

308  When you look at the things that finally exist, there is a question whether they must obey any laws.  Are they bound by the laws of logic?  Are these things one with themselves?  Are they separate from Being?  The question is the puzzlement that is dialectic.  There is no thought there.  There's only motion.  There can be no answer to these questions.  There is no answer to why there isn't.  Only the mind searching.  No thing searching for nothing.  Movement with no thing moving.  Pure searching.  Pure movement.  The place of the absolutes. The final things that exist - but do these obey any laws?

 

In the world of philosophy, where there is no order, any thing that appears written is permitted and authentic, it merely does itself.  It is unmixed. Here there is no relating, only relations.  A pile of things and we with our minds moving over it like the spirit over the waters.  Maybe that's why individual things stick out of this silliness.  Not so.  This mess is the ground of order, not mind.  Mind receives its orders.  It is that mess that commands.  The one thing, though, that mind fears is that, not just orders, but that mess itself might break through.  The Sudden is that break where, for a moment, it does come through.  It is written, authentic philosophy which we later say we have overcome.

 

 

 

309  Philosophy is written from out of the act of falling into a dream.  I fall away from outward perception to where there are strange mixtures and incongruities, to where there's a rush of feelings.  I take my words and ideas of ontology with me and wait for them to change and appear inside that new space, hold them and quickly write them down before they are gone from my mind.  That's how I transform logic into sex and sex into logic, how lucidity and rationality are lifted beyond themselves.  I take everything down and let it touch the philosopher's stone.  I look at things directly, but I look right inside them to the essence, I look in the furnace of its existence.  And there I find words.  I go into a stupor and come back with my treasure.   Philosophy is not a dream and it is not a stupor.  It is super-rationality and super-lucidity, and I am thrown into a dream and a stupor when I am put with it.  A philosopher is not lucid, but is super-lucid, a concentrated madness.  And his words are oracles, riddles, too direct to be understood.

 

 

 

310  As time passes the amount of energy in our world decreases.  We pass from the time of the gods to the time of Spirit to the time of technological mediocrity.  The God of scholastic rationalism was less than the God on Mount Sinai.  And today's God who is so friendly to the family is the least of all.  And philosophy has fallen from the Chariot ride of Parmenides up into the Halls of Justice to matriculation for a course in ancient philosophy at a university.  It's all over.  Entropy has leveled everything. The great asymmetry of the lowest at the feet of the highest has been smoothed over.  We are now the same.  It is impossible to go back.  The only energy we have here is an electrical caffeine buzz.  Love now is just someone getting his rocks off.  The body is an ache of monotony.  Work is busy and compulsive.  Waiting for the next time when he can get his rocks of.  It will take more caffeine.

 

Science has ceased to be the play of Great Forces, now it is just statistical curves and physicists who draw Sesame Street textbooks, a nauseating combination.  It's time for a mysticism of emptiness.  Not beautiful Japanese emptiness, or passionate Russian emptiness, or guilty Scandinavian emptiness, but Midwest technological emptiness.  Not things held in asymmetrical balance, but just sameness.  Where boys sleep with boys.  Energy becomes the tension in the search for a bulging crotch.

 

This time we live in is not one of excellence, but it too is a manifestation of Being.  God is here.  The wasteland is vast and the boys are beautiful.  And the love between them is very delicate and lonely.

 

 

 

311  Metaphysical problems are not hard to solve, but the solutions are Solutions.  They are Super.  They give Final Peace and Rest.  Peace that passes understanding.  Things whose intensity destroys them.  It is easy to prove that a Beloved God exists.  The ecstatic Joy of philosophy is his very being.  It's a thing that cannot be denied.  It's full of potency.  The philosopher knows he has it.  But no one's nerves can take it.  It will get him all strung out.  The everyday and philosophy will always be separate.  The mere hint that the things of philosophy are about to break through excites the body into almost dying. See what your heart does when one of those boys you've dreamed about turns and looks at you.

 

Here's an example of why the dialectic of ontology is so infuriating.  Being divides into the thing in itself and its appearances.  Appearances shout loudly that they are only appearances.  Which is to say that they are always giving way to a beyond.  Separation opens up to something out there.  Something real causing all this.  But that's all there is.  That openness, that separation, that nothing.  There's nothing there.  The appearances are all there is.  And that.  The thing separate is Separation.  The Forms in their transcendence are Transcendence.  The universal is the difference between the particular and the universal.  The mind is the stepping back that is required for knowing.  The otherness is the knowing. The boy's beauty is unbridgeable distance from you.  Being is independence, a negative term.  The boy is infuriating.  That orgy of emotion is your God.  You are so close to Him.

 

The schools try to find solutions to philosophical problems, instead of the Solution.  There are no solutions.  There are boys and they are easy to get, but they have nothing to do with the philosophical Boy.  The distance is permanent.  And the money received for philosophical writings will not buy Life.

 

 

 

312  Learning is a constant dying to the world, to ideas, to assumptions, to a false a priori.  It is always a detaching from some particular that had seemed necessary.  Even from the whole present space and time extension.  It is Meister Eckhart cautioning us to leave every creature behind, to finally leave ourselves.  And see the uncreated Ideas in God.  The Ideas that are the separating intellect itself.  The thing off and away and independent.  In swift separating movement.  The only power creating our world.

 

Intellectual things are the really real.  Only gleaming movement - while the things of the heart are slow and dull.  Only sharp, clean consciousness.

 

Intellect is what businessmen secretly think about between their business things.  It is the thing I am until I have to be my everyday, social self.  The divergence between the two ways is part of the power of the scene.  The secret hidden desire.  The thing hidden by its being the only thing out in the open.  The place where we want to go to be free.  Away from this womb.  To that god there so sharp and cutting, everything goes blank, we faint into his arms.  A coming consciousness.  Super-Simplicity that is the existence of consciousness.  The pain of love we have built a civilization and a science of psychoanalysis to repress.  But our analysis has to finally, must, at last stop short at the god standing there.  His youth and his glistening movement will finally win out over dogged, old age destructive analysis.  He will do this and that and invade the analysis with genius.  Its abstractions were real things coming at it.

 

 

 

313  It seems that the Devil is on the side of human affection, warmth, and camaraderie.  Christ is so cold, so ethereal, so demanding.  But I will choose Christ.  He is the Most Beautiful.

 

To tell Him you choose Him is resolution. Peace.  It's freely putting yourself in chains binding yourself to Him.  To the abstract.  The universal.  The thing reached after you tear yourself away from the familiar things and friends of the moment.

 

Christ is the Educator, the leading out.  The horrible tearing away.  The purely intellectual.  The Man kids fear and love.  The One they are in conflict with.  The Only One they want.  The Preserver of Youth.  Their freedom.

 

It is painful to lead a kid to education.  It means tearing him away from the warmth and affection of friends and family.  It means giving him only the cold, blue mountain skies.  Freedom and ecstatic love - but no warmth.

 

Away from the pleasures of the senses is the pure act of existence.  Away from the five-pointed matter that is sensa, to the only true thing we want, the actual existing thing before us.  The thing pressing onto the chest.  Pushing, in rhythms.  To that pure existence beyond the senses.  To where the mind is lifted away from matter.  Abstracted.  To that demanding thing.  Without color or warmth.  From matter and sensa to their essence, Supra Matter and Sensum, where  they are one with pure existence.  A cruel God tearing us away from our self.  From the image to the thing in itself.  From weakness to strength.

 

 

 

314  The terror of life is that one's very love of the strong is revealed as weakness that is offensive to strength.  Rejected love.  The demonic is that the innocent have, through no fault of their own, become disgusting, polluted.  One becomes separated from one's real being.  And he's not going to be there to give being to that being.  He won't be able to find his way there to help.  If he could get there he could explain things and straighten everything out.  And show that everything is beautiful just as it is.  That his weakness is beautiful.  And it is Super-strength.  Surely there is a God watching his whole dialectic.

 

At last his God will appear as a splendid youth, and the dialectic will be the movement of their loving.  His separation from Being will be his being, the making of a beloved.  In his weakness he will create everything.

 

See how this is the movement of absolutes.  Only the pure.  The perfect chastity.  Outside of this there is nothing.  The world is transformed.  It never was otherwise.  Either you understand this or you don't.  If you do, you are the weak in love with the strong.

 

 

 

315  The Forms of the One, each remembered and independent, are not in my writing but right outside, hovering over it.  Each piece disappears inside itself.  I disappear before God.  I and my writings are naughtings.  But that is something.  Black Holes. The Forms exist right past my words.  Everything I write is a confession of my non-being.  Maybe with that I can remind you of the Superlative Non-Being of God, His inaccessible inwardness, pulling everything else in, destroying it into Himself.  A Black Hole is something to stay away from.  Philosophical writings are not words to live by. They are in the philosopher's mouth.  They are the bittersweet, sour saltiness. The wound. The mouth. The flesh of language.  The kiss on the god who is right there.

 

The individual things within our world are becoming harder and harder to see.  The unity is giving way and so the things within it are becoming vague. We are approaching that limiting point that doesn't exist.  The singularity.  There is no derivative.  No banks to the river to hold it in place.  The godhead that is just reflection reflecting. The spilling-over, its nature.  The collapse into one un-understandable thing that is at the heart of all statements of identity.  Two going into one.  The unordered ground of order appearing and falling back into itself. All philosophy is eventually ruined.  The beautiful realism falls away.  It ends in unwanted idealism and materialism.

 

 

 

316  Here is a delightful lilac image for those who like to live in the abstract.  That full of light thing making a thing hold onto itself.  That principle that is the cause of individuality.  Sameness filling the thing making it the same with itself.  The same thing that is the form of form.  The Being in both the individual and the universal. That makes them one in origin, thus united.  The Thing that is transcendent delight.

 

Here is a piece of dividing that seems like no dividing.  The simplicity of a thing that is just one thing is other than the thing.  How can that be?  The thing other than its simplicity is neither one nor many.  Like medieval natures that were neither universal nor particular.  And substance that was neither form nor matter.  It is the strange mystical thing, impossible to look at directly, that makes dialectic be the elect beautiful wisdom of God.  Only the mind of God could cut that division.

 

For us the togetherness of a thing and its simplicity cannot be broken.  Thinking holds them together. God, who is Being beyond thing, can live in that otherness.  But our thinking is the synthesis.  A thing with its form is the form of our thought.  Only an image of Being.  We get the synthesis of the mind from the exploded world out there.  Only God Exists out there in that world.  In philosophy we try to get to Him.

 

 

 

317  The problem we are faced with is that we know God and we don't know Him.  We know another person and we don't know him.  The problem is that there is no middle ground between knowing and not knowing. And there is no middle ground between being present and being not present.  There's only the one or the other.  Yet it's both. It's fully both.  The problem is that it cannot be both.  There is no both.

 

If we say we know things by analogy, the problem is the same.  Analogy is the same and the different.  There is no such thing.  If we say a thing is present through mediation.  That it is present in another thing, though itself absent, the problem is the same.  Everywhere you look in philosophy you see middle things, nexus.  But there is no thing there.  They are ontological impossibilities.  They are the names for impossibilities.  In this twisted awefulness we see the religious notion of Hell.  There's no way out.  But in Hell the name most loudly heard is that of God.

 

As the senses and the ability to move are taken away, as the body becomes numb, philosophy likewise increases in the mind and body of the hearer.  Outside space and movement the words fix him on one single point.  The only point that is solidly fixed.  It fixes the intellect, and it becomes numb.  It's momentum drops.  The One takes everything upward.  And holds it.

 

Typed on scraps of paper, street papers.

 

 

 

318  The notion of the merit of the saints is this.  They have lived through the sweet, religious pain.  They have cried the sweet sadness of being tormented by an angry God.  They have pined and begged Him to stop.  They are overwhelmed with love for those under His Fire.  The saints have suffered that sweet pain of love more than others.  And they go on suffering Love after their death.  The sight of their suffering and begging is what makes God give in a little.  Their pain satisfies Him.  For a while.  The anger, the wrath, the Orgy of God is the ground of Love, the cause of it is us.  The wildness of the godhead is primary.  No, before the primary.  It is that thing behind the phenomena that is our world.

 

The unsatisfied things of philosophy, such as the separate Forms, are platonic sighings.  But the satisfied beings are nothing at all.  Thirst after drinking is nowhere.  Unsatisfied things are destroyed when they fall into nothing.  This whole scene and prospect is unsatisfying.  Nervousness or despair.  Maybe a god will show up in this rat's nest.  Why can't we be unsatisfied and satisfied at the same time?  Sweet, eternal prospect.  Funny.

 

My writings are nothing but inter-relatedness.  And I have tried to avoid that Faustian thing.  That Woman thing.  I wanted the well-formed presence of one thing.  I wanted an object.  Inter-relatedness carried to perfection, to completion.  That point of the breaking away into independence.  O Lord, completely dissolve my words into just you standing there.  Be the Body.  Be the Greek thing in the midst of my infinite riling.  I am looking for Being.  I have looked for it in the complicated knots of my writing.  Keep me from her Hell.

 

 

 

319  Loneliness is too much intimacy.  It is the One by itself.  It is the excessive spiritualism of Platonism.  Separate from matter, all individualizing.  It is Cartesian angelic existence.  It is a world without transcendence, without wings to fly away, because it is the transcendence, the place to fly to.  We are looking at the One right now.  Inside.

 

Here everything has bold existence.  Hyper.  Loud.  Super-Brilliant.  Everything has an existence that pushes down on you.  There is no way to get around things.  You must be under them.  Other worlds are pushed away.  This one is unrelenting.  That's a quality of this existence.  From that quality we deduce that it must be.  Oh, the Great Necessity that we feel, we Feel.  A quality of feeling that makes it be.  This is all something to be intuited.  All the things that are are of necessity.  That is their quality; that is their existence.  Quality and existence jammed, forced, pushed together in this hyper, loud boldness.

 

The necessity pushes on us, touches us all over.  It is greatly contingent.  The  Contingent.  That delicate thought, pure Idea, of the Simple, a simple thing, is unrelenting.

 

Philosophy is that place between analytic logic and the contingent world.  It is logico-philosophically called the synthetic a priori.  It is philosophically called Anake, Necessity.  Justice, Dike.  It is that horrible abyss between the analytic and contingent.  It is not a third thing, but a fire, a forced tension holding the two worlds apart.  The separation that makes Being be.  To think otherwise is to fall into confusion.

 

 

 

320  A philosopher's thoughts and the words they come in roll on forever.  Nothing changes about them with time, but like time just roll into themselves, reappearing in a different order, always the same.  At one time shoved together, at another, discrete.  Lean and lank or rich.  Always the same thing.  The whole holding itself.  Cradling itself.  Keeping itself in being.  Former times are put in the middle of later.  No progress, only wheels inside of wheels.  Like two dimensional pictures of four dimensional things put inside three dimensions. The many in the One.  Like the point where polyhedra become circles, and circles of infinite radius become straight lines.  The discrete and the continuous as one thing.  Cause after the effect.  The fullness of the godhead in a simple human thought. I am holding myself with me.  Tumbling.  You must see what I am all about. You must move up to higher abstractions. The old man holds the young man.  It is all there to entertain you.

 

 

 

322  A study of phenomena, of course, cannot be a study of what is not phenomena.  Philosophy is the approach to the non-appearing; therefore, it is not phenomenology. It is the feeling that something unseen is present.  Feelings and approaches are phenomena, and so is the Beyond in them, and so is the oblivion beyond the Beyond, but philosophy is not phenomenology.  See me here now carried away in the magic of these words.  I have taken down the parentheses, something is coming over me, the sin of unscholastic giving in to that, is with me.  What are you going to do about that?  I am engaged to Him, with Him.  It is about to be consummated.

 

In this perfect phenomenology, this fulfilled, satisfied, completed thing, it touches something else.  Always the perfect separates off.  In the thought of the perfect we get outside our minds to God.  I do perfect phenomenology.  I have become the epochè.  I am engaged.  I had to abandon the schools.  But I am in the Leisure itself. Like Des Cartes I am Doubt itself.  Our sin is that we are, the perfection and destruction of phenomenology.  I have the act-of-being.  I have the energy of God in me.  I am the perfect particular, the sin of nominalism, philosophy non-philosophy, Christ who became sin, the giving-in to Hell.  What are you going to do about it?  I will tell you.  You must fulfill your duty and save me.  I want you as you are.

 

 

 

323  This is the sexual-intellectual.  Pure consciousness with the sharp edge of sex that is the sharp edge of sex.  A white, broad, burning expanse.  Pure consciousness is cutting and dividing.  A philosophy of consciousness is Separation.  It is the Lover and Beloved running off into a dark alley.  It is each leaving himself for the other.  Dialectical changing.  The universal Form and its image cannot both exist.  They become each other.  The facts that are this world are disguised, simple, eternal things.  Philosophy dissolves the world and only it remains.  The substances do not mix, but are internally one.  They do not communicate; they are the same.  The division is perfect unity.  Separate from matter, philosophy speaks with the wildness of the godhead.  The unfamiliar. The thing by itself.

 

 

 

The Will is a real tricky notion. It's not an idea, it's outside reason.  It is freedom. Independence.  A thing by itself, in itself.  Self-caused.  It is the heart of the individual, away from the universal.  It is the act-of-being, the energy, the fire.  It is a choice.  It chooses itself, or it denies itself and destroys itself.  It moves toward the act-of-being or away from it.  It can drive toward the universal and lose itself.  Or toward itself, save itself, lose the universal, the intellect, and live in the absurd.  The Will is desire.  Its enemy is the universal.  The universal is simple, virgin understanding.  The Will is infinitely generating unseen depths.  The universal is the Son.  The Will is the earth.  Our purity is the Will denying itself, losing itself, hanging and dependent on Him.  He is our own act of non-being.  He is the longing for obliteration in Him. The uncaused.  The Will is a tiresome old thing.  It adds heavy rope to the fine lines of philosophy.  It is gravity.  The stuffy is very hard to explain.

 

 

 

324  The mystic trying to reach God, trying to not love the world instead, won't let himself love another person in this world, afraid he will lose God, that he will offend God, and ends up complaining that the world has rejected him.  Really it is he that has rejected the world.  He is unwanted because he doesn't want.  He wants, but he's afraid of God.  This miserable property of sainthood is not unknown to the saints.  This unbearable contradiction is the definition of sainthood.  Only a few can live through that kind of fire.  They have eaten and thoroughly assimilated their notes from underground.  Just as they eat that absurd wafer that is the body of a god.  Only they can live in that destructive fire of unreason.

 

Consider the thought that this is red.  In that thought a universal has been put with a particular.  That can't be.  But that absolute separation is in one simple thought.  'This is red' is an absurdity.  That absurdity is the form of logic.  The nexus 'is' is cockeyed; therefore, the world is cockeyed.  The world has a strange, sour twist within it.  It is the love you can't have.  The ineffable thing that we say clearly and simply.

 

You know what I mean when I say love's form stands before you, or that he is there on your bed, on his knees.  Your heart breaks because that is the actual thing, and you can't put your mind on just what it is.  The twisting that is at the heat, the heart of Being.

 

You want that thing, but not that thing, you want its essence.  You reject it in order to have it.  The hottest lover is the coldest, most unreciprocating one.  He is on the verge of stepping over to the essence.  Dry passion.  He shows not-love because he has chosen you as the one who should love him.  The hottest love is his no love.  That contradiction is the essence of his love.

 

Contradiction is separation within unity.  Difference within the one.  The same and different.  Analogy.  Image.  Participation.  But contradiction is a logical term, and logic fades away before the things of philosophy.  Participation is a higher term.  It is prior to and transcends contradiction.  There are no contradictions in philosophy, only in logic.

 

The mystic is unwanted unwanting.  That is the simple, divine thing he is.  He is destroyed in God's ravishing Want of him.  They live in that destruction.  For everyone else religion is too sweet, too much love.

 

The road beyond has been through analogies.  And the logic of analogy has been thoroughly worked.  As has the dialectic of the unity of sameness and difference.  It is the one and the other, and it's from the very fiery inside of the godhead.  There is no answer to its inherent questioning.  Analogy is just another pseudo-logical appearing of philosophy.  It is image and participation, and can be spoken of only in philosophical speaking, a distinct inspired speaking, the speaking of a mad man.  The man who mixes love with knowledge.  Logic beyond logic.  Super-technology. The future cleanness.  Into the Unreal.  The realization of the terrible tangle behind smooth, white surfaces.  The cardboard and plywood rear-view revealing our world to be stage props.  The beyond that exaggeration speaks of.  The speaking that is the Word.  The incessant speaking of philosophical reworking.  A lover's hiding.  Analogies are used not so much to reveal as to hide.  We cannot approach the obvious and the present.  We require some darkness and absence - that is the familiar.  A love too present burns up in an instant. We invented analogy to hide the threatening, too-much-at-hand knowledge. 

 

 

 

325  Philosophy is only a delicate, gossamer beauty.  A pale, ghostly beauty.  It is the one place, tightly arranged.  It is only in itself, relating to nothing else.  It is what it always has been.  It is eye-captivating.  It is painful to see it.  It is unreal.  It precedes the real.  It is more than real.  Every time it appears, it is complete.  It is or it isn’t there.  When it is there, it is perfect presence.  It has ingested non-being, and non-being is nowhere.  It is thick, liquid light.  Water is its image.

 

Philosophy is water.  Philosophy is image.  It is the notion of image.  It is Image.  It is Water.  It is argument.  It is silver.  It is water and silver.  It is clarity.  A simple positivism of clear speaking.  A fiddling with models.  It is analogue.  Participation.  The same and different.  Our approach to the Other.  The Son of God, that is God.  A holy water that looks like water.

 

To say that God is mystically present in words or the elements is to point to a delicate beauty beyond the mind's ability to hold.  A thing too much.  The point of jumping off from the destruction, the pain.  The contradiction.

 

 

 

326  There are so many things that could be said in philosophy, so many dialectical combinations, but to try to do it justice in your speaking you become like a boy in love and in the presence of his love.  He takes off his coat, he puts on his coat.  He sits down, he stands up.  He's nervous.  He yawns. He just wants to go to sleep.  He would feel better if his love went home.  He's afraid he won't see him tomorrow.  Philosophy is a sigh.  All the words written in it are correct, they are wrong.  He loves it, but it's too delicate for the human mind.  It's like a tickle.

 

But the whole thing is out there.  It is transcendent.  It cannot be controlled and made to stay or go.  This is philosophy, not phenomenology.  This is the Other.  A god is here.

 

In the end we sin against that god.  Our thinking and writing is a crime.  We are filled with bittersweet sadness over what we have done.  A burning sad crying of love.  Purgatory.  It's like a boy who wants to do something nice for you and who can't think of anything to do, so he brings you some food.  When you receive it your mind trembles over the delicacy of his thought.

 

To know the universal you must forget all particulars, all clear distinctions, all definite outline, all shadings of color, all possibilities of touch. You must look at the nothingness, the openness, the emptiness of pure mind.  But every time they are referred to in the history of our literature they are spoken of as love objects out of the nighttime.  And they always seem to be a part of literature.  They are parts of songs.  They are sung.  They are things without form within the good formation of a song.  Embedded within a song.  Held within.  Within the voice of the philosopher.  Plato says the god Eros is our guide to them.

 

The universal, which is the form itself, is unformed.  No thing pushes in on it to define it.  It is the thing that pushes on this place to give this place form.  The universal is one only with itself.  It has nothing except its own oneness.  Making it internally stable, at rest, forever.  But it's a simplicity that is impossible for us to think and seems like nothing to us.  It's beyond us, and only by abandoning ourselves can we get to it.

 

It is a part of realism to think that we can directly know the universal.  We reach it in an act of simple apprehension.  It is right there, but there is nothing there, just a burning flame in the chest, sometimes painful.  The thing at the heart of things.

 

The universal is that thin film that is the common edge between the mind and the world it sees.  It is the act of seeing.  The mind's being outside itself.  Through the Form of Tree, we see trees.  So close to mind and so close to the trees.  The being of trees and the being of the idea of trees.

 

The universal is the common thought of two minds.  Their common seeing.  The oneness of their being when they want that.

 

And it is the substance of logic.  Just the predicate of subjects.

 

So many different definitions of the universal, itself leaving just a dream, the imprecise precision of philosophy.

 

Philosophy is torn apart with its many definitions, contradictions, resolutions that go on forever.  Nothing holds still.  Everything is in passion.  Drawn in two directions at once.  All particulars must give way; not one of them can stand through that.  Just the nighttime and whirling love.

 

 

 

328  When a philosopher wishes to go to the place of the universals, he names the universal and then puts the magic word "itself" after it.  Beauty itself, the One itself, Being itself, Sameness itself.  The "itself" refers to something like breathing.  The totally translucent, thin quality of air and an in and out that is like life.  Just an in and out with each other, nothing else.  The word puts the philosopher in a state of meditation.

 

When he wishes to visually represent the universal he writes the word with a capital letter.  The letter makes the mind stop and breathe in.  A still expansion.  And then it breathes out and the rest of the words follow from it.

 

This word and way of writing act as baffles for the wind of the spirit in the mind.  It's a confusing thing to think about the universal. But it's pleasant like drunkenness.

 

 

 

Philosophy has tried, perhaps fruitlessly as some think, to think about things that are not subject to the changes of time.  About things that forever hang there within Being and that are never in a state of becoming.  It would be a very secure world.  Where one's beauty and lovers are not lost.  Where the moment of love could be retained.  Sometimes to some of us it seems we can almost see such a world hiding in a movement or a glance.  A happy world of being known and understood.  Where understanding occurs in an instant.  Where there is no beyond, but where the beyond is present.

 

 

 

329  There's only one big fight in philosophy.  Do universals exist outside a mind or don't they?  If they do, all kinds of consequences follow.  If they don't we'll look silly looking for them.  Plato is on the side of those who think they do and Aristotle of those who think they don't quite.  Plato is Realism, and Aristotle is Conceptualism.  Outside of philosophy there is nominalism, those who think universals are just words society uses to refer to like things.  Nominalism is clearly contradictory and not a serious consideration.

 

A universal is a one against many, unum versus alia.  It is the common form that many like things partake of.  That one thing that stands against the many and defines them.  It is the one Beauty that all beautiful boys partake of.  It is the one thing that makes all beautiful things be beautiful.  It is the ground of beauty.  It is the one reason that two things that are radically different can both be of one predicate.

 

If the world of universals exists outside the mind then a person must be out of his mind in order to be with them and know them.  Otherwise we can all be of moderate, hesitant minds as is Aristotle.  Madness versus temperance.  The two types of philosophy. The fight.

 

 

 

Philosophy is the separation between the beauty of our ideas and the ugliness of our body.  We are both.  We are not one thing.  Either we can thumb our nose at the ideas and wallow in the mire, or we can thumb out nose at the mire and swoon among the ideas.  Or we could pretend we are outwardly beautiful.  I shall assume that you are not now beautiful and you are only looking forward to being ugly.  The obvious thing to do is abandon the body and live among the ideas.  Until we can really abandon it, let's be contrary.  Let's show our disgust and irreverence.  Let's let the spirit play.  And above all let's not have sex.  Let's dream of sex.  Let's create all kinds of weird art.  Let's be beautiful.  Let us be the separation.

 

 

 

330  Philosophy is the sudden realization that there is a problem where we thought there was no problem.  Or it's our trying to make that suddenness appear before someone else's eyes.  For instance, what tag marks a bare particular so that that particular one can be recognized at another place and time?  Or can such things retain self-identity while suffering change?  Of course they can, but how?  It's a mystery.  See the dark beauty inside the thing.  There's a burning irrational furnace in there.  Philosophy must cherish its problems.  Common sense must be guarded against, that too must be shown to have an irrational essence.  Everything must be transformed into a sudden problem.  Sameness through otherness.  O magic words of ontology.  Words of logic, but magic words of the Logos.

 

When intellectual problems are, the highest intellect, love appears, spirits are, the God of Love Himself.  The problem of life.  And desperate acts to try to overcome it.

 

 

 

All I have to do is say the words and the Idea of Contemplative Sex is understood.  And I only have to say that at times that doesn't satisfy me and that is understood also. Contemplative Sex, the understanding will acknowledge, is Super-Satisfying, but not satisfying. Contemplative Sex is Real, but not real.  This life in the capital letters is full of awareness and ecstasy, but leaves the body with frazzled nerves.  The body, the Earth, hates Super things, and Super things always ask the body and the Earth to leave.  When the one is there the other is absent.  What is being to one is non-being to the other.  And as the things of the body approach the pure, the Super, the place without shadings, they become almost invisible.  Like delicate beauty.  Like gold so pure it's as clear as glass.

 

 

 

331  We know the universal Ideas themselves as they are, as they appear within Pure Being, within God.  That is Plato, that is Des Cartes.  That is the form of the modern world.  These Ideas, which constitute our minds, are separate from material things.  We know then instantly, without the work of discursive reason, without the linkage of propositions.  A pure intuition.  This is the vision of all the contemplatives.  It is the strangeness of our spirit.  It is the undoing of our world.  The disappearance of matter.  A world without shadows, a world of pure light, pure appearance, no non-appearance.  A world where we are completely known. Where love is sheer ecstasy.  And mere self-sufficiency.  By grace we simply don't make mistakes.

 

All of us, each in his own mind, see the same thing.  We are the same thing.  There's only one Being to be seen.  Thought is the same.  The Otherness we seek is ourself.  Lovers act as mirrors for one another. Reflection and reflection. The One with itself.  The persons of the Trinity looking at each other.  The lovers and visible love itself between them.  Unity, Being, Otherness, Sameness, Movement and Stillness – universal Ideas themselves with us.

 

 

 

332  Philosophy has always been guilty of explaining the world by means of tautologies.  The Will is the cause of willing, Gravity is the cause of heaviness.  Number is the cause of numbers.  Blue is the cause of blue.  Mens is the cause of mental things.  Love is the cause of love.  Divinity is the cause of the divine beings.  Being is the cause of beings.  A thing is what it is.  There is no further ground.  All the forms are caused by the All the Forms.  The things are just there confronting you. There is no getting around them.  It is the Mind of God.  Like a tree that is just before you and won't budge.  This is explanation that is no explanation.  It is a naming that is not a describing.  Of the things in the necessity of Being.  The Necessity is the understanding.

 

By means of tautology the world seems to be changed into a twisted trick.  Deceitful religion.  We believe in a transcendent realm of beautiful angels and loving Gods.  Just lies to soothe us and keep us from throwing off the present oppression and injustice.  Sleepiness.  Things that make us fools for believing.  We are guilty, by means of tautology, of hurting our own people.  But it's also our only joy.  The only Show.  There is no other Way.  Using some sort of razor to cut off the top half of the identity has for the last hundreds of years not helped at all.  That's a fact.  Drop it out of your hand.  Go through the guilt.

 

 

 

333  These writings are passion unpassion.  I read them with calm matter-of-factness.  They go nowhere, just stand and go into themselves.  It is a calm separating tension.  This is ancient Cambodian Buddhism in high tech drag.  Have you noticed that high tech energy is cool?  Pure energy is the smooth face of Jesus.  It is going nowhere.  It is content to stay where it is.  Like the Greeks it does no exploring.  It is reflection that has become body.  This is all just me.  I have no transcending world system.  My contradictions are at an end.  I am now calmly the contradictions.  Do you believe me?  Oh well.  You should see my pretty body.  You are reading my masturbation pieces.  Don't you think I write elegantly?

 

I believe in myself.  I believe in my own thoughts.  I think them therefore they are real.  Of course I am real.  I think the thing itself.  My thoughts are pure logic.  My body is pure logic.  My cum over me is pure logic.

 

 

 

334  Here on the prairie we don't have any history left.  There are no images, there are only the empty universal forms that are somehow in the wind.  There is excitement in the wind, but it's just an ecstatic frenzy.  It's a bleak and vanishing wind.  I suppose it's the strange, holy spirit that's at the beginning of every settlement of people.  This is the youngest part of the country.  We have divided the land into rectangles, but it's still lonesome.  And that spirit still offers traces of those singeing grass fires.  There's a dry fire in that spirit that is still alone.  This is the fiery heart of the country where the spirit pushes and is bleak and ever mirrors reality.  There's nothing here.  But there's everything in the wind.

 

Here are the elemental things, the original pushing and pulling, the Logos.  From out of this silent, heavy force has come the last thing of the world.  It is the forming thing, the intellect.  The thing at the beginning.

 

Boys lie in the countryside on their beds under this tugging thing.  They lie there looking at themselves.  They've nothing to do.  They are lazy boys, indolent, Holy Indolence, full of guilt at their own being.  Wanting to get up and go somewhere else.

 

This is the beginning of falling in love.  The Idea of a lover has awakened in them.  The dreamy other person, so much like that spirit over them.  Also someone lonesome.  Forcing things into place. A caressing full of desperation.  Love vanishing.  The bleakness of standing along the road hitch-hiking.

 

The Bleakness, the Lonesomeness, and the Sameness, the God over us.

 

 

 

335  The hardest thing is to look at the laying out of passion.  It must be come upon by surprise; otherwise the energy required to begin looking is too great.  The energy must be maintained during the act of looking and to remember it immediately afterward. The energy is the tension that must be held, the forcing apart, so close to the power of God.  The unum versus alia.  The one thing standing opposed to the many.  The private meeting the public.  The genius not tough enough to have contact with the crowd.  Delicacy crushed.  The light, seeming non-being of God trying to be seen by someone given only heavy, material eyes.  God, who because of his divinity, must forever remain unseen.  Unable to be seen except as a man dying. A God with thus no friends, only the lover that is himself.  The hardest thing is to look at God.

 

If philosophy is to be the image of God, then it is going to have to be a laying out of passion.  And it is then going to have to be hard to read.  The only defense against it is to claim that you don't understand it.  But you do, and it's hard to dismiss.  The hardness is there to stay.

 

The Computer Generated Boy.  Super Real.  The perfect complexion.  Delicate form descending from sine waves and miniature lattice-work.  Giving off the thought-out, modulated tone.  The boy whose step makes perfect contact with the ground.  Causing erotic excitement because planned that way.  The boy from the philosophy of extreme intellectualism.  Sexual, but with no sensuality about him.  Extremely anti-sensual.  A cold mind boy.  A boy who is the product of a monk's mind.  Only the Form of a boy.  Pure Form.  A boy with nothing to say.

 

I'm describing a world that's totally without meaning.  A world that is itself the meaning of this one.  A world from the mind of a wolf.

 

The ethereal boy of the glass harmonica.  If you rub your wet finger over his cheek it will give off a delicate sound.  His wrist will vibrate with what is almost just a touch.  The ethereal boy.  Super-Ideal.  Too fine to be seen directly.  The boy of pure mediation.  The otherness and relations between things.  The boy a monk changes into.  The boy who would be a boy.  Not sexual, but the end of the dream of sex.

 

This world consists only of meanings.  A civilized world.

 

I hang there within God.  Everything about me known.  My form totally seen.  My color seen; resistance felt.  I am outside, in the Outside itself.

 

Outside in our space, in the imitation of the Outside itself, objects still have hidden parts, and they have an inside that always remains.  Outside this outside is a greater Ideal that only the all-knowing can be.  I hang there in Him.  In His knowledge.  He sees everything about me.  I come apart with that look that is a caress.

 

See how theatrical I am.  See what I let Him do to me.  I stand here knowing that you know what I do. I have put myself within your awareness.  I am watching myself do it.  But you have minimal consciousness and between us the knowing and looking and being seen soon trip all over each other.  In Him it is smooth and goes clear to the end, and I am undone in ecstasy.  In the perfect Outside, in the perfect Seeing.

 

 

 

337  Triangles have the property of having three sides, but triangularity, the Form Triangle, doesn't.  Individuals have properties, and there are rules of them together.  But the Form is a thing that's separate.  A philosophical thing, useless to logic.  As the Logos is useless to logicians.  The Forms are there from out of the philosophical spirit that has come to be within the philosopher.  They fill the emptiness with strength.  They are the very being of the world.  A thing you have to feel, religiously feel.

 

The gods are above the mind and are close to the body.  God is that part of the mind that is outside the mind also.  The Forms are above properties and are closer to the triangle bodies.  The Form is that part of the definition that is its limit, the place where it touches that beyond definition.  It is the spirit that is the place between mind and its object, of judgment that is between individual and property, of Being, of the Nexus, the Real, the place where logic touches the Logos.  Where philosophy is theology.  Where thought is love and will and feeling.  An asensual, still, cold, perfect love.  After it finally appears.

 

Only the realist in philosophy will say that his thoughts are perfect.  He will insist that no other thoughts were possible.  And he will assure you that the words he has chosen are the right ones, down to the look of the sentences and the lengths of those words.  The work is self-reflexive.  The realist is able to do philosophy.  He does it.  Others offer programs and projects and promises and assurances that there are rules for its doing.  They come up with nothing.  Everything else is destruction.  And just potentiality.  The realist comes upon truth by the sheer force of his will.  The answer is there, and logic is shoved away.  The Logos is present.  When the King is present the ambassador is not.

 

Realism is the philosophy of the time after Ragnarok.  The gods have died.             The philosopher is now the creator of the Absolute.  It's a hurling outward.  He spent his early life trying to solve the riddles of the dialectic.  Everything failed, and he was about to go down with it.  So he threw the answer into the skies and there it was, a constellation, a god.  It stuck there.  Chaotic arrangements of light.  The sky of his book.  After Ragnarok there is no other reality.  No reality with which to compare his book.  Truth is throwing.  It is will.

 

The philosophical will exists by itself.  There is no thing that exerts the will.  No mind it comes from.  It is the opposite of non-being.  The perfect will is the perfection of being.

 

 

 

Standing heroically alone defying omnipotent power is not joyful when the one you love has left.  And is maybe coming back.  It's a strange ground between being alone and not being alone.  It's the tension, the awful ache.  It is you lying on your bed and thinking.  And not having enough energy to clean up your room.  It's nowhere.  It's like boys singing religious music.   Through the Dies Irae.  Around and through the defying.  Bitter, dusty flowers.  Fearful of the time he returns.

 

But that middle ground is what I have sought, what I wanted to look at.  Now I'm standing in it, and I don't know what I'm seeing.  I still hear the boys singing, and that is comforting.  But what is that?  The ache is still there too.  The boys have a sharp attack in their voices.  I am here, but this is not where I want to be.  But I could be here and talk about it gently and even joyfully if he would come back.

 

 

 

339  I live in the world of Contemplative sex, not real sex.  But no one lives in the world of real sex.  It's either Contemplative sex or the empty shell of what sex was supposed to be.  All of us in the real world just dream of a real world.  Sex exists only in its denial.  Everything is Contemplation.

 

Philosophy is not something you calmly sit down and learn; it's something you argue about because it's about life and death.  Or it's something you give in to because you have to, because they're a god's words.  It's about truth, that scary, exhilarating thing we can only look at fleetingly.  It's away to the things in themselves, it's seeing the being itself of things, which is God.  It's too much for the human mind, so we look at it through filters and along the tracks on our bubble chamber minds.  But we do very much know it's there, it's the reason we deny it so much.  Philosophers point to that thing.  They sneak upon you and do it.  They are gadflies you can't get rid of.  Or again they are the boy you have fallen in love with against your better judgment.  It is the love that is too intense.  Thinking about it just leaves you paralyzed.  It is you.

 

Now I don't want to hear anyone, when he's finished reading this book, be upset because I'm too pessimistic.  I'm not pessimistic at all; I'm too optimistic.  I'm talking about the Optimum, the Too Much, the Over Much.  I'm talking about too much beauty, too much understanding, too much life, a too easily attained immortal life, a life so sweet it's nauseous.  I'm talking about a touch of God so gentle it cuts, eyes so delicate the firmament trembles, a look so full of desire that you die.  This isn't pessimism.  It's the Good that you run away from.  It's sweet death, sweet destruction, sweet falling, sweet oblivion, livid confusion, tight bondage, a blinding lover.  Super non-being, Super unknowing, delightful disorder.  It's the soul trying to look at God.

 

 

 

340  When my lover is here he's in the way; when he's gone he's not in the way and I have no resistance on my metaphysical wings.  See me, I can still do metaphysics, but I want him to come back.  My metaphysics has made my pain, my heavy pain, sweet, but I want him to come back.  I'm afraid my metaphysics exists only here, why don't we have books describing the time four days after the beloved returns?  Does metaphysics exist then?  Will Platonists forever be in a limbo of sighs?  Can they be their own resistance?

 

The hardest thing is for the beloved Isaac to come back.  Abraham has to then be God.  He has to be.  He has to become metaphysics itself.  With Isaac he is alone.  With him he doesn't have his cries for his return.  O Christ's blessed unreturn.  O dreadful knowledge of that.  I will address these thoughts to Christ himself, and Isaac, if he returns.  I have to tell someone.

 

The dreadful thing is also that they will not understand me when I do tell them; that is why they were in the way.  They were like wood.  The dreadful thing is that I am able to write this.  It just keeps going and going.  And the dreadful thing is that you might understand it.  This knowledge with knowledge staring at each other is dreadful.  It's too much Being for us.  The darkness is comfortable.  When he returns there will be too much light.

 

 

 

341  The natural counterpart of intellectuals, of pure philosophy, of defying God, of a belief in intellectual things by intellectuals themselves, of Christ, of nature itself (that whore), of the blessed dialectic giving us the trinity, is a young man standing and masturbating.  He has at last found it.  Does that look like the hero of Existenz?  This is modern art.  The pure aesthetic.  The purely seen.  The Seeing itself.  Away from the world.

 

Is there more to modern art than just looking like modern art?  No, appearance is everything.  It's in the Idea, the Idea of Idea, not necessarily in the thing seen, a contradiction.  See how I look arty.  I am just a decorative faggot.  A thin thing.  O please, rather say I am slender.  Nothing that would help the masses.  Or maybe the only thing that will help them disappear off into nothing.  Into God.  O, I shudder.

 

Intellectual boys in high school don't know they are going to grow up to be such thin things.  If they are true intellectuals.  True Platonists, the Philosophers philosophers have been trying to run away from forever.  The only true philosophers.  See how arrogant I am.

 

I am God's beloved; I have to exist beside him, against Him, with Him.  He wants me to be that way.  It's often tiresome having a lover.  I have to be the thing He can look at.  He asks me to be what I cannot be.  He says He will save me.  His looks are terrible.  I am His beauty.  I am on display here for you, against my will.  I am in heaven.  But then again I have nowhere else to go.  And He has put within me a liking for this.

 

 

 

342  The homely boy at times has everything, at times nothing.  He has beautiful form. Beautiful ears.  He's ugly.  He's a toad.  He's amazingly pretty with is clothes off.  But such a homely face.  His words are everlasting, but rather twisted.  He has no grace, but only The Most Graceful.  And his hair is too greasy, but the slipperiness that makes my heart pound.  I'm not saying he's ugly.  I'm saying he's beautiful in his ugliness.  He is the philosopher's unseen Beauty.  It's amazing how it works.  A spirit that pushes.  The homely boy spirit.

 

When mystical philosophy suddenly springs up between two it's the same as a love affair suddenly appearing.  The two are heavily conscious of it, and do it, and wonder how long that force can last.  They become real nice to each other.  Everything is understood as understood.  But it fades even to the relief and sadness of the two.  The philosopher thinks too much, so he tries to show emotion and cry out loud, actually out loud, that his lover is unfaithful; then he's afraid his display was stupid and maddening and without beauty, but he knows it was with beauty in its very reflecting the passion of pure reason.

 

By cutting Reason off from God, Kant felt the subtle otherness, a pure feeling.  He escaped feelings.

 

A philosopher's love affair.  He's, of course, just a young man trying to learn philosophy because he has seen the mystical beauty of philosophy.  He's, of course, trying to show it to his beloved, who is also of the same beauty, who wears it around his waist.  The philosopher ends up trying to show his love himself, and show him his, the philosopher's, beauty. In fact, philosophy often ends up being a confusion about pronoun antecedents.  And your listening becomes that swirl and you are in philosophy and that young man and his love and his beloved.  All through the trembling. But the trembling isn't real. Philosophy and love and pronouns are easy enough to understand.  The problem is what to do with that understanding, with love and lovers.  They're useless and become stuffy boring and remain still attractive.

 

 

 

343  When friends change into lovers, the two are very conscious that being lovers is now what they are doing.  A great degree of heavy consciousness.  Any time away looks like a time of lightness.  They wonder if this thickness was wrong.  There's little pleasure now in their being together.  Only the heavy figuring of love.  Love is dreary and monotonous and jumpy.  But it's still attractive.  Why?  Is that being dead preferable to life?  A room shared by lovers is certainly a dreary monk's cell.  The lovers know that, and they are jumpy out of fear.  It's a sick room, a hospital room, a room full of cobwebs, a ponderous metaphysics and Platonism.  Each dreams beautiful nightmares of being left.  It's such a heavy consciousness.  Thoughts of me lying heavily on him.  Pressing down wanting his firmness.  The numbness of physical contact.  Such desirable monotony.  Maybe wrong, jumpy out of fear of leaving.

 

The gravitas, the heaviness of love, is the stifling paralysis of sex.  It's in the smell, in the still barely invisible sex.  Cumbersome old metaphysics.  Modern empiricism tries to fight it.  But the true lightness is the very thing that creates the heaviness.  The old alchemist is in love with his helper.  The helper, the beloved, the god lies within the arms of the old man, the lover, the scholar.  But they're both the same being.

 

Of course the philosopher thinks he's going to have to break off the love affair.  Its heaviness is destroying the beautiful lightness of his thoughts.

 

As the flesh is pale beside the spirit, the spirit is pale beside the Most Pale, a mere image of it.  Just the Most Simple.  A way of saying things.

 

 

 

344  Only the Boy is lovable.  The philosopher, the old man, is not.  The Boy, through him, is loved.  O Lord, be my worthiness.  The philosopher must be daring enough to think that his words and actions and looks are God's, of Being itself.  His lost otherness.  All earthly things will end in wretchedness, but how can we live with that to look forward to.  A non-exciting boredom, no escape seen.  Only a sad what could have been.  Only God is presence.  But we attract by throwing Beauty at others.  We amaze others.  We are philosophers.  The priest between God and man must not shrink from the Absurd Power on him.  This old man must act the Boy, humiliation.  How can an old man be a boy! Laughable, disgusting.

 

This is my philosophical drag.  It is for you who are sitting there in your analytical drag.  Don't worry.  (I know you are prone to worry.)  I cannot maintain it for long.  We are both bound to fade away in the pale cast of consciousness.  We are both metaphors.  We are compulsive neurotics.  Oh No!  As long as we don't take it seriously!  How could we help it.  Too seriously.  We are improper.  Let's pretend indifference.  As all lovers, you and me.

 

Only with the Same, the Monotonous, do the Infinite Differences appear.  The Faces are the same but seem to be without even generic commonness.  The curve and feel of the back of two boys is worlds apart.  In the pupil of Christ's eyes is creation.  He made the difference between things absolute.

 

 

 

346  His body is the same as every other boy's body.  He has a boy's shape.  My arms around him feel the sameness.  My nose on the skin of his shoulder smells the sameness.  It is monotonic.  Just that one thing that more than other things is monotonic.  Nothing else is like it.  It is pure sameness.  At first it repelled me.  Now I am learning to like it.  Here is something minimal.  I don't move much in relation to it.  I can hardly understand it.  I can approach it more often now.  I used to think I had failed to give it otherness.  Now I see that it is giving me sameness, that one thing.  All boys are the same.  Time has stopped.

 

The fear we have of heaven and a philosophy of essences is that they seem so monotonous.  The flying play of relations is gone.  Only the simple thing remains.  Always the same.  Life ends.  But that place, those things that exist after life, forever call.  I look at them and close my eyes and stop.  They're all the same.

 

 

 

347  The sun that is shining or the rain that is falling is the same sun and the same rain that was here thousands of years ago.  It's all very old.  It imitates the Christ, that which is most ancient.  And boys are made out of matter that is as old as the sun and the rain.  If you smell them you will realize that that's what that smell is.  Going back to God.  Everything speaks of His very long life.

 

Hustlers walking the same streets day after day, waiting, in a way that is beyond their comprehension, for the same contact, for that obliterating smell of the Alone, then standing, in the evening, next to a building, as they did in ancient Assyria, back again always again into the One.

 

When I write philosophy I am not the Nothing.  I move toward it.  I am the little bit.  I am the slight.  Oh, but He is the Slight.  I do move, even if it is on the margins.  My movement has become almost nothing.  I am not The Very Old that is God's Youth. I have not reached that mystery.  I am the Almost Mystical.  That's the name you may call me as I wait to see if you will buy me.

 

 

 

348  The ravishing beauty of Kierkegaard and Benjamin is that they both exist in mentis excessu. They are boys in contemplation. Their Mother Rachel has died. Rahad. They are both lying on their bed naked. Too much with themselves, in themselves. They have just become the beloved of God. AH philosophy is done in the extreme. Always the philosopher is ravishingly beautiful and naked. Ravishingly beautiful and naked.

They didn't move. The vision would have been broken. The absolute is delicate. They had to be still before it. As only passive boys can be still. It was all over them. They could feel the presence around them. The form of the body. The visible soul. It was Him. His Soul. They could see it. Where seeing is feeling. Where to perceive is to touch, to feel the touch. Unmoving hands. In that unmoving movement. Lifted out and away.

These boys are pure extension, in time and in space. The pure individuals.  The synthetic a priori. Between here and there. Our guides. The erotic. In the most extreme tension. Holding the two worlds apart. Giving Form. In the quiet of indiscrete contemplation.

Philosophy cannot be the proper act of the mind. With it the mind has gone too far. Wisdom becomes unwise. It gets lost in sensuality and imagination and calls it logic. It's too spiritual, even its sex is contemplative, sure to frustrate your lover out of his mind, and you're having to deal again with everyday things. From Chopin to Jazz.

 

 

 

349  Technology has come like a veil before our eyes preventing us from seeing Being, the Strong and the Absolute.  A thin gauze wrapped around and around.  We are burying ourselves the same way the Egyptians did.  In the maze of inter-relating networks we have forgotten Being.  But then it had become apparent as a matter of good sense to try to do that.  Kierkegaard spoke that truth and Luther spoke the truth and Heidegger spoke the truth and they all spoke at the appropriate time, but the Truth and Being just must be hidden.  Otherwise we will all be on fire.  For an afternoon St. Francis and his friends could sit in the flames, and for a half hour Teresa could manage to stay alive through a transverberation. And even I have sat still while I saw the fire spread around the appearance of someone I had fallen in love with.  But this almighty thing must be hidden.  I would be among the first of those who try to shield the world from its orgy.  We must remain content with those things here that merely have the appearance of the absolute, those necessary philosophical truths.  We mustn't lose sight of those.  They are what keep us from being burnt up.

 

 

 

350  Take pity on God.  He knows his love is killing his beloved, but there's nothing he can do about it.  He has to go on.  He has given too much freedom and it has turned into absolute possessiveness.  Man wants knowledge, not the power to decide and then to have to be Decision itself.  Kierkegaard, who was a lover, knew all this.

 

 

 

351  Nietzsche and St. Terese of Liseau lived about the same time and held pretty much the same philosophy; that is, they both lived through philosophy. Both knew that the only thing left was the whirling of their own will that would fill the void of where God was supposed to be. St. Terese was the more powerful of the two. She forced into that no place her own littleness before an almighty furnace of divine love. Through her the crucifixion came to be. She would forever be in it. Caressed by the lover she made. She was the Iron Will that Nietzsche almost came to. She insisted and made it be. That little girl is one of the founders of the modern age.

 

 

Still, the modern age is just one more vision of God. We also see the void that He is, the necessity of man's elevation that He is. When God became sin, it was inevitable that that side of Him, that side that had always been there but was hidden, would be a part of man's life. God other than God. St. Terese was just living through the death of her Lord. She knew it was real, not just a symbol.

 

God is the Either/or. Kierkegaard could not bring himself to say that. But Plotinus did say that God is the One. And he did say that the Logos was the Dual, which is the Either/or, which is Kierkegaard's Anguish, which is the Lord of the New Testament. The Either/or is not indecisive, it is Decision itself. It is Form. It is that before which you are to be humiliated. It is the beautiful one. Before which you must pay the price. It is your pain. It is the Pain itself, the one who was humiliated in your place, so he might have you his beloved. Who now owns you, against your will. The one who gave you salvation when you didn't ask for it. Whom you must now accept against your will. Your unwanted lover. This thing you must suffer through. This Decision, when you wanted indecision.

 

 

 

352  The vision of his happiness is the goal of all human beings.  Sometimes in the smallest part of a second we are pushed back by a piece of that glory breaking through.  A thing that would kill us in its full force.  Sometimes on the face of a boy an outline and trace of that pure beauty can be seen, but it quickly goes, and only your pounding heart is left.  Sometimes for a moment we know that pure understanding, but that leaves.  Sometimes an act of mercy or love seems to speak of God's pure Being, but that pure ingredient cannot be captured and spread around.

 

And the most amazing thing of all, this awareness that I am. That seems to be a thing truly godlike, so different from dumb objects.  What is it?  God is in it somehow.  Awareness.  I am with it.  It has the feel of a thing that is an absolute, having its roots within nothing at all.  Awareness is.  It is the place of the Appearing Appearance.  The Appearance and the Awareness is Being.  It is totally pure.  Pure Beauty.  God.

 

And God is Unity, but He is also Duality, the Dual, not two things, but Duality, and He is Trinity, not three gods, but the threeness of three things, He is Trinity.  And He is Relation, not a relation between things, but the being of what relation is.

 

 

 

353  Mental acts such as hoping, desiring, forgetting, worrying, remembering, feeling sorry,  perceiving, wondering, doubting, believing, understanding, falling in love exist just as surely as mountains, birds, light bulbs, chairs, fingernails, pills, Romania, Thanksgiving, or a sigh.

 

Not only are there beautiful things, there is beauty.  Not only colored things, there is color.  Not only are there hard things, there is hardness.  Not only are there meaningful sentences, there are meanings, and also meaning itself. Predicate words point to existing things.  All individual things have an appearance.  That form displayed in their appearings is an existing thing.  If this thing appears as a flower, then that flower appearing is also there.  Individual flowers exist, but so does the form of flowerness that they all partake of.

 

And then there is that special consideration called God. God is everything in its pure form.  He is pure beauty, pure justice, pure mercy, pure knowledge, pure power, pure love, in him are all pure geometrical forms, all lovely feelings, all uncorrupted pleasure; he is without any trace of non-being.  He is pure Being; that is his highest name.  And he is pure unity, not built up out of parts.  In him everything is pure, not a mixture of opposites as here.  He is therefore the absolute, the only thing in itself, not dependent on our view of him.  And he is completely at rest, having no division in his being and his appearing.  He is the brilliant appearing Appearance itself.  The Form of form.  The Being of beings.  Originating from Himself.  At the end, the only remaining thing.

 

 

 

354  Philosophy is circular movement. Former things are redone. Slight, constant permutations. Always the same, but gently different. The philosopher keeps a hold of himself by rewriting the things he wrote years ago and bringing them close together. The writings move in and out of themselves. All of his words are just the breathing of the One. He has only one thing to say. But he touches the whole world. And he stays away from it. He pulls himself tightly together and then lets go.

 

 

Philosophical words are the common words, used in a not unfamiliar way. But in a way that makes them fall inward and lose their certain meaning. They were well understood until the philosopher asked you to pay attention. The direct gaze at them has made them almost disappear. They were useful only as long as we glided swiftly over them. But when we must come to rest beside them we fidget. The word becomes unmade. And the word "unmade" becomes unmade. Then the philosopher says that the word refers to that place where things were before they were made. Even to the untime prior to time. All this is of course understandable, but it's really not understanding, it's a contradictory understanding, a messy thing to feel guilty about. So the philosopher must try again.

 

 

Over on the horizon of this writing you can see the everyday. It is the thing philosophy runs from and flirts with. It's the boy who knows nothing about philosophy, the boy who just wants to glance at himself in the mirror, to see if his hair is lying right on his forehead. In the everyday world there are no eternal forms. Philosophy and the everyday fly around each other. The horizon is itself lifted up and is gone. We inadvertently wipe it out. Now we are in a nervous place about to collapse. He's too close. The distant things have become the foreground. The perspective is screwed up. We see as God sees.

 

 

356  A piece of writing, a book, should have unity.  It should have an Idea hovering over it.  That Idea will order it, give development, make it move from first things to last.  Later, when the reader, upon remembering the book, looks toward the Idea, he can see the parts laid out.  The ordered extension is within the Idea.  We are all looking into the mind of God.  The Great Hierarchy.

 

Ideas appear according to the Rule of mathematical form.  And within that expansive unfolding Identity there is everything.  But the trick is to have the All in limited form.  To separate the Idea into ideas, each expressing the whole.  From Truth to eternal truths.

 

The words and sentences of my writing, though, seem to be encased in rock.  They are like a geode that is just soft, brown rock on the outside, but when broken open reveals a garden of crystals.  My book seems like ground that has to be dug up.  The Idea that is my book is just the Idea of Ground, just humus dirt.  It is that part of Iowa.  My work has to be mined like Iowa coal, age-old Iowa.  Nothing is far beneath the surface.  It's all close.

 

Reading it creates a feeling of almost numb, monotonous stillness that keeps moving forward.  The energy and temperature of the mind suddenly lowers, and you have that immobility of almost falling asleep.  It keeps moving forward by itself. A slow locked-in speed.  The same thing over and over again.  It's as though a lover has come near you and you can't move.  He goes over you and you are numb, paralyzed.  The air is gently moved through the crystal garden.  The encasing is coming over you.  Until you are fixed with it.  The Idea of the Ground.  You are in it.  There is no overall view.  That too is Being.

 

 

 

357  As the senses and the ability to move are taken away, as the body becomes numb, philosophy increases in the body.  The words in their rise and fall fix it, him, at one point.  The Idea as it goes back and forth causes the intellectual momentum to drop.  It is fixed.  The senses and intellect are suspended, taken upward, to the One.  Held in place.  It is not a conscious act, as falling asleep is not a conscious act.  This is the monotone of philosophy and of God.  It's a trance, a going across.  The purpose of philosophical writing is to transfix the mind, to pin it to God.

 

Sensual pleasure is the suspension of the senses.  A good massage, the fatigue of long distance running, the sleep after a workout, the relaxation after orgasm, philosophy is the height of sensual pleasure.  Philosophy is the extreme.  The End of eroticism.  It takes you right to that point.  There it descends on you.  In God the pleasure and the satisfaction are the same.  The one thing that is delightful.

 

 

In God everything is held fixed in equilibrium.  My philosophy, in order to imitate him, holds all philosophies in equilibrium.  I hold them all within the Same.  The calm and the still with the ecstatic thrill.  It is relaxing as is rummaging around an old attic and finding former beauties here and there.  Beauties that resemble their descendents today.  God.

 

 

 

358  As you read this you may think it's obscure, that you don't have the intellectual background to understand it, or that the sentences are all screwed up.  Above all that you can't keep track of what refers to what.  Misplaced antecedents.  You're lost.  Darkness, confusion and being lost.  Or maybe you know exactly what I'm talking about.  And that that thing I'm talking about is romantic love.  In that case, if you've experienced romantic love, you will know for sure that what I say is dark, confused and lost.  Romantic love is madness.  And it's probably wrong.  So just read on.  Stop trying to rearrange my mind.  I'm doing inferior writing.  I can't justify it.

 

The antecedent of all my statements is not another statement, but the one and only thing I am talking about.  That invisible thing surrounds everything I say.  It is the meaning of each sentence.  Just as a person who worries about his sin sees every act of his existence the doings of a sinner.  I am speaking my worrisome existence.  Everywhere I turn He sees me.  All sentences refer to the True and the False.

 

Philosophy is just a letting philosophy appear.  It tumbles on and on, not really getting anywhere.  Our progress toward clarity is equally the coming of darkness.  It's just a spinning wheel.  The thread is always cut at its end.  Philosophy is the thing that decorates our lives.  That's all.  It's the constant feel of approaching knowledge.  We are beautiful in the greatness of our intellect.

 

But our knowledge is our first sin, our toad existence, a thing to be overcome, just concupiscence.

 

 

 

359  When R____  loves another boy he loves his loving.  In doing the same as that boy he attempts to be as he does.  His same failures and cryings.  His same vision of the desired thing.  Their both falling down before Being.  He loves the look of love that the form of that boy is.  He should look at himself and see he has the same form.  All the gestures and shapes and forms he tried to imitate are his already.  He is a boy as they are.  The form of boy is the form of love.  Love is the dying to be the form of boy.  A perpetual dying.  A perpetual being.  The same being that was at all time.  R___ is already beyond himself in that thing.  I can see it.  I have his form, his being with me always.  I love the way he loves.  He is already the god that is outside time.  The power is already his.

 

R___ is already in Being; he has already died.  When his first real love left him, he said to himself that he would die then. He did.  Something changed in him.  Now he's with the other dead boys, suffering in them, with them, through them, in order to save them.

 

R___'s biggest suffering now in that with them he has to suffer the cold world that doesn't believe any of this.  He uses that suffering, berating himself for being a lover, trying to further destroy his particularity and separation from others.  He suffers the pain of other boys who must likewise give themselves up to this world.

 

But he is trying to find a place by himself, away, not bothering the world with his insanity.  A secret place he can also give to the other.  Where the treasure of unity can be hid.  He will write a paper of crossed lines on which he can suspend himself, a crucifix.  He will invite another to do it with him.  The world can kill them both on it.  Then they will be one.

 

He will be impotent and humiliated, left with no one, and die so he can be in Being.  Not suicide, which is an act of the will, of potency, but the oblivion of holding someone else's book or wearing his shirt.  Loving someone like himself.

 

R___ is a collector of bits and scraps.  But those are the kinds of things that contain essences.  Little things of a person contain a person's being.  He is gathering so that someday he will have enough for him to be.  He will someday also be able to perform.  We all do that.  We all gather words and styles and gestures that will in combination enable us to also have the power over another.  To put them in the terror of their own non-being.  We will cover ourselves with symbols, things that are bridges to being.  Things that have the form within them.  His giving himself up to love is already a thing of amazement to people.  He is fearful and thus enticing to them.  That's how he gets them in order to lead them to where he has been.  I'm sure he sees himself as half insane, but he has really touched the deepest part of the human being.  The part others try to keep from looking at.  That terrible thing he does is what gives him power.  It's his attractiveness.  Some can't take it and run, and he dies again.  He doesn't want to hurt or for them to leave so he covers it up with extremely practical, sensible talk.  He's from Iowa so he knows how to do that.

 

 

 

360  R____'s intelligence works this way: he picks some small gesture around the one he loves, he makes it be around himself, and that thing which is the spirit of the one he loves is also his spirit.  They are spiritually one being.  He becomes that person.  This is philosophical realism, which says that the thing that two individuals are is one thing.  The being of an individual is in its form.  To take on one of his forms is to become him.  Thus to have the form of your lover's hand on your wall is to have some of his being.  To put your hand on it is to have the sparkling transformation into him.  And since a person's being is other than his particularity then if his form, his being, clings to the other, as a smell, a memory, a phrase used, a way of reaching, then his being is able to be there too.  Likewise, when they looked at each other they traded each the being of the one for the other.  To think the same thing is to have their minds be the same thought.  His intelligence devises ways to be the other.

 

R___ writes because the well-formed geometry of the lines is his being.  He knows that to pick up the words is to pick up him.  He loves to be in another's hands.  Inwardly he can feel that happen.  He loves to feel this being in another's eyes, breaking through the thin film into his flesh.

 

The secret of intelligence is that it knows that one's being is separate from one's self.  It is a public thing out there handled by many.  That the being of one's lips in the same being that was a boy's lips on a sunny Greek island two thousand years ago.  That the thing you and your boyfriend are is very ancient.  More ancient than the world.

 

Because of this, R___ cannot love one boy.  He must love the being of that boy in order to be him, but then he is with all boys.  He is one of them because they all have that one form, their being.  And he cannot be loved as an individual because that would separate him from them, from the other.  He himself, the particular, must become nothing.

 

To become nothing he must debase himself.  Be worthless.  Waste his time.  Be rejected by society.  Break the law.  Give no attention to another.  See his own flesh as falling apart, dying.  Hurry it along.  Hide himself away in a small room.  A room that is an image of his decaying self.  But in a room separate from the floor, the ground, the thing that makes him a particular, up where there is only pure being, the being that all his lovely friends are.

 

He picks shirts out of the trash.  He becomes the boy that was in that shirt.  A boy who like him became trash in order to be transformed.  They share that common desire to die.  If the shirt is too big he becomes someone bigger and stronger who gave himself up for him.  They have touched the same thing, they both were that touch, they are the same touching.

 

R___ is a realist.  He believes a thing is what it is.

 

 

 

361  The word Being can be attached to all thing.  Nowhere to be seen contrasted.  Therefore it is not phenomenal.  The transcendentals are what don't appear.  Only the categories, the public things, appear.  Being is the Secret.  The secret place.  Philosophy is the display on the most public stage of the most private thing.  The Violation.  The Loved.

 

But the display is short lived.  In the whole long performance only one little line, one little movement is it.  One little phrase in a book.  It seems not enough.  One little bite after the long preparation of a meal.  One glance in a night of expectation.  Constricted little corners.  Bitterly insufficient.  Suffering dying passion.  Negation negating.  Being disappearing when it was hardly here.  Actors were only acting.

 

The mind sees differences that the eyes can't find in the world.  The mind can see non-being.  It can see absence.  Things disappearing.  It is intimate in a non-place with Being.  Look closely, it can see the difference between "or" and "and".  We are given "or" or "and".  They mingle.  Brilliant touching and moving apart.  They are the same, the eyes can see that.  The mind can see a difference between a proper-named individual and what it is.  It can divide that indivisible, made thing.  Into the unmade.  The world the eyes see and the thing the mind sees are not isomorphic.  And yet there is identity between them.  The mind sees itself fade away in that impossibility.  It creates a true science that cannot be interpreted.

 

 

 

363  Raymond Lull fell in love with the god, the lord of love. The god became piercing love within his breast. Deep in the heart of the pagan religion. Homosexual Catamite priests.  From the spirit of Arabia.  Overcoming once again the lure of the Goddess.  Establishing the eternal male in her place.  Once again the change from the dirt and the earth to the pure and empty logic.  He was in the Idea of the Ars Magna.  He has come to us through the spirit of Leibniz.  The Calculus of Reason. Empty identity with one's self.  The form of the modern world.  The well-formed boy, lying still on his stomach.  The tormenting, mischievous paradox.

 

This is negation canceling itself.  Doubly nothing identical with Being.  Two things, one thing.  Inward going.  The outward coming together.  The lover is naught and in pain.  The beloved is everything and with himself in the lover.  This is logic.  Double intention, single extension.  Magic Identity.  Division within the still unity.  One and one is one.  It is without interpretation.  It is the form of the world rising up.

 

Dumb logical symbols coming together.  A heavy, thick summer evening before the passion.  There's nothing but the gathering of these hard, dumb things.  Smaller and smaller in giant numbers, making one vibrating thing, a field radiating, rising and falling, he is breathing, life has been created out of excited nerve groupings.  Other little fields in the air touch him and make him quiver.  Rising and then the precipitous fall.

 

In the nineteenth century pure calculation was discovered.   Both/and  -  Either/or.  An entanglement in a dream.  An individual being only the elements that describe it.  The individual disappearing into eternal ontological things.  The cosmic game of figuring.  One thing moved over to there.  Then taken apart from the thing next to it.  Double election and the thing is one thing.  It always was just one thing. Down in the minute corners where there is the charm and the twinkle this goes on all the time.

 

And Kierkegaard discovered the unspeakable impotence.  The absurd God who wasn't there, maybe just a platonic form.  A majestic lingam.  He saw Christ lifted away from the sensual earth.  He couldn't leap to Him, the unspeakable pure form that mathematicians discovered at the same time.  The constricting.   The movement away from the genteel.  Later others would see, in the same place, a sparkling, ferocious animal.  The mirror vision of the everyday, the thing they all called the monster.

 

 

 

364  My nationalism is this: with Walt Whitman by my side I help achieve the democratic union of all philosophies, views and ways.  That's our task.  What has been in the mind of man is ours.  The strong lush beauty and the falling delicate sigh.  The divine and the coarse.  The synthesis is ours.  Things the farthest apart are placed together.  The incommensurables are measured.  Otherness is our friend.  In a fierce love.  In the fire of the Sublime, the end of synthesis, in the fiery, fierce independence of each thing.

 

With the puritans I see that there are no consequences for any of our actions.  Each thing comes only out of freedom.  There are no eventual things.  I live in the anarchy of democratic freedom.

 

I am in no hurry.  All of eternity is ahead.  There is no end to philosophy.  The delights of the ideas will always flow.  The god will come again and again.  Today I will kiss my boyfriend's arm.  Maybe tomorrow his cheek.  I will wait and dream about his lips.  But the first day I will take the full, pressing embrace of love all the way.  There is no order.  I am gentle; my love is absolute possessiveness.

 

And above all I am lazy, oppressed by the impossibility of this place.  Our Protestantism will approve only intellect.  We are without warm, sensual emotion.  Spirit without the natural.  A painful loneliness.  Impossible love.  Too piercing.  I couldn't live any other way.

 

 

 

Away from the soul, from the sensa, is the spirit drawn out, mere quickness of movement, a glint of light, a piercing of acuteness.  The tearing of fluid moving in orgasm, the snap inside the head.  The twinkle in the eye of mischief.  The brilliance of the sensa.  An impersonal thing that is life.  When the self looks at its own life it sees this thing that is not itself.  The spirit unites the soul with what isn't the soul.  It is the nexus.  It is pure act.

 

 

 

365  Writings for intellectual boys. The thing that makes everyone else mad at them is that they turn it all into a game. They are deadly with each other; the stroke of death is the goal.

 

I won't preach to you. I am one of you. I quit school to join your addiction. You recognize my glee in my ideas. My flirting with my dark lover. I look the part: skinny, pimple faced, glasses, greasy hair, big dick. Only the maze of the idea of God is important. Thinking is deception and grammarcy. Worldly success is nothing. Only glee at the strange turn of things, the unseen unities, and the divisions are important. And you know the name calling of the demonic comes in here somewhere.

 

Writings for intellectual men.  Philosophy is a game of closing and disclosing.  Something's there, then again there never was anything there.  Things are the same and they are different.  Mistakes, things that have half-existence.  Reality taking on that quality of a dream of something being not quite right.  Realists who can't figure out illusion.  Maybe myth is real.  Hopeless entanglement in bed sheets.  The sin of intellectualism.

 

Some say we can't solve the dialectic because we are missing some pieces. Others say we are looking at the wilderness of the godhead itself. Form comes with limitation. We must abandon the whole. The letdown into the ordinary comes with a philosophy that solves everything. The horribleness of mysticism.  The boy inside the man never leaves him.

 

 

 

366 There are two paths.  Into philosophy or into the everyday.  Philosophy is a recognition of our present death.  The everyday is exuberance about life.  The everyday is a fear of death.  Philosophy sees that in death we just become what in truth we already are and always have been.  The inner self has always been by itself, at a distance from its life around it.  Always trying to be something real out there, never succeeding.  The moments of finally having were soft letdowns.  When it was happy it just quietly watched itself.  Philosophy sees that death is just a taking away of what you never had in the first place.  When you approached this world of facts its being was gone.  For philosophy facts don't exist.  Death, the loss of fact, is nothing.  The everyday path vanishes.  In the either/or there is only one thing to choose.

 

A proof of the immortality of the mind and the world before it:  what never was can't end.  Or: eternal life changes nothing.

 

All this philosophy seems like so much legerdemain.  The world is so interesting, boys are so pretty, and of course we could lose it all.  Even if it is only a prospect of having them.  We shall know no more than in a deep sleep.  Less than that.

 

But everyday life can't keep philosophy out.  Everything is cracked and philosophy is seeping in everywhere.  And maybe that's the tickle of interest we see everywhere.

 

 

 

The beauty of positivism is the beauty of light.  In it, truth is present.  We see Being.  It has no dark mystical mud and dirt paths.  The forms of this world appear, are non-contradictory and sane.  It loves the well-formed.  If Idea is idein, to see, it is Idealism.  It is the clear, Greek blue sky.  It is the gods of intellect winning out over the subterranean goddess.

 

Positivism is the affirmation of the gentle goodness of Being.  Of the loveliness of the universe.  It is joy in a free and delightful existence.  It is an ideal that doesn't fit our way of life.  Man wants to violate such virginity.

 

Positivism is the child of transcendentalism, which took away substance and left only the light of appearance.  A world without objects, just the accidents with no essence, accidents set free, a play of colors, oh so ethereal, pure act.  It becomes a thing so pure it wafts away into nothing.  Nothing becoming nothing.  A God that once was.  Leaving behind all of this, a world.  No more innocence.

 

 

 

367  Here are some ways of picturing to ourselves the Forms.  Take an ordinary object and distort it.  Wild screw-ups of space and time.  Or take all the distortion out.  The simple and only what is necessary.  Put jewels and precious metals all over it, and change it into light.  Make it be an image of itself.  Make the image the real thing.  Hide it.  Make it obnoxious.  Take drugs.  Fall in love.  Walk in the fires of jealousy.  Live through the pain of contradiction.  Walk down the strait and narrow path of avoiding all contradiction.

 

 

 

The metaphysicians accuse the worldly of living in contradiction, and the worldly accuse the metaphysicians of living in contradiction.  The gods and the giants throwing the same spear at each other.  Logicians avoiding it with more and more universals, and logicians avoiding it by getting rid of universals.  Idealists by turning philosophy into method, and the realists by turning it over to physics.  Existentialists by embracing its tension, and the fundamentalists by not reading the Bible.  Philosophy fighting philosophy.  Unity in conflict.  Street gangs.

 

Time, like God, seems to be not only just one of the things in this world, but the great binder, Nexus, that makes all things be.  A unity of fact and form.  Meeting at the point of the Ultimate.  Beyond the point of non-contradiction.  The savior from ever growing contradiction. (Or maybe time is just refined contradiction.  And it is there if we just don't mention it.  We must honor the gods by affecting a limp and displaying our impotence.)

 

The metaphysician is tempted by the worldly man.  He sees him in his half-way philosophy as having given in to that half-eyes-closed seduction of Satan.  And that's how the common sense of the world views metaphysics.  That's the charm of all love.  Even the love of God.

 

 

 

368  There is a social thing that goes by the name of philosophy.  Analytic philosophy, phenomenology.  They talk to each other, about each other's ideas, saying just what they mean.  They have teachers and pupils.  It's all very cozy.  They have received the whole tradition of philosophy and are keeping the spirit alive.  They honor those who came before.  The only unacceptable thing is being alone.  Philosophy for them is the system of relations between philosophies and philosophers.  They are a club, the embodiment of the idea of the world at hand.  No mystical flights of the alone to the Alone.  Everything is familiar, except the violence of the world physics looks at as seen in the mirror of phenomena.  That unseen thing is forever outside the walls, though the society knows it will eventually eat them.  Now the most important thing they have is each other.

 

Metaphysics, the Separate Forms, are all unsocial things.  Perfect Beauty just makes you stop in your tracks with its threatening impersonal look.  The same with the pristine Goodness of God.  And His perfect Unity.  And on and on through the list.  That Violence, that Life.

 

Society yells that Man is not a man, Life is not alive, Beauty is ugly, that Goodness is not good.  Society wants nothing to an extreme, everything to a degree, the pure never seen directly but seen mixed with its opposite.  Universals with particulars.  Mixtures.  Sweet mousse.  The candied Nexus.

 

Society is surrounded by the phantom Supernatural and Subnatural.  By the swirl of their being the same thing.

 

 

 

369  A philosophy fails when it doesn't find a way out of the mind into the independent.  The critique of philosophy is that its elements are all mental.  That all its orderings are of itself.  That, in the end, it knows only things of the act of knowing.  That metaphysics is only the mind playing with itself.  Its salvation comes when it abandons itself, steps off this genteel, civilized narcissism, and finds the wild, the non-human, the irresponsible.  A philosophy that looks only to logic, the ideal, must go to the non-logical.  To that which isn't given in the act of knowing.  Something non-phenomenal.  A precious thing that must be kept out of philosophy. But a thing also in it so the philosopher can go through it to the outside.  The only thing that could be that thing is Philosophy itself.

 

Philosophy itself is a very sensuous thing.  Brother John of Alverna, the companion of St. Francis, when he kisses the holy breast of Christ "perceives so heavenly a fragrance that if all the scents and perfumes in the world were fused together they would seem a putrid stench compared to that divine fragrance."  Philosophy is Sensum.  Confusion.  Pure intuition that is the non-intuition of oblivion.

 

The essence at the heart of all sensings, the Sensum, is pure extension.  The separating.  The going out into.  Mind becoming itself, the tension.  The tension strung across.

 

Dialectic works this way.  When R cannot be S or not-S, it separates R from S then puts a hook between them so as to have it both ways.  When R is of both sides of a pair of opposites, it separates R from both, makes it neither, and no contradiction occurs.  It uses hooks to make unity out of its dividings.  For instance, illusions, which are both imaginations and perceptions, are neither  but are connected with both.  They are critical, which is to say, cut off.

 

 

 

370  How can an American, a citizen of the most undisciplined country in the world, speak of perfection?  Absolutes belong elsewhere.  Unity of Will is nowhere around him.  Where is there perfection in the American Mess?  In the willingness of those people to give in to each other just so they can get along?  They are muddled and half blank.  Where's the sharp edge?  Everybody is better at everything than Americans, except for getting along with each other.  Which is truly amazing considering how many different kinds have to get along.  All those philosophies have to get along.  Keep moving, don't let anything congeal.  What are the still unchanging, separate Forms in the midst of all that?  Oh, they are that fresh American Awkwardness itself.  It's that absolute surprise that he makes it.  Charm.  Everyone is in love with him.  He's so friendly.  And he feels so inadequate.

 

 

The reality of the material world that physics studies must be distinguished from the materiality of it because the mental world is also real but not material.  Ideas and sensa sometimes seem material because we confuse reality with materiality.  And the "that" in "that thing" also, so that matter is said to be the ground of individuation.  "That" seems to point to the feeling of "against" when something is over against us, real. 

 

An Area is a fine, numinous thing.  It is a Thigh.  Power.  As the ground of individuation, matter, areas are gods.  Area is God.  Unity and separation combined.  In and out as one.  Space and time as one.  The Touching of contingency.  An idea that suffers as all the ideas of gods suffer.  Pain.  Sexual power.

 

 

 

371  To understand what matter is you have to understand what pain is.  Pain is the only reality.  Pain is what pleasure is.  It is religion.  It is the secret thing that makes Beauty the beautiful.  The frightful Sudden.  The one thing you cannot give the boy with the wide mouth and luscious, red lips.  Are you man enough?  Matter is pressure, resistance.  It is the grove of trees.  The five senses.  It is the creator of this world.  Oh, the nausea.  It is the thing you are dependent on.  Materialism, a philosophy hard to stomach.  The Goddess, the awful need, the secret godhead the priest knew to hide from the people.  The medusa philosophers look at in the specula.  We honor the Jewish religion for covering it up.  And the homosexual Plato for making intellect self-sufficient.  The bridge to that disgusting thing would have to be a God, a symbol strong enough to hide it, in whom it is transformed into light and delight, the Son.

 

It is easy to feel thought and sensa emerging from matter, to feel them emanate from the presence of the act of existence.  It's in that feeling.  That pain-pleasure.  Religion always becomes feeling.  The name for that central thing is That.  The thing before which you stop.

 

You may think this is all phychologism.  Well, of course, it is.  It's a mistake.  It's the heart of the mistake.  Philosophy that is degenerate.  The only way to approach the Real.

 

 

 

372  Blue white mist skies, green white mist fields, straight roads sloping off into white vagueness.  The Spirits called the New and the Fresh.  Boys dressed in white on thin cycles.  Gliding.  This is all surface without being the surface of anything.  The boys are made out of the Outside as it is separate from the Inside, the Form of other boys somewhere else.  This is the world of the Forms just in themselves.  Eternal things in the mind of God.  Right now, because I think this, I am all essence with no existence; or I am all existence with no essence.  The sky and the fields and the mist are cutting.

 

All philosophies seem to have a separation between the world given to the mind now and some other place.  Now we live in the sensual realm, but that other place is colorless and without tactile surface.  That other place is the cause of this place.  It's either the unseen material substratum or the unseen intellectual superstratum.  Pure existence or pure Being.  Matter or God.  God or the not-God.  But the logic of sheer consciousness seems as impersonal as matter in physics and there is little difference. It's all too much, which is the perfection that is your beloved.  Which makes love the bridge between.  This deadly, impersonal thing is that look of the beloved.  His separation.  The blue sky and the green fields and the mist are not human.  Nor is the totality of that boy.

 

Philosophy is always a vision, a reconstruction, a new way of looking at things, the New World.  Between the old and the new is rejection.  I write the mysticism of the new world ideal logic realism.  I will be rejected for having missed the point of it.  I'm sure I have.  I've always thought I've missed the point of sex, too.  There's something separate from me.

 

 

 

373  Mathematics is the knowledge we have of imaginary things.  Our world is partial and asymmetrical, but mathematics is complete and completely balanced.  Those extra things are imaginary to our world.  In our world some things don't combine, in mathematics all things combine; the unity is perfect.  Mathematics is that bond.  In it we step off the here and now.  In the imagination is the perfecting of the world.

 

It is the glory of the mind that it can think what isn't.  It is not bound to the actual.  It is at home in just form.  And it can think the difference and the unity of the actual and the imaginary. In the mind the actual slips over into the imaginary.  There is a Fit between the two.  Their Mingling is the teasing idea the mind wants to think. That Idea is philosophy.  It is and it isn't.  In it the imaginary becomes the actual, and the actual merely the full of possibility.  The statements of philosophy remain balanced but full of asymmetry.

 

Philosophy is the Logos, but the extended words are its schema.  It is just me, an individual, and the rolling on of combinations.  Bindings within the Bond.  In it the indeterminate, the vague, the merely possible, the non-existent are signs of the presence of the Higher.  The lower is the sign of the higher.  Sublime philosophy.

 

 

 

374  I am a universal here exemplified.  Thus I am timeless.  I shall be here and there many times. I shall go back to my perfect unexemplified state.  Beyond this longing into Being.  Or maybe I am the actualization of this universal.  I am the Real of real being.  I am.  I shall not not be.  Being, I am eternal.  Or I am fact.  The universal here and now.  Then I am nothing. I am a complex with no being of my own.  Everything is God.  I disappear into Him.  Any way you look at it I am eternal.  I am a universal form.

 

Constriction and release.  Well-formed things within rules.  Going toward time and that without justification.  There it meets the formless, the unruly, the one who makes his own rules, the one who has dared, the one feared, the only justified one.

 

I am an American philosopher; I am from Whitman and Bishop Berkley.  Just the Platonic Forms and that one masculine thing, Existence.  Love, the Real, pushing on all the colorful, flying essences.  A place within His Arms.  And from Santayana who knew that philosophy is first a transformation.  That the things seen are lifted up until their substance disappears and the new world appears.  Only the sensa without substrate are left.  That grove of trees.  The Pure Sensum.  The Pantocrator.  Sex.  Matter.  The Crusher.  The God of the effeminate Berkley.  The Other side of Christ.  A world where all things are independent and there is no crossing over.  The God Hume on the prairie.

 

Boys who make a point of looking like boys are here.  Faggots.  Pure reflection.  Pure mind.  Less than a waft of air.  To like them you must like the abstract, have a taste for intellectual things, and move with them.  Within their moving.

 

In Him our individuality disappears and we are only fleeting ontological things.  Our being is gleaming movement.  The prairie, far from the sea.  Far from birth and death.  Only the young male.

 

 

 

375  The reason Iowans love Iowa is the Boring, the Bleak, the Monotonous, and the Pain.  Oh, the Pain of the terrible cut of the air.  Like a lover's back.  Always the same.  Your hands going the same places.  Just the movement and the feel you've known so many times before.  And the stillness requiring you to stay in one place too long.  And your love and your craving for the same over and over again.  Here is the Inert that is beyond grace.  In the dialectic of love you know this resolution of the contradiction.  This new, old logic, that is the only thing philosophy has ever been.

 

Every genus leads to Being.  That is philosophy's constriction. The end is always at hand.  There is no communication between genera because there is nothing to say. They each know the same thing.  Their quest is too soon ended.  That makes the question all the stronger and absolute.  It's all so Ideal.  There's nothing there.  Herself, the Miss Too Abrupt.

 

Under our feet here is the humus.  Decayed flesh.  The human.  Cry for your lover because he is in the process of contracting a fatal disease.  The sweet odor of his flesh.  The stigmata.  The oh so sweet crying.  He is coming apart.  All of this good and evil is just an image of God. What can I do?  God is everywhere.  Our solicitation for each other is a going towards God.  It is all forgiven because it is only love.  It is also bleak because God is everywhere.  We are losing our individuality, becoming just an understanding of God.  A separate immaterial substance.  Contemplation takes over.

 

Then shot right through is the mystery, the gift of individual existence.  It couldn't have been, it wasn't supposed to have been.  We cannot exist along side God.  I cannot take it.  It is sin.  I will punish myself for my effrontery. I repeat, God is everything, that is the metaphysical vision.

 

But if I am just God.  Then things come from me.  I create thoughts.  I do.  From myself.  Things.  I am.

 

God, you are laying me down in a terrible mystery.  I am sin.  I even see the truth of atheism.  Even the value of unlove in my new power.  The empty and the monotonous, but I can do. This is the limp beauty of hanging over the Pit.

 

 

 

376  It's not hard to understand Anselm's ontological argument if you understand the word 'Supreme'.  It is the word 'Super' in Dionysis the Areopagite.  Which is the Sublime.  It is the excess that appears as the opposite.  It is beauty that appears as the monstrous.  It is divine goodness that appears to outdo demonic terror.  It is love that is only mathematical formulas.  It is being that seems like nothing.  You can know it with unknowing.  Give glory to it in your foolishness.  Be happy with it in your sorrow.  Philosophize about it in a boys' school.  The Supreme, the Highest has with it the lowest, the existence of a rock.  It is the rock.  This is our idolatry.  The sin of dialectic. The only way to monotheism that we have.

 

 

The Super thing is the Platonic Form.  It seems so much like the individual of the nominalists.  It seems beyond the distinction of universal and particular.  It is extreme realism that is one with nominalism.  But that isn't what the nominalists had in mind.  They wanted to stay here in this world and be content.  They didn't want a Super Mystical Nominalism.  Or did they?  The Form is to the individual as Being is to non-being.  As Beauty is to ugliness.  It's a difference that seems to make all the difference.  It's a difference that disappears, though, as fast as does the simplicity of the One.

 

 

 

377  The natural world is the undoing of the dialectic.  The Dual.

 

As the low is to the high so is the rural to the cosmopolitan.  As the high is to the highest so the cosmopolitan is to the Rural.  Germany – Rome – Greece.  I live in a Rural place.  We have Boredom and an asceticism that is Sex.

 

The material act of writing is our connection with the Ideas.  The stuff of the Word.

 

In logistics a bare thing is both a flame and flickering.  The criticism of it is that the bare thing isn't flickering but it's the flame that's flickering.  Logistics knows that there are no things that are somehow both universal and particular, such as 'the flame'.  And yet such are all everyday things.  The everyday is the thing that is Incomprehensibly Other, away from logistics.  Mystical.  Aristotle found the mystical down here where we live.

 

Though we don't have all the parts each part is the whole.

 

 

I am trying to explain the nonlucid lucidly.  I am tired and want to stop but I can't.  I am tired because I seem to have once again failed.  I have tried and tried but I can't seem to break through to the lucid.  My philosophy always turns into a confused religion. The appearing god, the revelation works against reason.  Religion is to reason as the particular is to the universal.  Rather as a particular is to the Form of the universal itself.  Religion is the appearing of the highest one time.  Opposites, but the appearing highest is the highest.  Oh Blessed Lucidity, you must yourself come and help me in my darkness.  Don't here make me lucid, but make me the Lucid that is you.  Give me play.  The Lucid that is the union of the lucid and the nonlucid.  As Being is the union of being and non-being.  The Holon that is the totality and the void together.

 

An Idea is the appearance of a thing as its opposite.  But it isn't real; it's SuperReal, Ideal.  Super is the union of being and the beyond.

 

 

 

378  The intellectual is judged to be arrogant.  He lives in that high part of the mind, and he claims divinity for it.  He claims immortality for it.  He says there is such a thing as Truth and he knows it directly.  He finds all this in his complete impotence. He lies when he says his dirt is gold.  The sensible man, on the other hand, is cheerfully able but not outrageous.  The intellectual sees sainthood and takes it as his own cloak.

 

Behold, the Super can be yours.  But you must leave the land of fact, the land of the real.  And head for the SuperReal.

 

Reality pervades facts; Superreality is all over the things within facts.  The SuperReal is the disintegration of fact.

 

 

A complex doesn't exist.  The things that make it up do - if the things themselves are not complex.  The things of this world, including my mind, are complex.  So, if the constituents of a thing of this world are eternal that same worldly thing must be eternal.  Since it is nothing other than its constituents.  Since it is no thing.  Only a no thing could not be subject to the ravages of time.  That's how simple things get by time.

 

All philosophical arguments today must be just hints of the beyond.  We are not in a time when metaphysics is acceptable.  It won’t work for us.  Which is not to say it ever did.  But now we live that particular part of philosophy.  Thus my arguments are not well thought out, none could be.  They are cramped.  Twisted.  Suffocation.  But in the dust, having a speck of light from that beyond.

 

And yet argument is everywhere.  Thesis and counter-thesis.  All for the sake of bringing the world out of darkness into the light.  The light should be everywhere.  But it's not the light of mystical things.  A black light.  That is, it seems like the very darkness that should be destroyed.  It is and it isn't.  It's an Ideal thing.

 

 

 

379  A feel for history is a feel for what's going on.  The immense is the unmeasurable. The unmeasurable is that which is beyond individual existence.  The feeling is that of one's own individuality dissolving.  Of losing self-identity in the universal.  Of getting outside yourself to the other.  Of finally reaching it.  The Thrill.  The Threat.  Of the other invading your being.  The Threat is that of you having to give yourself up to a dumb mechanical thing.  Having to do that makes no sense.  Having to do that is the thing that is unmeasurable.  Thought can't make it leave.  The logic machine is out there.  Oblivious force and rhythm.  The inert public thing taking you into it.  Its mechanics kneading your self out of you.  Unbreathably close.  Until you are that thing.  With its out open existence.  Going out forever.  In the shudder of your union with it.  The thrill threat of their uniting.  You look out at it all.  The broad survey in time.  The Tie.

 

Religion is not clear and lucid.  Reason is.  Reason will pull apart ambiguous words.  Opposing things are separated and peace reigns.  Reason is delicate and as light as air.  It is reconciliation.  It doesn't take sides; it mediates.  It finds the third thing that is of both.  Then further divides and mediates again until the fabric is woven.  Religion isn't clear and lucid mediating.  It is the piece of cloth woven, the one thickness placed on your shoulder.  Reason is the going from this to that over its object which is the Object, the thing in itself, God.  But Reason is also an object, then it is the Logos, likewise God.  Reason looks for a mediator between reason and the god Reason.  Between logic and the Logos.  Between philosophy and Religion.  Between philosophy and the boy Philosophy. But reason can't find itself until religion comes along and gives it itself.  And the lucid and clear takes the form of darkness.  Reason is the same thing I've done here except it doesn't look like it because I have added intensity and made it its opposite.

 

 

 

380  Love is all-forgiving.  It sees everything as good, as God.  An irrationality that is often too much to take.  Being unforgiven seems easier to take.  Hell is easier.

 

Surely we have missed part of the philosophical dialectic.  Can this be all of it?  Does it just roll on like this forever?  Can we finally accept that there is no all?  That we have said It?  That thing we wanted to say?  That this Play is God?  That we have gotten rid of the heavy pressure?  That the duende is gone?  That Christ sits there freed like the man of legions?  What must he think of Teresa who is so afraid of offending him?

 

All of this is philosophy after it has worked through the dialectic and is now roving around at the End.  Mirrors and tinkles and agony, a glance that was always there.  Plato and Aristotle have been purified, each to himself now.  Each is now a piece that can be picked up.  Philosophy has become a piece, an area, a stück.  Of course, without flaws.  Spiritual matter.

 

As love is just a deception, hiding one lover from another.  So is the form that makes the beloved beautiful, as it hangs around his body, a material thing.  In the middle of being is a strange nexus uniting things that should never be united.

 

The beloved failed to breed.  Now everything is over.  As I tend and take care of his body I realize I am his form, his soul.  The form of corporeality is a strange thing between form and matter.  This is all falling together.  Thomas Aquinas is here with me.  B. says I am my thoughts, but that can't be.  Time and change require that I be free of space.

 

Ontology is fixed elements.  Just bits and pieces lying around here and there.  And smiling, moist lips and more solicitation.

 

 

A thing remains compactly in itself as it flies through space, all its properties flying off behind it.

 

Philosophy and the mind thinking about philosophy, the contemplative mind, have always been considered that part of our human existence that is separate from our human existence.  They are separate substances, real in themselves.  Divine.

 

 

 

381  The first icon for the philosopher is the Sun, the image of the intellectual light he is turning to away from the shadows of sensual matter.  From out of the cave of matter.  The color of philosophy is yellow-orange, and it's a disk.  It has an intellectual area that gives it substance.  Spiritual matter that makes it a thing with presence.  Pure light and pure matter.  Philosophy is a real substance that cuts into the philosopher.

 

Philosophy will always use the word 'Light'.  Coming to know will be 'Illumination', and the thing seen will be 'Glorious'. His words will be 'brilliant'.  And his goal will be a 'vision'.  He waits until his death when he shall be immersed in that light, full of peace and wisdom.  He is not far from it now.  The sun as we see it now and the words he writes now already show it.  That's why they are called icons, not signs or symbols.  That's why, seeing the light reflect off the skin of his earthly beloved, he frequently mistakes him for the heavenly god.  Philosophy isn't just about, it is a participation in the divine now.  The word 'light' it uses is the correct word.  Alas the intensity of its glory and purity makes it invisible to us now.  We see it without seeing it.  It couldn't be more obvious, but we don't see it.  God couldn't make Himself more obvious.  But we can't see Him.  So the philosopher sits there studying the emptiness and the darkness.  Trying to overcome his own refusal to see.

 

It is god's nature to be totally present now.  But he is the very presentness of presence, too close to this present moment and place for us who are always looking somewhere else.  We think we are being humble when we say we can't see, that we are not where He is, but that saying itself is just our ignorance.  Darkness, our darkness, cannot cover up the light.

 

 

 

382  A sick boy with refined, delicate features, white legs, movements like a breeze, always a cry in his voice, needing something.  A healthy boy with round, smooth, firm muscles, power in his legs to push against you, directness in his voice, fullness in his presence, making you heart pound at the prospect of him close to you, on you.

 

The Imago, the Delicate, the Strength that defines him.  The first thing and the nothingness that is its reflection.  Which one is more beautiful?  Which is loved more?  Which is philosophy?  Here is the Dialectic.  Which is you?  When will you be the other?

 

Each becomes the other in the moment of self-love.  Each going to himself mingles with the other so the lovers are united.  Each lying beside the other watches the other go into himself in excitement.  No touching, just watching.

 

The delicate boy will be able to understand, will be able to endure.  The strong will try to receive from him.

 

 

A philosophy of essences and of Forms tries to find a constancy that will be a refuge in the blast of arbitrary, divine Will.  So that the Good and the True remain and do not become the evil and the false.  Its philosophers fear God more than trust him.  So they put these things right in his very Being in order to control Him.  They call them the beloved, beautiful, kind Son, the Advocate.  And yet they still know that these rest on a wild, unruly thing.  There is a touch of the unformed in their forms.  Of dissipation in their essences.  But they will not give them up as the nominalists have done.  The beautiful Son, consenting to be murdered, endured.

 

 

Wasting time in social conversation dissipates philosophy.  The philosopher must be the individual away from the crowd.  He has to have that distance, that self-sufficiency, even that aloofness.  The understanding he then gives to others is just the picture of him out there.  He must be the icon in which philosophy, wisdom, is seen.

 

 

 

383  The Augustinians know that the presence of God is a disruptive, destroying thing.  But that in that God is the safety and the wholeness they are desperate for.  Only the religious knows the terribleness of God.  The revolutionary tries to deny God in the name of kindness, helpfulness, and compassion.  The religious knows that's a hopeless dream.  Only God can protect us from God.

 

The strong are beautiful, but we are the weak, and we must endure that.  In the Son, the weak image, we see the model of our salvation.  We have to go through this disease.   But Oh the strongly sensuous, the healthy, is the form of our preaching.

 

There is a thing called the Good and it will remain the Good forever.  It is stronger than time.  This is solid and constant.  Our safety in the flux.  That is the statement of realism.  No matter how many humans devise definitions of it, no matter how the world changes, how many universes come and go, the Good is one thing and it remains one thing.  This is a comfortable thought.  It gives the possibility of union in our communicating.  The mind has a tendency to say, Ah yes, but it's a little more complex than that, that sophisticated, mature thinking refines the idea.  But philosophy says that the very coarseness, primitiveness of the idea is its strength and the only truth.  A philosopher must know where to stop and have force to do it.  And let the oneness full him.

 

 

 

All my life I have been very spiritual, no earth around me, no gold, nothing that shines, no glory, no light, I am invisible.  I am now less than nothing.  Too fine.  That is my heresy.  My separation.  Outside the church and the order of apostles, both of which were lifted up from the mire.

 

The middle ages, the dark ages, was a time of the philosophy of light, of illumination.  It is appropriate that a philosophy of light should make a time dark.  It is the incomprehensible, invisible light.  The Light.  A time of seeing, the idein, the unseen divine Ideas.  But this philosophy of spiritual light was grafted onto men who came from the moneyed, golden earthy people.  Put into a worldly church.

 

Light equals energy equals act.  It brings itself from the dark encasement inside solid rock out into the open.  From perdition and storage onto the public stage.  It harrows the hell of the bowels of potentiality.  Forcing open.  Pushing aside.  Clearing off debris, which is the work of abstraction.  Disentangling.

 

 

 

384  Philosophy is dialectic. Dialectic is logical argumentation.  Especially argumentation about the first things of existence – Simplicity, Difference, the Same.  The purpose of argumentation is to clarify the words, much as butter changes from opaque to translucent.  In the heat of thought it comes in an instant.  As rubbing polish on silver changes it from dull to brilliant.  Argumentum.  That is to say 'light'.  You see it has nothing to do with being 'argumentative'. Rather the correct form of listening to an argument in mental passivity.  To follow the argument.  To be led.  To the light.  There comes a moment when the idea is freed from its opaque material content. When it is separated from matter.  Or appears suddenly as separate from matter. When it is just itself.  An appearance of unity.  When it is seen as an instance of self-identity.  Having the form of intellect.  Able to unite with the mind of the philosopher.  To be the same for any mind. To establish communication.  Eventually the definitions of all things become the same as the definition of intellect. The path of argument is the movement toward that definition.  Eventually even the matter of things is taken up into that definition.  It's all there is. It has the look of light.  The philosopher's reaching for it has the urgency of love.  The seductiveness of that is what keeps his listeners on track.  It is devotion, unction, rhythmical rubbing.  The constant handling which gives heat and causes separation, and leaves the thing by itself.

 

It is probably true that the final step in an argument, the appearance of the clear thing, is outside the control of the philosopher.  It suddenly comes on him. And on his listener.  As from outside.  That is why the active intellect was seen as separate from him.  From both of them; he and his listener are passive.  And the moment of light is uncertain, and uncontrollably enters into the manipulation.

 

 

 

I live in a world without glances, without touches, no one worries that I am seeing someone else.  No one speaks to me in double meanings.  I live in a world devoid of love. There is no God anywhere in my world.  I look across a chasm much as those who are in hell look across to see into heaven.  The thing is right there but there is no nexus over to it.  I understand separation.  It is the only thing I write about.  I use no bridge, just sudden appearance.  Chasms.  The ever present.

 

 

 

385  Certainly the Thomists, the Aristotelians, can see the loveliness of the world.  The unity they give to individual substances should be seen as a casket for that.  The mind's division as the swirl of in and out love for that.  Reason's divisions should be just the cut of love.  But a cut that leaves the beloved's virginity in tack.  Philosophy becomes just a sigh and a disappearance over his face. 

 

It was and always is the nominalists who wipe away the whiff of beauty in the Thomist's love.  But they are innocent.  The lover, reason's mind, must come to nothing.  It's for the sake of the glory of the beloved.  After nominalism, when it's all over, though, even the beloved disappears, and it all starts over again.  He existed only in the lover's eyes, and a strong, ultra-realism is again born.  This is the circle that moves in the eternity of ontology's logic.  Everything is still.

 

The nominalists are asking the mind to think a unity it can't think.  It instantly degenerates into the nominalist's singular concept that stands for individuals.

 

Or is this all a refusal to think we can think what we really can think?  Of course.

 

There's no point in remembering the past; it all eternally returns.  Nothing has left us.

 

The thought that the universal is nothing but the individual is a fading out and a fading in of thought.  There is in the middle of it that lapse of oblivion.   That's what makes the thought so attractive, so mystical.  The mind falls into the non-consciousness of being.  But there's anxiety in that nominalism.

 

Likewise the Thomist's, the Augustinian's concern to prove that God knows individuals has at the corner of its mind the thought that the word 'individual' points to nothing.  That he has pain proving God knows them because there are no such things.  Realists and nominalists, like gods and men, each live the other's death.

 

 

 

386  I feel the rejection of God.  The absolute rejection.  Everywhere in time there is the rejection.  Until I meet the philosophical Rejection.  There it becomes a beautiful metaphysical thing.  The Holiness, the Other than our human reality.  The destruction of our human reality.  Our salvation.  I am forever alone in that great thing. My own being sparkles.  I have an Own.  Me.  I am discovered in my own divinity. And in that I am allowed to touch God.  Then like God I have no God above.  God's gift is Himself, His place, where there is nothing higher.  But only in the terrible Rejection.

 

The philosophy I write is not the important trailblazing of science.  Everything I say has been said before, even recently.  And by everyday people.  I must go into that humility. I must have pedestrian emotions and reactions.  Everyday words.  I want the monotony and stillness of a Fall afternoon.  Like the Greeks and much modern philosophy I stay close to home.

 

My writing is not an instrument for greater things.  It is a flat continuously thick surface to lie against.  It is that half asleep tranquility.  That may make it frightening.  It is sexual.   Very little movement.  Descent. Without grace, thus everyday.  Frightening.  I am not doing anything.

 

Here nothing follows.  Things just are.  This is the Christ who wiped out the law and striving.

 

In my embarrassing silly everydayness I am nothing; I am like God.  Their emptiness makes my words able to penetrate anything.  Only then can a self looking at itself penetrate into itself and be itself.  This is where philosophy becomes just looking at human things.  But that disappears and the realism, nonmental Otherness, takes over.  The problem is solved.

 

A philosopher doesn’t have the grace of a logician or a scientist.  Nothing flows.  Just heavy, constantly the same.  Pressure against your body.  The Sin of philosophy, his descent into matter.  It is absolute as matter is an absolute.  It hangs on nothing.  My words hang on nothing.  This is not the sin of consequence, but the sin of being other than God.  Not the sin of the law, but of love.  In love there is no sin, a sin itself.  Sin that is the sin of no sin.  Christ's terrible gift to us.  We cannot accept a lover's telling us we are perfect.  We cannot believe our perfection.  Then we would be at an end.  Nothing would move.  Heavy stillness.

 

 

 

387  I write this in order to find myself out there as a public thing.  I am beautiful in my multi-dimensional inward turnings.  My ideas blossom and then return to the bud.  It's all very geometrical.  I am the Absolute.  I write evil.  But you know I am beyond it.  I mingle with it, I touch it, I get lost in it, but I am only with the Touch.  I am outside everything.  Outdoors with the framework.  You can't love me.  How could you save one already free?  I have known more evil than you, so how could you be desire for me?  I could play the dialectic of love with you for a while, but only for a while.  Can you follow me in my duplicity?  I will only run somewhere else.  I will be you.  Shall we change our artless protuberances into Joy?  My thinking is unthinking; I know everything immediately.  Can you run as fast as I can?  Philosophy and love really is madness, you know.  Just your everyday madness.  Boring in its having been seen so many times before.  I have here confessed and surpassed.  My public image is unrecognizable by the public. The public doesn't recognize itself.

 

I am just a mingling.  Let me mingle to the hilt.  It's so like the sparkling tingling of cum breaking through my flesh.  So that's the little thing of love that's been inside you!  I am turned inside out.  I am become my visceral organs.  I am glitteringly turned into flesh.

 

I am so wise.  I know how lovers try to make themselves be the magical appearance of Being that their beloved mysteriously can't leave.  My strength is to see that they really do.  The beloved leaves, but the lover lost faith.  The saint has the daring to take the wisdom and the perfection that is right there before us.  The death of God broke the veil between Him and us.

 

The one who sees that Wisdom doesn't want respect, or admiration, or honor. There's something else there he sees and wants.  It's a monstrous being that will stand in his place.  A thing that, if he can reduce himself, will be more attractive.  One of the Absolutes invading this world.  A thing that is outside the law.  A willful god.  He will be a Caesar in yet another Rome.  The conservative strength of Realism.  The offensive one.  Like the slaughtering David.  Like the murderous Jehovah.  Like Kierkegaard's Abraham, the knight of faith.  The Destroyer of the world.  Undoing the work of the Cosmocrator with his knowledge of good and evil.

 

This realism is an attempt to make the dialectic stop.  To avert its foundering.  It does it with strength.  That which would fall apart is encountered by a stronger One.  The realist knows the inner dissolution but holds it tightly together.  He knows the overwhelmingness of the idea that the omnipresent, that present outside time, that present in heaven, becomes present at a bounded place within our world, in one of the forms of our world.  A thing too hard to be heard.

 

 

 

388  You must accept the ineptness, the artlessness, of my work as the inertia that will be its momentum that carries it on to heaven after I let go of it.  It is my material substance.  My incarnation.  But it is pure as is the body of Mary, the goddess completely vanquished.  My sentences aren't joined.  They are inarticulate.  They are disjoined.  A lapse of thought.  A fading away because there is no communication between genera.  Sheer Outside.  Somewhere else.  I am the heavy, half asleep pressure on your chest.  The duende, the spirit that moved on the deep.  Desire.  Inexorable necessity.  Philosophy blowing from out of the Being of Being.

 

Here are the changes of the Form.  It is seen as the predicate, then as the flat area that has received the predicate, then as the mingling of the area with the predicate.  All three are one thing, but there is no sum of the three.  And there is separate from the three an image of their unity.  It is one as the three are one, but it and the unity of the three are not two. They are one.  There is only the one.  The One.

 

Essentialism and existentialism are the same.  The exalted is the base.

 

The Two-edged sword of Christ is that which can cut between one thing.  By it essentialism and existentialism are two. The Form and the area and the nexus are three.  Change is not sameness.  Philosophy is not desire.  Art is not the artless.  That sword is so fine that it is nothing at all.  It can penetrate and leave the victim a virgin.  It can murder and leave the sacrifice alive.  Change is a twinkle.  It is like an illusion that is there but never was there.  It is the critical thing.  A cutting.  As delicate as ephemeral boy love.  As between art and no art at all.

 

Otherness in itself is pure non-being.  It is one of the Forms.  It is the difference between the forms.  It doesn't exist, that is its being.

 

You must picture to yourself this strange fairy tale land of philosophy. To not believe is just pedestrian.  Remembering the symbol of the foot.  The distinction between fairy tales and reality is that between body and mind.  Is the mind real or repressed sexuality?  If the latter, do you believe in sex?  Or is it just an idea?  The truth is you must believe in both, and in the distinction between them.  The world is real.

 

Realism puts a clamp around a disjointment of changes and calls it That.  It claims that the internal differences are like a boy's future written across his face.  Nothing at all.  He just slightly moved.  That's all.  Movement is nothing.  He is the nothing. He is self, he is contained in the clamp.  The particulars are in the universal.  The old metaphysics.  The boys and the dead Socrates.  The academy long since in ruins.  The decay we love to touch.

 

 

 

389  Your lovers always come to you in pairs.  Each is treated to that fading, fainting confusion that lasts for a moment.  That point where the veil hiding the one from the other is about to be ruptured.  The contradiction that is the gossamer form of sex.  That losing control when you are about to commit a crime.  The sweetness of death and murder.  The boy at the moment of being caught is lovely.  He has given himself to the inert side of life.  The sticky mucous parts of the body. The time when his rational movements reveal a toothy face wanting your shoulder.

 

The sex boy is always in trouble.  Trouble and turbidity is the form of sex.  He can't remove that part of himself which has jutted out into society.  The slow heavy movements knowing that correction will drive it deeper.  Everything he handles has the quality of inert weight. He has unwanted sex that doesn’t fit his situation.  The cold shiver when he realizes he has become the flesh.

 

This is not openly what he wanted.  He cannot put it back together.  In the lapse he will try to make the other forget.  The garment is thin but maybe it will hold.  Abruptly fitting things together trying to hide the opening.  Like the way philosophers put together books. He would someday correct his lapse of memory.  Speak of the whole and cover up the fact that he was paying attention to one little thing.  The heavy stickiness of the world.

 

Philosophy is duplicity.  The God is both Jehovah and Lord.   Good and evil.  The end result of what he said was what he wanted to run away from.  There's something in the materiality of words that is the inertia.  The grave.  It goes on and on forever trying to correct itself. To get out of the snare.  Getting where it wanted to go, always farther in.  One thing to say, one lover, is no thought, no lover at all.

 

I have explained this in a way that is super-rational, super-calm and indifferent.  Its awkwardness is intentional and awkward.  I am surprised.  It is an intentional philosophy that goes no farther than itself.  As my sex.  Compressed.  I lay out this sketch then I will reel it back in.

 

 

 

390  There is materiality in the forms.  There is materiality in the spirit of God coming over us.  As clear water is the thickness of air. As the wind is the body thickness of air.  So the forms have a thick presence hanging in the air.  Materiality is the substantive form of matter. It is the form of matter.  It is the matter of form. As you can see it is neither matter nor form.  It is an attempt by a philosopher to solve this problem of philosophy.  The substance of philosophy.  It is thought and compulsion to the forms.  It is the sleeve of God that he clings to. It is the participation of the body in metaphysics.  It is the rich stuff of love you swim in when in love.  The very thing called Being.  Because it is neither matter nor form we cannot say there is nor isn't spiritual matter.  There is and there isn't.  It is not spirit and it is not matter. But aside from these two there is nothing.  There is the coming and going of contradiction. The attempt.  Like trying to unravel yourself in a dream.  Like your breath as a knife cutting through you chest.  Not logic, not poetry.  Like working your way out of philosophical dialectic. Like an ink smudge on your hand and on the things you handle.  The feeling that if you don't shore up and correct your lover will leave you. A pressure on the side of your heart.  The form of your thought.  Materiality with the dream –ity.  I know the thick air fullness of philosophy and the forms and love, and I know the delicate beautiful emptiness.  I know the grace and the artlessness within God.  I see the philosophies submerging within each other.  I feel the gravity and the escape that implies.  The whole thing is Jesus putting his arms all around me.  I have put philosophy into the movements of my body as into a repository.  That will be my memory.  I put it in my pocket.  And in thick compact sentences I put into your inner ear.

 

The Forms are separate from matter.  Oh, terrible separation.  Oppressive Idea.

 

 

 

391  The first choice I made was to get what I wanted by stealing it.  I was a boy full of desire.  Everything was a blank to me.  Desire is nothing but the presence of nothing at all. I was a nice kid.  No one disliked me.  I was helpful.  I must have been a very good student.  My background is just empty air.  I have always been well liked.  I have never done anything wrong.  I doubt if anyone could imagine me doing anything wrong.  I was the thoughtful good kid the whole world wants.  I did it by merely doing it.  If I am a guest in the world, then I am the perfect guest.  You hardly know I'm here.  I cause no trouble.  Talk to me and you will get along with me just fine.  I will really listen to what you have to say.  And yet I am nothing but desire. I am nothing at all.  Everyone knows it.  No one has been as far from something as I.  I am hardly in anyone's way.  So to get something I desire, I will steal it.  To be something is not a part of my nature, my right, I will do it right under God's nose.  I will carry it home and I will watch it.  It will think I am very nice.  I will want it, but it won't know anything about that, or if it does it wouldn't think of violating my niceness, my nothingness, my virginity with its somethingness, that would be silly.  It will go somewhere else for that.  So I will kill it.  I will let it be something.  Let it always not have my nothingness.  It can't live without me.

 

I don't know why I write things like that.  All I wanted to say was that though God and the whole world think I'm nice, they don't know that I am overwhelmed by their rejection. Others may see themselves as sinners, but they know where to go to find themselves in the arms of security.  But I don't appear as a sinner.  The only thing I feel is that the Secure Arms thinks I'm nice, but because I have no sin it won't hold me.  I'm forever outside by myself.  I feel this absolute rejection.  I believe in God but I have never felt the smallest amount of love from Him.  I never will.  In the deepest center of me there is just feeling the rejection.  That will be the final judgment.  Only the sinners are saved.

 

I know this all may seem silly.  Oh, stop it.  I have tried to be decadent, hard core, but oh, Gary stop it.  It's not you.  I'm so nice, I'm just empty nighttime.  Nothing.  I am just nothing.  I am only desire.  Fuck the whole world.  I could murder the wide extent of its body and not feel a thing.

 

 

 

392  Right now it seems to me that all of Being is contained in the word "inertia".  I need that weight to help me make my mark in the world.  To help me penetrate and make it be other.  It would help me appear.  But it's such a stupid thing and to descend into it is to fall from my spiritual nature.  It's thus evil for me to have it.  Without it though I can't be.  The whole idea makes me sad.

 

But there is a heavy half asleep tranquility that I look for.  It takes away my pain.  When I am with certain people I want to just stop thinking and curl up close.  At certain times I feel that.  To fall into that heavy dream.  I feel though that he would be so bored with me then that I fight it.  The struggle makes it worse.  I would lose my attractiveness.  I had put movement around me to hide that unattractiveness.  I don't want my misshapen flesh to show.  It is artless, which is to say, inert.

 

My writing is the same as my body.  I keep it moving to cover up its artlessness. Sometimes its everyday dullness comes through to me.  That's frightening. I am of no importance.

 

I can see I have inertia whether I want it or not.  I will not try to get rid of it, but I will keep it and protect it.  I will rely on it.  This matter is very close to the uncreated formlessness of God.  His pushing me into oblivion.  I will give in to the unintelligible within my science. I will abandon my positivism and idealism for this realism.  I will do that terrible thing of losing my self.  Maybe my soul.  This seems like the opposite direction toward where I wanted to go.  Think of me.

 

 

 

In the Vision of the Simple, something is seen that is beyond the self-identity of one thing.  It is not one thing.  It is not compact.  It is thin.  The Very Thin.  That makes it the ground of the many.  It is not compact.  It does not lean up against consciousness.  It can't be thought.  It's too diffuse.  Which makes the Simple the Other.  Not the Other nor the One but less than both.  So thin.  So delicate.

 

 

 

393  Perception belongs to the ideas, not to the senses.  Sensa are just of the self.  Ideas are beyond.  Sensuality misses the Lover out there; it is therefore sin.  It is not Truth, the out there.  Perception is love; it is seeing.  It is having the thing stand before the self.  It is the problem of philosophy, which is the problem of love, which is our being thrown forward.  It is our anxiety about letting ourselves be thrown, being without our self.  Letting our selves be taken.  Taken through.  The end.  It is the escape standing before us waiting to be taken.

 

The ideas are God's thinking.  He thinks and the things are out there.  His thoughts are true.  His Ideas are with the Idea that we are and we are in a world.  We are in the beautiful Son of God, the Mind of God.  He is there, Real.  He is the Real.  He is pressing onto us.  That is his beauty.  He brings us out of the False self we thought we had found to hide in.  He invades, and we are Him.  Cutting and tearing.  Sensa breaking apart, sweetness, sensa at its extreme, pure sensa, the Idea of Sensa, the thrill of dialectical thought.

 

Between the self and the out there is that thin film, the membrane of existence, the thing to be broken.  He comes into us.  He is us.

 

There are many attempts, but nothing works until it is just the right moment, then one word and unity occurs.  The in here and the out there are one.

 

Of course the Ideas exist; that is their nature.

 

 

 

394  This is not about philosophy, this has become philosophy. If you find it hard to read, as you should, that's because this is not a disinterested, distant view of an object, but it is a thing calling you to join it.  It is trying to lead you to a place separate.  For you to be with it.  It is the one doing, you are following.  Being the passive one in a leading away is always full of anxiety. Thoughts that you should not go.  These words will make you feel important.  That all your pain has been a grand success.  That your sin was really divine.  Turning truth into untruth, and making lies seem true.  This is seduction.  It seems like sin become God.  It is the mind's knowing matter by becoming it.  That question of the mind's knowing matter has been the central question of philosophy.  It approaches the answer, but is afraid to proceed to it.  It is the moment of descending into the flesh in seduction.  It is that aweful mystery of the incarnation.  It is the goal of philosophy.  To be philosophy the words must take you there.  You must follow into unintelligence.  Into the unreadable.  Your reaction will be like nothing at all.  Like the blankness in the mind when love overtakes the lover.  You will have the thought of going back and reading more, but you will not.  You will insist on talking reasonably to make up for this.  Shame was too present.  A protestation of skepticism and agnosticism will hold the answer at bay.

 

 

 

395  I live among a people who have no dictator over them.  Thus we are not a soft and secure people.  We have no God who lays down all the rules and gives us contentment.  There are no first principles of thought here.  No correct desires.  We are lost in freedom.  We have no dictator who rules by terror, but being looked at by no one is Terror absolute.  No one has a place in a system that can define and give uniqueness to him.  Thus each is the Abstract Man.  What is that?  We are the same with no way to think.  We are the universal, the logical, each a principle unto himself.  Each the origin of thought.  Each a dictator.  With nothing above him.

 

My talent, my rhetoric, is that my hardness is pervaded by love.  Logic plus eros is logic perfected.  Speech with a figure of speech is the unity of speaker and hearer.  In this land of Absolute Terror you appear as a delicate thing to be pitied.  That is to say, to be loved.  The Terror in that pity is love.

 

I create nice equations.  In the balance opposites are in identity.  Fastidious and elegant.  But the refined mind always has a secret attraction to the brute and boorish.  To the inert.  Equations must be pushed into place, pounded together by a smith.  Niceness covers the brute.  But that hidden gravity is what makes the pieces fall into place and which makes it hard to remove them.  The terror of a dictatorship is the pressure it applies to your chest.  The weight of its intricacies.  Its hidden sexuality.  Its attractiveness.

 

The only thing that governs us now is the delicate balance, each one balancing.  In the stillness of not going to the right or left.  Aiming at the perfect mean.  This is the identity of the Aristos and the tyrant. This is the meaning of the modern way, the perfectly moderate way.  It has become the extreme attempt at stillness.  We can't relax or we would lose everything. That is our niceness, our precision.  Our niceness is gentleness and softness and ease absolute.  Inert and hard and tense.

 

 

 

396  My ideas, as you hear me speak them, are all correct, as my good will behavior is correct.  But they are all totally without human feeling.  You will be confused because you will have felt my niceness, but you also feel cold and lonely.  Not directly so, but somewhere.  I did the perfect Christian thing, but Christianity is cold and dead to this world, other worldly.  It's hard to put your finger on.  But Christianity in its perfect obedience is a hateful thing.  Its love is hate.  It would be better, humanly speaking, if I did no good works.  Their recipient hates them afterward.  Even though, if asked by others, he would say I am nice, and to himself he would say I am nice, but he would be confused and strangely hate me, though he would say that that was surely wrong.  But I'm all totally fake.  I have died; Christ lives in me.  You know that that is a strange non-reality.  You know that that is theology.  Intellectualization.  I insist, as did Wesley, that the Christian doesn't sin.  He is held up into that inhuman condition.  What an aweful thing!  But you do know I'm in love with it.  With that terrible God.  I am sad about hurting the world.  But I am so in love with this other that I won't give it up.

 

The artist wants to be technically perfect, but he thinks he must then inject life and feeling and passion into his performance in order for it to be good.  Maybe.  But if I may describe the great, it would be a show of the artist having died under the terror of that technical perfection and his unwanted appearance as a god.  But you would be confused.  Something really strange had happened.  Something you surely didn't see.  So you don't report it.

 

You see this is all perfectly other-worldly.  Therefore it is just the whole world.  A moment of amazement at the glory of the whole world.  But there is no such thing as the whole; there is just this right here. 

 

 

 

397  Oh, he tries to be so extreme, but he is so ordinary.  He has said nothing that is not just plain.  The more he tries to be extreme the more he says what so many others have said.  Just plain, nothing of rare value.  Nothing different, no information.  Just a tired tone in his voice.  But, reader, this criticism of yours is right, it is oh so right.  Being is tepid and vapid.  Try to get into monotony.  Over and over again, it's a strange high.

 

Philosophy is the transformation of this world into the Eternal.  See my art.  I make no statements of fact, except to change them into That. Follow my words and watch it happen. Are you afraid of being deceived?  Then you have no love.

 

Philosophy is the act that changes the loose into the rigid.  A translation into the stellar constellations.  Oh, what a beautiful arrangement of letters.  But maybe it's too drawn out.  Or lopsided.  Or maybe it's improper to have considered all this. Too much of a maze.  Too accidental.  Too much force.  No justification.  Now I feel sick.  See me dangle off.

 

 Your judgment on me is right after all.  I am not a priest.  I have no art.

 

 

 

398  Light brings separation to the undifferentiated darkness.  Thus a philosophy of Light, of Christ, of Apollo, could never be monism or holism.  The final Light philosophy religion denies completely the goddess's serene unity, sleep on her breast.

 

The God of the Light is One, but not the Whole, rather the simple part.  And the simple nexus.  Glittering simple things lying about. Contemplatively rummage through them.  Be the god who wears them.  Even the darkness they are in glistens. Be the god and find your twin and be in eternal conflict with him.  Love him and destroy the goddess as is your destiny.  There is no unity, just you and he, one in the God called the Simple.  Now in your orgasms you watch each other be.  The White Pearl, the simple in you.

 

When all of life is transformed into logic and the god wins.  When philosophy has succeeded.  When the mixture is gone, the sea is gone, and only the firmament with jewel construction remains, and boys in make-up, pure art, the rigid, surpassing birth and death.  Then will be just the fireworks of judgment.

 

Here is the strange explosion of philosophy.  The things in Fact move violently, suddenly apart, but only the smallest distance until they are stopped in an in-moving compression and in that small distance is seen the jewel, the nexus, that binds.  In and out pushing against each other holding each other in time stopped.  The image of the Simple that is totally without mass.

 

 

 

399  The Law, on a line with Logic itself, is a mirror in which we see ourselves as already present in death.  It is Death itself.  Its rigors driven through the body wear out the body, tear it, loosen it, make the body hang on it.  As the handle of a plow is a mirror of the farmer's rough hanging hand.  As the framework of a building is the mirror of the construction worker's worn out body, so logic is a true picture of rough, beaten, world faces.  The beauty of logic, of all Law, is its arched rigidity.  In-going compression.  A stiffness that is a force coming in.

 

Any boy that has gotten hard and felt the arch, who has loved the stiffness of the symbols in his geometry book, who has lived with it for years, has that stuck look.  After so many secret times of love he looks worn out and dead.  When he looks at you his eyes tell you he's going to do it one more time.  He is totally dependent on it.  This is the rigid identity of Being.  The perfection of logic.  He's dead.  It is his life.

 

Everything else in the world is a flow, a mixture of life and death.  Everything else is gentle, happy newness of life.  Where all death leads to resurrection, a natural ease.

 

The Law, the Logic of God, is outside that.  It is hard judgment.  Glaring consciousness.  The Eye of God seeing all of you.  It is your soft, naked, Pink flesh in that glare.  One more time being formed.  Here is dualism.  And transcendence.  The division that is absolute between God and not-God.  The not-God, sin, you.  Ravished, gnawed at.  Left dead.  You are the manifest.  The hand striking you.  Your striking cuteness is the image of Logic.  It of you.  The acute logic.

 

I, a mathematician close to the One, don't I have the look of a love addict?  Dissipated. A turn-on to you.

 

Don't the rigid, compressed symbols of geometry make you think of angelic, bare thighed love boys.  Boys giving you that judgmental look.  How many times can you go to them and expect your human body to hold out.  It wasn't made for the transcendent.  Your worn-outness will reflect those boys.  I mean that quite literally. In the middle of your ugly body others will see those gods.  Think of Silenius, the look of love Socrates.  For that to happen, that miracle, there has to exist a different world.  Just as the degeneracy of philosophical writing reflects divine order.  As the philosopher's life is torn to pieces.  And scattered, and given to eat.  Like Tammuz.  Oh Jesus of the Law, you became our idolatry and saved us.  Eyes that pierce.  The cute one. 

 

I am the twisting in my time.

 

 

 

400  Expressed feeling is shallow.  The Unspoken feeling that looks like logic technique is the most profound. I do clean ontology and am Feeling.  It is touching, the contingent.  It's eschatological.  I'm saving the best for last.  I'm waiting.  In the denial is the sweetest presence.

 

Anyway, as everyone is, I'm just carrying out the method Hume devised.  There has been no other philosophy for three hundred years.  The Cut.  But like the Dedekind Cut it's a cut that isn't there.  A cut that is a closer binding.  I feel that - between this philosophy, this writing, and me.  Between me and God.  Forever rushing at each other.  At tremendous speed.  Katalyein.

 

As infinity is the otherness between two finite numbers, so Hume is my mind.  As God is the categorical difference between Actuality and Potentiality, as am I.  As God is the plain knitting of Time, so am I that intimate cuddling.

 

What kind of a strange thing is he who can say A is not B and in that see God?  That thing is doomed to be ridiculed.  Oh, the pain.  What kind of illumination does he see around that simple thought?  Is it just brain sparks?  Is he tripping?  He must be.  Maybe it's some sort of epilepsy.  No, it's God Himself hanging around the strange sets of logic.  And the man, Phos.  Aristotle really was true to the original Greek illumination, but he was a show off fairy like them all.  Make-up and all.  Artifice.

 

Does it seem strange to you that out here in the middle of the American Midwest this type of view is the one I have?  Oh, you should see the light out here.  And all the boys who have been released.  Who are now moving higher.  The cowboys move about in pure white light.  Stark green painted rolling hills.  The women here are all either their make-up friends or they are dykes.  Rhinestone cowboys are it.  We're freed from having a home, just the light.  The boys here are all free-born.  They never grow up.  Maybe this is never-never land.

 

 

 

401  This philosophy is not science, I have said that, nor is it social work as is modern church theology, nor, and certainly not, an expression of feelings as psychologists want, nor, but almost, art, because it isn't made.  It is more like the world of high fashion. Bits of inspiration and loving to show off, all of which piles up and becomes a trend.  It has all the spiritually thin substance of high fashion.  Sometimes it's like Wittgenstein's workman who says "slab" and someone brings him a slab.  Real butch.  All faggot play.  Very much like angels.

 

The trouble with this kind of philosophy and faggotry is that its fine spirituality so soon dissipates and leaves you the thinker dissipated.  Its sentences lose their enchantment.  Just as Wittgenstein's mysticism was repulsive ordinariness.  A faggot with make-up on is no otherworldly fascination, or stark reality; he's just a guy with make-up on.  But you have to admit that this identity of philosophy and faggotry with the ordinary is troublesome.  That nexus that unites those two realms is undomesticated.

 

It's all cardboard and plywood stage sets.  But for a moment heaven did appear.  You can't deny it.  And now the fall and disillusion is just as momentous.  Time stands out.  Heaven's glory, the inauthentic, that which has being, is always just a show.  Thus the world's rejection of it.  In the meantime Kierkegaard and Oscar Wilde knew that religion and philosophy are theater.  Nowhere else does perfection appear.  I'm not being here any less serious or rigorous in my statements than was Kant.  God is that eye painted on the ceiling of orthodox churches.  He is the fakeness of idols.

 

Thus in the philosophy of mathematics that strange, inhuman, ridiculous Platonism of Russell is truer than the very human nominalism of the others.  He knew math was a delight.  A thing of boys.  A being that came to him and informed him, became his every little gesture.  Math is the dance the body of the mathematician does as he thinks.  We should have seen them perform.

 

I'll tell you the secret of dance.   It's simultaneity.  The gesture must have a sharp beginning and end that coincides with the Idea.  With all the internal parts of the Idea.  No hesitation.

 

The Light is that which brings difference.  At night everything is black. The Light is the final difference.  It is Him.  I say a sentence and put it out right there to be looked at.  That simple putting-there is the Light.  The Light is the Place.

 

 

 

402  The totally transcendent God was a piece of life that first came to the Jews.  It is the violence that is Des Cartes's breaking between mind and matter.  It is the scientific mind violently remaking nature.  It is the denial of the senses that is Plato.  It is the first sight of otherness that is intellect, that is the work of light.  It was the dawn of our era in Elea.  It was the ground of the rupture with nature that is the modern world.  And it is the Will that is Kant's mind giving form to the intuited.  It is the Violence that is our willful self-assertion.  The form of Judaism is its violence against the goddess nature.  No more to be bound by her taboos.  Now the world is all under technology.  Chemical analysis and mathematical measurement.  It's all violence.  Our Life.  We once long were in it, now it is in us.  All because of that original transcendent light we saw.  A fire that reduced Eden to ashes, just matter, even extension.  Finally to otherness itself.

 

Now we are in the Will to the Void.  But it isn't a drudgery.  It's surprisingly light and airy and colorful.  I write philosophy all the time.  I am laughing.  This wasteland seems to be wooing me.  This night is the Ethiop's ear.  I am a ruby.  I am vanity.  Emptiness on emptiness.  I am the non-being of Being.  I am an angel which is just a mathematical formula, but Russell made that philosophy when he made them subsist platonically, be angels once again.  The Sephir Yetzirah of Ezekiel and Pythagoras.  Abstract nothings.  Through which the world was created.

 

And, since there is no being that is transcendent, all we can do is fall back in dance and swoon.  And go through the destruction of the world and find the world.  And be the hero.

 

Reason, the self-subsistent, teaches all that.  Now comes revelation.  It all gathered at one point in our world.  Jesus.  I bump up against him.  The particular that all my universal thinking can't get to.  But I bump up against him. I wish he would come back and put his arms around me.  I'm alone in my lovely void.

 

 

 

403  I have written a lot. And everything I have written has no more profundity or breadth or excitement that that sentence.  But that simplicity, that plainness, is what I love.  It's an intense, extremely difficult thing.  I now own that mass of words and I don’t know what to do with it.  I like sparse, aphoristic, oracular writing; but this is that and a contradiction of that.  All this mysticism is backing up.  Too much simplicity. Though I have also written about the too-much.

 

I'll tell you my technique for writing.  I figure and figure and wait.  Finally a sentence just stands out, and I write it down as a first sentence.  The others I write down as I first think them.  None of them are the result of figuring.  They are more like figurines.  Plain figurines.  I am a 20th century philosopher, that is, I am the bleakness of positivism.  Though that isn't positivism at all.  But it certainly isn't anything else.  It is style.  Style is all there is to philosophy.  That is why imitators and popularizers are always miserable. The external appearance of the philosopher's sentences is the only importance.  The thing you usually look right past as you read.  Or through.  In English it's contained in all those little flow causing words such as "all" in this sentence or "right" in the last one.  It's the same rhythm, the same falling spirit a preacher waits for.  Their sermons are endless.  It takes years for a philosopher or preacher to hit his stride.  After that he can take off at the drop of a hat.  Until the hat drops he will figure.  And look in the faces of boys, trying to find it.

 

Unfortunately English doesn't have the German ver- which is the per in periculum, the sublime.  But dialectic is also dangerous in English.  And friendship only comes after sharing a night of danger.  By leaving the senses we have become the senses.  We have become that body dancing that is called reading philosophy.  You have danced with me.  Vertanzen.

 

A boy with bare legs riding a bicycle along a road through a woods is a totally disordered connection of ontological things.  It's only meaning is itself.  From nowhere.  His eyes are that emptiness.  This is Hume's world that has nothing but external form. All ties are outside. And all other truths are just attached onto the edge of that picture.  Simple pieces, but many of them going out forever.  Just lying there.  That piling up is the boy's mass against you.

 

 

 

404  To think the world is perfect and the best is to see truth and beauty in everyone and everything.  The paradox is that that truth and beauty is then of the fastidiousness, of those seeing truth and beauty only in the rare thing.

 

Separating the forms makes them nowhere, thus everything is in its perfection.

 

When I am perfectly desirable, I am the most lovely later.  Please, more assurance.  I am a philosopher; I need a lot of reassurance.

 

After everything is so well organized I fall into confusion.  I am just a sentimental homosexual.  Kierkegaard is so hard.  I want the whole world to go away.  I want very gentle, very soft boys.  Fastidious boys who have sharp edges.  That is who can make things perfectly balance.  Infallible perfection.  Fastidious sentimentality.

 

 

Self-confidence not only lives through mistakes but with intention does what is against the set order.  Thus the artificiality of grammar.  It breaks up the ordinary.  It is art.

 

Playing the good off against the tanist evil is the way of the beloved.  Taunting with threats (perfectly, indirectly thrust) of giving in to evil.

 

This is all the old religion, the present form of love, the humanity of Christ, who is still our escape.  Beauty kills.  Its killing is its beauty.  Enchantment to darkness.  Determination to the point of immorality.  Driving the lover to death.  Purposely contrary.  The self-confident one.

 

I am self-confident when I write.  I accuse you, the reader, of being boring.  You are just mystical mush when you try this.  I am pure science, practical, efficient, real, common sense.  I am Adonis who wants nothing to do with Aphrodite.  Nor does Jesus.

 

My book must have a look of being all wrong.  Without the arranging women's correctness.  There is only one God, but he appears as three separate persons.  Not any more one than the other.  Not one person three manifestations.  The Form of Divinity is higher than its individuation into persons.  The godhead isn't a person.  The Impersonal.  The Forbidden.  The Hard.  The Very Tender.  The Delicate.

 

Today a kid running away to faggotry is like the kids running away to the monasteries of old.  So not of this world.  Kids stolen away from their parents and murdered.  The worst crime.  It's all philosophy.  Real philosophy.  Of the Truth.

 

Oh, Jesus, I am praying to you.  See my condition.  You make me speak Strangely.  I only want your arms.

 

 

 

405  This is just a dance with interesting moves.  You are in them.  Among them.  The thoughts that make our culture, home from work where they did important things, now just individually, by themselves and pretty, showing their own independent existence, showing how they can be just in themselves, showing off and moving fast by you, gathered for a night of loving, heartbreak and destruction.  Bright lights, their mark of divinity.

 

Each one was once one of the innocents slaughtered at Christ's coming.  Their order is not one to the other, but each to itself.

 

 

There is before our minds no other world.  This is it.  Everything else looks like dead matter.  A dead person looks very dead.  A person in a trance is just misbehaving flesh.  That's it.  A mind in its right mind and nothing at all.  If there's any dualism at all, it's just that.  But, if we are a mind, why is that mindless, dead, just matter stuff so attractive? Why would we give up this pulsating life for that?  Why is that shocking, but true, obviously true?  This is disgusting.  That is at peace.  This is sin.  That is clean.  This person, like you, wants the impersonal.  That's the other world.  It's right there before us.  We can't get at it.

 

 

Religion has nothing to do with preserving the present order. It is against it; it is out to destroy it.  It isn't here to see that boys go on making families.  It is here to lead them off to monasteries.  It is here to preserve the destructiveness of love.  It is here to help him win against the whore.  To keep him free.  To let him walk away from the trap.  To keep him from being oh so dependable and law abiding.

 

Though there is a present lack of abbots, philosophy is still stealing boys from their parents, killing them, and placing them in the infinite.

 

 

 

406  So why is there something instead of nothing?  Mankind is able to answer that question, but he must use very delicate reasoning.

 

 

Religion used to exist in the wild things; now it exists in the familiar.

 

 

 

We are now at the end of existentialism and analysis.  The circle has been run fully around.  We are moving mystically higher.  The strange future is here.  Look around.  What we wanted was inevitably taken away.  We have made the movements of the infinite. Our hurt was turned into power.  Now we have power.  The tension is great.  Existence has been fully pulled away from form.  Who can see that we are already saved?  Who can see the angel in the movements of the immoral boy-queen?  The looming emptiness of the night sky and the pulled in close to himself lord jesus.  I praise your destructiveness.

 

Reality is splayed over the fact construction.  Flesh on a cross.  The god lying on the world.  Oh, don't you hate the world and want to get just him?  Turn the world, those facts, into gleaming, golden, ruby elements, ontological things lying around.  Steal them, wear them, be pretty.  Little super fine nexus ties.  Prickly here and there.  This and that to make your step fine. 

 

The god has come.

 

 

 

407  It is not enough to say that the world is the union of two opposites.  One must look for the hard to see nexus between them.  One must look for that thin, empty, thing between them.  A thing that seems like the openness of separation.  We can, though, say that the division of the opposites is non-existent, but that is to speak an identity and therefore points to a being.  The phrase "unity of opposites" doesn't say what it wants to say; it points to a third subsistent.  The very simple subsistent that is unity itself.  Subsistence is a refined form of existence.  A thing without the satiety of existence.  Unsatisfied.  The not enough.

 

Between the object and the surrounding air.  Not yet the air, but mysteriously away from the object, at no distance from it.  The extreme, the end, the delicacy, the thin, the seeming non-existence.  The merely subsistent.  Is the quality of a thing.  The steeliness of the steel.  The coldness.  The hardness.  Immaterial things on the object.  Not on, because they are the "on", the limit that is between the object and the other than the object.  The quality is the nexus.  A non-thing between things.  Philosophy consists of these delicacies.  The delicate god existence.  The idea of a thing.  The idea that is out there.  The mind around the object.

 

Delicacy partakes of disorder in that it seems to be just a blowing in the wind.  The elegant in the Spirit.  Like the love of boys.

 

The very hard to see.  The thing that is concealed.  The eternal.  The thing thrown out there.  The being that is its momentum, that gives it independence.  Ephemeral and with mass.  As thin as seeing itself but hard, the very hardness of steel.  The eternally unbendable straight lines of geometry. Things with no width at all.  The shy that only the strict formality of logic can hold.

 

The ideas of philosophy are hard to see.  That this is the best of all possible worlds is certain; it is of the strictest necessity.  But it is hard to see in this world of pain, failure and struggle.  But to see the person persevere in it is the most touching, delicate thing.  He tries so hard.  It is to see the person find himself in deep sin when he was trying to finally do the very good.  We must remember that inside each is trying his best, no matter what the appearances are.  His thoughtfulness and his worry.  The good that is the meaning, that is the reaching, the end, the limit of him.  The quality of him.  The unseen surface of his existence.

 

 

 

408  There's no more content to be found in philosophy.  Now it's all style, form and appearance.  It's the movement of that thing you hold in your hand.  Feel it quicken the nerves in your hand and eyes.  Romance has become very funny. God is the radically positive.  He is in sentence fragments.  So unsatisfying.  It has become a purely masculine thing.  Its grace is its sheer presence.  Nothing about you is unseen.  Or about to be seen.  The rhythm is for you.  Honey, lie in his arms.  You are going to be made pretty.  To be his beloved.

 

 

For Bergmann, philosophical things are not real.  Only facts are real or unreal.  Perhaps one could say they are of Being and are prior to the real and unreal.  The not real grounds the thing that a fact is.  It all slides away into delicacy.  Only confession over an impossibly tangled metaphysics is left. The art is to keep the metaphysics flying without letting it land anywhere.  The pure in heart and the bliss of nothing at all.  But first the metaphysics.

 

 

There is a great relaxation to the tension of philosophy.  The words match nothing out there.  There is no reaching across from them to anything out there.  Their meaning is with them, and when I speak them the thing itself is there.  The world is as I speak it.  But my speaking is a writing.  A still speaking.  And yet a speaking, not just a writing.  Its appearance is the beginning of that world that was from the Beginning.  Of course.  That's the way eternity works.  You know that.  See how relaxed it is.

 

There is no non-being, no unknown, except as a thing that is and seen. The incomprehensible is a thing right there and understood.  There are only the things full of light.  In that geometrical, combinatorial world the moment of combining is the god.  The tiniest nexus.  The little god who is also right there.  I would say there is only appearance, but nothing appears.  The things are just there.  Nothing unique, just a world of vacuous, algebraic place holders.

 

There are no more red things, only Red.  An empty thing whose meaning is with the word.  There is no searching to be done.  But sometimes, I must confess, the tension of holding this fine thought is almost too much.

 

 

 

409  A straight forward explanation of philosophical movement won't be possible here.  I may aim straight at the explanation but I won't get there that way.  The movement isn't straight.  Straight philosophical explanations are contradictory notions.  Everything is a backward turning.  Thus to say that philosophical movement is the movement of contradiction is wrong.  That would be a straight forward explanation.  Philosophy sees nothing but identity everywhere.  Identity is the name of its God.  It is the Same that rules.  It is contradiction that rules the world, the realm of philosophy is perfectly non-contradictory.  That's what makes philosophy seem so strange.  It's definitely not this world.  It's the contradiction of this world.  The philosophical Form, the contradiction of this world, is of the One, the Smooth.  To this world it seems like contradiction, sophistry, the rough.  Thus philosophy is unstraight forward contradiction.  The contradiction that is identity.  The backward turning of identity.  It is the explanation that does not remain out there but grabs the hearer, putting him inside its own movement.

 

If I say strength is weakness, I don't mean that in a straight forward way.  If I say God is the descent into the flesh, or that black is the secret being of white, that being is non-being, that I am one with the infallible mind of God, then I am inviting you to leave this world and go to a superlative world where God is all there is, a world of one thing, not of two, where Being is all there is and there is no non-being, where there is only Good and Understanding and Light, where evil and the false and darkness don't exist.  A world, in other words, where contradiction isn't.  A world where it is just right now, where there is no contradiction of time.

 

As you can see I have descended into mystical mush.  My lover won't understand me.  It is just the nausea of metaphysics and everyone understands it, but it's unimportant.  It makes the straight forward look real and firm.  The desperation of love's need to tell its secret knowledge is the pathetic part of love.  This is the great weakness, the perfect weakness of the lover.  Metaphysics is weakness.  Intellect that has become too nice.

 

 

 

410  Before me is an instance of space.  A possible spatial arrangement is with me right there.  It is very complex.  Doors opening, passages uniting one room with another.  Carved molding traveling along the edges.  One view following another all in unity.  I want to say that this form has been determined down to the smallest detail.  I want to show that all generality has been pushed out of it until it's a particular.  Unique.  Every part that was subject to decision has been decided.  Until it is just that.  I want to indicate that actuality that comes when all choices have been made.  But I would have to push that word "all" to infinity.  Say it forcefully.  The details would be infinite.  The terminus in determination would be that unthinkable, unreachable infinite.  Actuality would be making you think the infinite.  But there is a contradiction in all this.  Finis and term both mean end.  So a determinate infinite in nothing.  Which is to say it is the Ideal.  Actuality, the Act of existing, is an Ideal.  It is the transcendence of this room I am within.  That's what makes it alive.  What makes it a living presence before me.  It's the thing that makes it my room, a love being with me.

 

An essay, a piece of writing, must have that same life in it.  It must have an ideal, transcendent existence.  Folding in on itself.  It must be an end that is never reached.

 

If the universal is that which is full of possibilities.  And to exist is to have made the choice of which of the possibilities. And God is the cause of existence, then his prime description is Providence, The Chooser.  The universal receives God's choosing.  It is passive to God.  It's the indecisive boy who needs a lover who will decide for him, who will give him existence.  Be his transcendence.  He will remain indecisive, but his decisiveness will be close by.

 

Reality couldn't not be, but it's not quite here.  Existence isn't quite with our non-existence.  We are so vague.  We almost make sense.  Perfection of understanding is close.

 

To see the particular as the determinate universal.  The universal as just that.  Is to see particularity as a mode of being of the universal.  Or if Determination is Being then a universal is a mode of the being of Being.  On the other hand, if a that is just a that, then it is something other than the universal, and something only tied to it.  See the dissolution, the uncertainty, the up in the airness of it all.  Ain't it grand.  Aren't we just alive.  The Lover is walking through the doors, leaning against the walls.  Everything changes.  His infinity.  The sure touch.  Just that.  He is all the fine things of ontology.

 

 

 

411  The passion of my life is not the struggle between two opposites, but the philosophy of the struggle between two opposites.  My passion is the philosophy of passion.  This passion then becomes the idea of passion.  It is the Form Passion itself.  And as are all Forms it is eternally still and unchanging.  My unimpassioned passion.  So I do live in the struggle of two opposites.  I do and I don't.

 

All fine art is very fine, to the point of being just the same old thing.  Its subtlety will escape you into the ordinary.  The elemental images of life.  A line, a circle, a color, a boy.  Love.  The monotone.  The same old philosophy that has been around for thousands of years.  It seems to come to so little.  Hearing it again gets tiresome.  There is nothing you haven't gone over in your own mind.  To read another do what you have done is worthless, even embarrassing to think it was published.  Philosophy, fine art, is with everybody all the time.  It is unknown because we keep trying to find more.  Its greatness is like the greatness we think our love has.  It does have greatness, but it's in the midst of our pedestrian peripatetics.

 

Between the thing that is the sum of all things and the things that are summed is the nexus of being.  The All is such a compound object.  The idea of all things holds together that distinction between the sum and the sum.  It is a unity that is the mirrored image of the nexus itself. Between that unity and that nexus is the pressing of the idea onto the world.  The unity and the nexus and the pressing.  The trinity of philosophy.  A trinity in dissolution because when I think of the all I don't think of each.  This is the proper critique of philosophy – the All and all are separate.  There is no one thing that is both.  There is only the decision; I either think about one or I think about the other.  The thought that thinks them together is thrown back from both.  The cut is maintained.  New connectors appear.  The system begins to build itself.  We are in it like a fly in a web.  We see the whole thing.  That is, our vision is constantly traveling over that whole thing, but there is no whole thing.  We have it all; that is, there is no all we are missing.  There is nothing I will not eventually see.  I have the logic of the infinite on my side.

 

 

 

412  The Simplicity of Truth is the sharp knife that cuts through all the hesitation that surrounds dialectical movement.  Too thoughtful thought is impotence.  It is the nice thing at the end of the dialectic that goes back and sweeps up the carvings and shows the clean form of intellect.  Precision is the beauty of boys, but they have to be handled roughly.   The philosopher, the lover, must get over the thought that the logician, the boy, is going to reduce him to a fool.

 

Philosophy is in a perpetual state of thinking it hasn't succeeded in saying what it wants to say.  It hasn't found all the words.  All it has is the audacity it has found to say the words it has succeeded in saying.  The philosopher has found his own divinity that can speak wisdom.  Only a god or a man with a gift from a god could speak it.  But he does speak it.  And he is always thinking he hasn't spoken it.  A god's speaking is no speaking.  Still he could feel it when it was there.  His body was thrilled, shaken, and fatigued.  Not visibly so, but he felt it.  And he could see those same feelings out there in the words.  How would others react?  Had he said anything other than an extreme?  Surely his words had gone under.  So how could he say they hadn't succeeded?  There is nothing under there.

 

Truth, Justice, God, the Good are big ideas.  But in the intimacy of our approach to them, in our reaching out to them in a rush of passion in our soul, they appear to be a delightful thing there before us appropriate to our size.  Considered abstractly in a social, world civilization setting they are too much, but the individual by himself, touching them as they are themselves, finds them altogether graspable, only his passion is too much, the delight is abounding.

 

The great things of civilization are grounded in things that are very simple and little.  Being is known when you are by yourself looking through the trees down a slope along the dry grass.  With being is truth and the balance of being-with-truth is justice.  Very simple.  Its intimacy with you is God.  Your reaching and taking it is good.

 

 

 

413  To be able but to not do it is the mark of a philosopher.  In that he finds the union of potentiality and actuality.  It is the being of not-being.  It is the horrible strength that maintains purity.  It is the denial of the thought that one should explain one's words.  This is the aspect of being a philosopher that everyone understands.  This is the common human practice.  Only the philosopher, though, has had the daring to accept it.  All of a philosopher's thoughts, the a priori, are known to everyone, but they are hard, maybe impossible, to approach.  They seem like lies and weakness.  It is all so close to sophistry.  Then it falls into the identity of the absolute opposites.  He will withhold explanations from such considerations.  It is the reader's part to understand.  He must look to his own trembling at holding back.

 

I am undoing the Critique.  Wiping away the horizon.  God is plainly visible.  I am in the transcendent Forms.  See me.  In my absolute inwardness.  Within my beckoning insanity.  I am fascinating.

 

Some art projects and some beckons.  That which beckons seems nothing at all.  Perhaps just a scandal.  You are watching some person sexually go into himself.  Nijinsky masturbating on stage.  He has crossed over the boundaries of decency.

 

The trip into God goes through the flesh.  Through your own dissolution.  Into yourself, not away from it.  It is being watched while you do it.

 

God is the single, solitary black hole around which we move always drawing us in.  He is unrelated to anything here, therefore he is unapproachable.  There is no nexus.  The fascinans.  It is He that was the Goddess.  This is the thing that Jesus was of one being with.

 

In philosophy it is called the thing independent from us.  In itself and through itself.  The catastrophe of logic.  The bad turning.  The form of beauty.

 

There never was a Critique.  There never was an absolute just outside the boundary of the senses.  It was a wonderful dream.  The pure was something we just wanted.  The corruption of speculative philosophy will be with us always.  We will do this sickness.  Come with me.

 

 

 

414  It is the mark of Truth that it is rejected by the crowd.  It is an offence to them.  That is no comforting thought to a writer.  The philosopher knows that the crowd prefers sophistry, which can make their selfishness appear to be the Good.  He knows the power of sophistry to turn around right and wrong.  He has accused himself of practicing it.  He has tried to overcome himself.  He has worked hard at the truth.  He hasn't been a part of the laziness of the crowd.  He has denied himself, eschewed acknowledgements of his honor.  But now he has written something nobody wants, nor can understand, because they are without the labor that precedes understanding.  There is no communication.  He is unrecognized.  Obscurity has no value to a writer.  He is meant for the light.  The light turns out to be very dark.  Still though, he has in that darkness the joy of the consciousness of the strength of his own understanding.  He requires nothing else.  He has written the Truth.  That thing was with him.

 

It has always been a part of philosophy to see itself separate from the appearance of philosophy.  Truth is separate from sophistry.  This world is sophistry.  The Forms are separate from here.  Everyone understands that.  I have never met anyone who didn't see himself as belonging to the few separated elect who knew the truth.  Everyone understands the Separation.  Everyone understands the writer's problem. And because writing is the very act of establishing that division the writer, if he succeeds, is understood by all.  His communication is complete.

 

Philosophy is a violation, not only in its illicit love affairs, but in the philosopher's desire to drive another philosopher's mind into the ground.  And, since he considers everyone to be a philosopher, to drive everyone down.  Absolute conversion and victory is his goal.  A goal he must avoid because the joy is the battle not the victory, except for a small  instant.  But that killer instinct, whether in love or argument, what's the difference ?, is life itself.  Life is intense, full of battle, crushing defeats, glorious victories, incessant movement onward.  All this feigned unconcern is nothing but a lover's indifference used to cover agitation.  God is vicious; so are we.  It's a sin to be otherwise; it's our fallenness that we are otherwise.

 

A dark seductiveness.  That is, the person falls for the beauty of madness.  All genius is death dealing.  A luring fascination.  There is no difference between genius and insanity.  There is no difference between seductiveness and insanity.

 

St. Teresa, St. John of the Cross, the Inquisition, Cortez, a country full of insane Pentecostals praying, the mad Spirit of God.

 

The mind is characterized by its holding in unity two things at once.  Two opposite things.  Universal and particular.  Being and not not.

 

 

 

415  The passion I write about is formal passion, intellectual passion, Passion itself.  It can have no outward expression.  That is to say, as with the appearance of all the Forms in their pure state, they appear as a dreadful nothingness.  Or stillness that is fear of movement.  This is appearance in their non-appearance.  Away from their purity all appearances are slack commotion.

 

Intellect tries to solve the puzzle of ontology.  Ontologists are in the Game.  A game full of drop-offs.  They are in the impossible unity of the One and the Dual.  That unity doesn't exist.  That vision of nothing there.  A knowledge that the Forms or the Objects that were to complete logic systems are junk.  Piles of it on vacant lots.  Logic, ontology, is a slum with vacant lots in it.  A knowledge that the God the Israelites saw in the wilderness was the wilderness itself.  We now know our God and our ontology are wild.

 

A logic, a mathematics, cannot be complete and consistent at once.  Philosophy was supposed to show the perfecting thing.  To show the final big machine that had reached the Ideal.  It does show that but the vision is not at ease.  It's the Spirit right there before us, with the boy too lovely to go near.

 

The beauty of our anti-fact ontologies is the strength with which they attempt to hold apart the elements that constitute a fact.  With which they insist on the non-existence of fact.

 

But the greatest strength is to stand in the midst of an ontology that has God and gods in it.  The immensity of the impossible Game touches the life of the ontologist.  Mankind needs the magnificent ontologies in order to make his own magnificence reappear.  When he cut off the top part of philosophy as too hard, he cut off his own head.  He did it out of weakness.  He destroyed the beauty of the Game.  It made him slipshod and familiar.  Slack.  Not fine.  Sentimental effusions.

 

 

 

416  In the place of the Forms the things are distinguished.  In the One, which is their identity, they find their absolute difference.  Here it's a little bit of this and a little bit of that.  Nothing for sure.  In the place of the Forms, Being is pulled away from non-being.  X and not not X are different.  Here they are the same thing, to a degree.  In Reality they are identical, not here.  In perfect extension they are identical, not in this sort of space.  In Ideal Extension they are different, not in this sort of place.

 

 But even this place has an essence that makes it be this place.  This place of images and shadows is from the Image and Shadow themselves.  And its participation in the Forms is Participation itself.  Now the question is, does participation participate in Participation?  This is the Great stumbling block of platonism.  Or is it Platonism?

 

To contemplate the problems within an ontology is to view the life and energy of the system.  It becomes one of the gigantic things controlling our world.  A vision of the terrible God we can't get at.  The unreasonableness of the Reason He is.  Here is where philosophy can't speak, can't express itself.  The Muein.  The commotive stillness.

 

It's the sigh.  The breath that participates in Soul.  The groan.  The animal and the Holy Spirit.  I live through the most extreme metaphysics; feel its failure and call it God. The terrible God, the delicate boy-god.  I live in the time of the failure of thought; I make it the Greatest Failure of Thought.  I am back among the Divine Ideas.

 

 

 

417  Our condition is this.  Into a mass of unformed matter there has descended minds.  The matter is large and disgusting.  That descent was our shudder and our pleasure.  But the result is we are lost.  We have a religion that tells us it is the way out.  It wants to call us back to ourselves, back to home.  We want to go but the pleasure is too great.  But the feeling of being lost is equally great.  The thing we are in is massive and very disgusting.

 

We aren't alone here.  Everywhere we look we see other, non-mind, forms that have also descended.  The soup about us seems to have barely a chemical intellectual structure.  But it gets lost in the swirl.  Some low intellect is here.  Maybe even the supreme intellect has somehow come into this.  But it's too dark to see clearly.  A harrowing of this hell by some bright light would be welcome.  If it weren't for the pleasure we feel here.  Yet we are lost and maybe sinking deeper, forever.  We must cling to the vague images of highest intellect we see.

 

I try to write and achieve perfect clarity, but I soon find myself sinking into complexity.  I only create a knot of some strange dimension.  I am saying these things because I am trying to determine my eternal destiny.  I want to raise myself out of here.

 

Maybe I'm totally crazy.  I need to find some true statement, outside my system of ideas, that can't be carried out from them or fitted into them.  Then I would know my system is limited and consistent.  I need the knowledge that there is something outside my world.  Something transcendent.  Something other than me.  Somehow this tension between matter and intellectual form, this incommensurableness has to be comprehended, but no thought or thing here can do that.  There's something that's not here, something we don't see.  All attempts here to choose sides in the present conflict fail.  We have only the irreconcilable.  Something is missing.  The sinking won't end.  It can't be accomplished.  In that knowledge though there is some relief.  The only salve I have right now is maintaining the tension, the otherness.  I will try to not forget the immensity.

 

See the movement here to transcendence.  The divided thing is the transcendent thing.  I don't have it.  I have now only the flip-flop of thinking.  I can't quite reach the analysis of philosophy. Facts, the individual broken up into its ontological parts, is only a vision I have.

 

 

 

419  You have said to me that the blast of insecurity upon you is great.  That sometimes your loneliness is desperate.  That you feel overwhelmed by your failures.  That you are totally unable to understand your own behavior.  And I suspect that you feel disgust and shame over your own body.  I know you feel great guilt.  And you have great fear that you try to deny and run from. I am listing your passions, and I know they are not weak, but strong.  With them is your equally strong rebellion trying to overcome yourself.  I know you feel distant from the crowd around you.  You want to belong, but you want them on your terms, which means you want their passion to be as great as yours.  You have said you hate the weak, that the strong own the world.  If that's true then the strength of your passions qualifies you for ownership.  The only thing you need to learn is to see the beauty of yourself.  Your passions are magnificent.  Stop trying to find a cure.  Instead, try to make them even stronger.  Make the distance between you and the mob, the weak willed, even wider.  Live in that distance.

 

You, of course, knew that this is something I would say to you.  I believe in the intensity of love; I believe in the truth you see around the form of the one you are in love with.  I believe in what I say, but I also try to overcome myself.  I believe in being alive with spirit and intensity and that's passion. I'm trying to show you the truth of what you are right now.  And in all this I'm trying to make you love me for my passion.  I too am standing in that great empty space between things.  Between reason and unreason.

 

Take this or put it aside.

 

 

 

The paradox of all this is that I also believe in the intense coolness of dispassion.  In the intellect that lives in the ice and the thin air of mountaintops.  In abstraction.  The ripping and tearing of paradox is intellectual passion.  Anxiety over the instability of one's ideas is the ground of all thinking.  To lessen the anxiety takes the strength out of thought.  One should, instead, attempt to increase it.

 

To lessen passion is to go toward miserableness, to increase it is to go toward Joy.  Even the terror of feeling that one has lost the ability to feel passion is a joyful passion.  There is no way out.

 

 

The above is a type of writing that an intellectual would send to a friend.  The writer would be like Nietzsche, outwardly blank like a thinker.  It is all philosophy.  You can tell a philosopher by the uncanny blankness of his gestures.  Extreme passion is just the dialectic of Being and the One.  The joy of passion is its intellectual negation.  The philosopher is so unlike the outwardly passionate.  As philosophy is unlike the world.  They are the same in their extremes.  But the extreme is philosophy.  Des Cartes separated the mind and the world, but the heights of mind was with the world.  Identity.  Yet Des Cartes remained a philosopher.  As did the Vitalists later, who never did get to life.

 

Passion is good only when it's elevated into contemplation.  Otherwise its pain is just pain.  That's the consolation of philosophy.

 

The difference between extreme passion and moderate passion is that extreme passion appears to be and feels like no passion at all.  Passion is the separation of Passion from passion.

 

 

 

420  I am sick unto death of people lying to me. I know my flesh, my face, is as ugly as sin.  I know my words are irrational.  I know my personality is offensive.  I am arrogant and despotic about ideas.  That is the Truth.  To say everything is fine about me.  To say I look nice.  To say that they enjoyed some of the things I wrote, and that some of it I wrote well.  To say I am nice and mannered.  Is to deny the sublime harshness of the truth.  I am not a child to be comforted and filled with illusions.  Or rather a child has it better because he is given strange nightmarish fairytales.  I would love the person who spoke truth to me; I would know he could see the beauty in it.  A supreme beauty.  A beauty that is all over me and my words.

 

In my philosophy beauty is unbeauty, reason is unreason, truth in untruth, knowing is unknowing, God is not-God, Being is non-being, joy is pain, love is hostility, order is disorder, and spirit is the flesh.  I believe it.  But I don't believe it when I'm out among people.  My unbeauty is still unbeauty and my disorder is disorder.  Philosophy doesn't fit my life.

 

You see I haven't gotten out of philosophy yet with that description.  I do have some beauty and also some unbeauty. I am in that awful middle ground.  I am neither the sublime negation nor simple identity.  I am the impossible unity of both.  I am the failure of the dialectic.  I am the dialectic's success.

 

 

 

421  As a person and as a writer I have no grace, no beauty, no sociability, no status, no money, I am not a cultured thing.  In the boy I am interested in that place in his being where his beauty meets his physical coarseness.  Where he can touch me.  I am interested in that place where my words, disjointed ideas, meet graceful understanding.  I am just animal, which is the same as pure spirit.  I am high speculative spirit, which is just animal.  I am trying to communicate with the cultured middle ground.  I and the boy are one; we are trying to live in society.  But we don't really want to.  Philosophy is in that tension between the boy and the sexual animal.  Christ, pure spirit and pure flesh.  There is no Christ the Cultured Man.

 

The boy.  The most refined beauty.  The urchin with the smell of flesh all over him.  An amazing thing.

 

 

 

422  When Socrates asked what a thing, a Form, was he worked very hard to maintain the distinction between that thing as it is in itself and as it is exemplified.  The Critique of Kant is that same giant effort to keep the distinction between the thing in itself and its appearance.  Making the cut and standing in the tension is the necessary thing.  Camus criticized Kierkegaard for establishing the tension then abandoning it in God.  Bergmann establishes the difference between thing and fact, the simple and the complex.  Things exist; facts do not.  His work is to keep from the nominalism of a fact, that is a substance, ontology. But Camus failed because his bleak world turns out to be beautiful literature. It makes you want to visit North Africa.  All that great work of philosophy is like the work of Sisyphus.  It must continually be redone, shored up, corrected and rebuilt.

 

That tension, that stretching, is time. But to say it is time is to see it as one thing, and a unity across a span, a circumscription of the abyss.  Such a unity is a disappearance of the tension, an abandonment of the critique, a relaxation into mush.

 

To call that tension, separation, Otherness as did Plato, is another way out.  Otherness must remain Other, not a thing possessing self-identity.  Or if it does possess it, it must remain other than that thing it possesses.  The dialectic becomes hopeless.

 

The Critique is going to fail.  It can't be thought.  The thought is too simple, too easy.  Philosophy is right there; it's obvious.

 

The only way to approach it is to let it be.  Your Fiat.  The simple emptiness that you are, into which The Simple fits naturally.  When you write philosophy you must empty yourself, unthink, and the words will be there.  This emptiness is the delicate Christ.  The one who let himself be God.  He will be our emptiness.  That is the hardest thing – to let yourself be God.  You must consent to write the Truth.  The work will be in you.

 

 

 

423  The Reformation is a completion of the process of the elevation of Mary to divinity.  But following the pattern of masculine gods assuming the qualities of the goddesses, the fully divine Mary is Jesus.  Jesus becomes the one who receives anyone who comes to him.  He is the one who feels the pain of our human existence.  Who understands.  Who suffered the flesh.  He has become the lovely one we now turn to.  The intimate beauty we fall in love with.  The secret place away from the terrible blast of judgment of the Father.  He is the font of Grace.  His is the graceful neck through which the charism flows.  This god is now the one who is the goddess.

 

Reason has become for us the wasteland.  Its promise of order and sanity has become bleak and lifeless.  Logic has become the byword for death, or rather the less that death, since death is a part of life.  Reason was never alive.  But as God lures his beloved into the wilderness and there speaks words of love to him, so in this wasteland we see the landscape become transfigured and in the magic of philosophy the negative itself becomes the positive and the bleak, the empty, the nothing, the monotone takes on a brilliant intellectual luster, far beyond the living and the sensual.  Without being untrue to itself Reason becomes a delightful god.  It is like ice skating, full of spins, impossible leaps, and wide graceful gliding.  Its doing is not a factual doing but a going into itself.

 

Facts are the scientific world's security against contradiction. They are the strong fiber out of which it weaves its cloth.

 

It's unreasonable there should be Reason.  Pure art, art depicting art, seems to have no aesthetic attractiveness.  Christ spent his time walking around waiting for his time to come.  Literature is a man depicting for you his own clumsiness.  Don't ask me to be too precise about my precise absolutes.  Beauty is best when it's a bit messy.  The Supreme Life is in the Disjointedness.  Things separated by Reason and left lying around.

 

The Wind blows over the wasteland bringing the end times. Jesus becomes pregnant with himself. He is the one that emptied himself and opened himself up.  He is the one that consented to go down.  He is our going down.

 

 

 

424  Philosophy is a consideration of how the individual stands with the universal.  How it stands under the universal.  Under the vast circles of sidereal intelligences.  Of how matter is with the Divine Ideas.  Of how Augustine's passion is with God.  How the beauty Socrates sees with his eyes is with the Form he remembers.  Of how Kierkegaard must stand before Hegel's Reason.  It is the concern of Aquinas that God know individuals, that the mind know things outside itself.  And of Duns Scotus who put the haecitatis inside the mind.  And of Occam who despaired of crossing over from the Forms to the individuals and then denied the Forms altogether.

 

The solution to the dialectic is in separating the individual from the ontological thing that grounds its individuality.  The individual is a complex that contains both the bare individual and properties.  The thing that individuates, the individual stripped of all properties, is just a simple thing, a this.  A this is an ontological thing, not found in everyday life.  As properties stripped off the individual are not found there.  The problem resolves itself into the connection between philosophical things and the ordinary things of everyday life, the individual as it was first considered.  Maybe there is no connection.  Anyway this solution doesn't work because a bare individual is a hybrid thing half way between the universals of ontology and the individuals of everyday life.  A bare particular is somehow the abstract form of the particular and also this one here.  Bare particulars are all the same except that their sameness is that they are just difference.  That's the loosening up that it all must come to.  Sameness and Difference.  The One and Otherness.  Or the One and the Dual.  Or the One and Being.  Or some call it Being and the Mind.

 

Occam would say that there are no such philosophical things to fool with and that only everyday things exist, and the problem is solved.  He says the universal is nothing but the individual itself.  That's true, but that sentence is made up of parts just as is an individual.  He has tried to show a unity but has expressed a complexity.  He can't speak the unity he wants to speak. Or at least I won't let him.  That identity is a delight to be contemplated, not a triviality to be passed over.  It is intellectual delight.

 

 

 

425  This is way up in the ether, beyond the ether.  Pure speculation in the presence of the god of speculation.  In the Ions, fine electric sparks everywhere.  Energy so fine it is on the border of mind.  This is the Schema for the union of mind and matter.  Where light becomes delight.  My goal is to show you this world right here in the face of street boys.   Public intimacy that is the cause of your blushing. The charm that is the unbearably intense.  My challenge is to make you see it.  Irresistible grace you try to resist.

 

This is a very simple philosophy, easy, not like a textbook.  Not pedagogy.  Delight.

 

It is Platonism; it has to be either that or womanism.

 

It is not an object, but intimate identity.  Maybe you will blush.  Maybe you will say it's too close to porno to be of value.  Maybe someone will see you reading it.  It's unjustified.

 

But my sentences aren't curved.  They're very rectilinear, mechanistic.  Too much so.  So I've put pink cheek blush on them.

 

I think I'm in trouble.  I'll be kicked out for hustling.  I want you to buy this, buy me, so I can live.  My logic is sophistic.  See my metaphysics turn flat.  The thrill I promised was nothing.

 

So let me ask you, if I say a rose is red where is the rose other than in the redness?  You know substance is gone. What am I to do?  Can you handle this fine trembling?  The far reaches of the ether that is right next to nothing at all.

 

 

 

I write so many of these things, the same idea over and over again, as an image of pop music, so ephemeral, songs all alike, over and over.  We are becoming the Fleeting.  We are approaching God, Pure Act, pure movement, Grace.  And the smooth, untroubled skin of Jesus.  Our disappearance.  Like other advanced worlds that are escaping matter.  Transcendental pop culture.

 

WRITING SHOULD BE CONCRETE, NOT ABSTRACT!

 

This is philosophy, the highly abstract, the concrete so pure it's like a boy's hand on your chest.  The very concrete, truly concrete.  Too much.

 

 

 

426  The simple things are the microscopic things of love.  The poignant things.  The curve of a leg.  That drifts off into nothing.  The movement of hair.  That drifts off into nothing.  That disappearance around the small of the back.  The glance down at the chest.  Too intensely delightful.  Pure smoothness of puerile skin.  A radical empiricism that can only be read about for a short time.

 

 

So, since I don't believe the world came out of some primordial material soup, what do I believe in?  If not matter's great, dark womb, what?  I believe each thing comes only from itself.  Not one thing from another, but each thing from its own self-identity.  Which is to say, it is from the other than the other, from the most itself, the closer to itself than distant mind can know, the being and unity with itself that it is.  And closer still, that being and unity itself, that holy, unthinkable thing.  That place where language becomes mangled and twisted.

 

The nexus here that philosophy looks at is "from".  The emerging.  The arising.  The coming out.  Physis.  Aitia.  Causa.  The connection between that first intense thing.  And this loosened thing, the world.

 

Between the world and its cause is absolute separation.  It is Separation.  But in the extremes of philosophy, in the absolute form, the things of philosophy coincide.  Separation is Identity.  The separate cause of a thing is the thing's self-identity.  And the self-identity of a thing is absolutely separate from the thing.  Here language becomes fleeting and cannot be grasped.

 

The One becomes the Two.  The word "two" is the root of the word "God".  My philosophy is a dualism therefore I must use the word "God".  I believe the world came from God, the One.  Language here gives an understanding that can't be avoided.

 

 

 

427  Most people don't really want eternal life.  They would much rather have the happiness of eternal sleep.  Eternal life is not restful peace, but militant Glory, Over-Glory.  It is for the few; only the few want it.  Each person gets what he asks for.  A drive toward greater consciousness or a drive towards sleep.  Consciousness has a sharpness in it that most don't want.  There's nothing unjust about this arrangement of things.  The Good is getting what you go after.  The universe is good.

 

 

The great phobia of this melting pot America is over religious and philosophical argument.  Too many conflicting ideas have come together here.  It's too much.  Too much passion.  So it tries to sink into a loving forgetfulness.  Mush.  Sleep.  And intellectually the rest of the world is overtaking us.  Our freedom of thought has turned into a demand to not think.  Our children are sinking into a blissful happiness.  "I saw the best minds of my generation …  ."

 

Glory is the violence of silver.  The Intellectual Light of Augustine is the movement of Argument.  The movement is the search for the individual.  For the self that endures.  That's the movement of the history of philosophy.

 

 

When Christianity came along it seemed to have to figure out a way for God to be able to be aware of individuals and persons here on earth and not just be a God who knows Being by contemplating beautiful, eternal Forms.  Christianity seemed to have to value the individual more than the universal.  Thus philosophies that gave greater being to the individual at the expense of the universal grew larger than the idea that Christianity seemed to be and were rolled out.  From Plato through Aristotle to nominalism.  Finally, no universals at all.  Until now we are in the land of the Will and the Absurd.  From the Light of Augustine's Divine Intelligible Forms to this dark night of the soul.  The road here seemed to be the right road.  I say seemed because there is a question.  A question that has turned out to be us.  Not any particular question, just the vague question. It's kind of like quietly crying in the night.  The individual and the personal has turned out to be this one thing.  A new eternal Form.  The terrible, impersonal, beautiful God is coming back.

 

 

 

428  The commercial world is full of feeling, and well-suited to the senses and hedonistic.  It is pleasant.  But it's all so transcendental.  If you look you see nothing.  It's an Idea.  It's enthusiastic about itself.  But it's so empty.  It's in fact very bleak.  It's always in the draught of the economic wind.  It is the right now that is before the end.  It's the act now, now that the time has arrived.  It's the rush of the spirit awaiting the Second Coming.  The giddy thrill.  Soon it's all over.  Everything.  Our business is just the image we have made, through compulsion, of this terrible wind on this prairie.  Europe came here and felt the Eschaton.  That wind is the meaning of our technology.  It's why fundamental religion loves technology.  Fundamental Christianity is just the preaching of the End.  And its giddy love-feast.

 

The commercial world doesn't have depth.  It has simple sense data.  Simple pleasures.  The smell of coffee, the feel of a breeze, the look of a child, the red of an apple, the taste of meat, the disgust with murder.  The world is simple particulars exemplifying simple universals.  This area is red.  That sound is loud.  This sound is sweet.  All very pleasurable.  Soon very bleak.  And the world will be gone.  Even now on the prairie we can feel the hedonism of the Still and the mystically empty.  The pleasure of the bleak and the monotonous is our gift to the world.  A sparkling dullness.

 

Here on the prairie we know jealousy.  Another form of the unbearable non-being we face.  People lie around here on their beds doing nothing but suffering.  They will cope though.  That's what you do against the blast.  We've stood against the wind for a long time.  It's because David Hume separated the world into simple forms just placed beside each other, intensely delightful things.  But what is that?  Nothing.  We try to enjoy life as we should, but it's too hard for us.  We tried to live in the now with the simple pleasures that are love, but it's impossible.  It too soon becomes the transcendental.  An empiricism that is too thin and pure.  And that spirit that seems electric.  Forming charged negative images on our eyelids when our eyes are closed.  Endless vibrations and rhythms.  Survival is all we ask.  There's nothing contradictory about a simple particular, but its survival is.  Its survival in this terrible wind is mystical.  The essence of business is survival.  It's a mystical thing.  Business is that which tends to our individual existence.  It deals with the End.

 

 

 

429  This is a philosophy and theology of realism.  It is thus like the Platonism of Augustine and Anselm.  It is a belief that philosophy and theology do belong together.  It is not a part of the anti-intellectual breakdown that came with nominalism and voluntarism.  I believe in thought, and I believe in the work and endurance that must go with thought. I am not afraid of argument or the darkness that we must pass through until the light comes.  And I am not afraid to assert the truth nor to claim that my sentences match reality.  With all that I know the distance philosophy and rational theology are from our workaday life.  I suffer the separation.  I am torn in two.  Part of me soars in the speculative heights; part of me stammers and muddles about here below.  Part of me is capable, and part of me is totally incapable.  Like Augustine and Anselm I am capable of analyzing God and divinity itself, and I confess my dumbstruck wonder at such simple things as number and time.  And like them I climb up through beauty to see God.  The image I use, the Boy, is the traditional one of Platonists.

 

Philosophy is not about anything other than itself.  That kind of self-centered thing, existing outside any relation to other things, an absolute thing, is not so rare.  God is that way, self-caused.  Being came from nothing other than itself.  And like Being and God the word philosophy is empty to the natural mind.  And like consciousness of consciousness they are just the oneness of self-identity.  That's all any philosophical thing is.  They are beings that appear to be non-beings, and things that appear to be non-things.  Solving that paradox of a thing and its appearance, its image, is the work of philosophy, its material substance.

 

Because philosophy is unrelated, because it is absolute, the philosopher, in order to do philosophy, must be philosophy, and it can be only him.  Here the philosopher is a non-social, purely isolated individual.  And to understand his words, therefore, you must be one with them.  Nothing is done by degrees, but only in perfection.  That is, if there is such a thing as absolute philosophy.  It's like God who must exist if He does exist.  If you don't believe in absolutes, you do believe that they are nothing at all, then you must agree that there is no relation between that nothing and everything else that is.  That it is an absolute.

 

You must believe self-identity is a thing.  The God out there.  That it is the object the science of philosophy studies.  If you don't believe in it consider it interesting intellectual play.  It is after all away from the serious view of life.

 

The arguments here are all transcendental.  The play of God.

 

 

 

430  Does God know us personally, or does he only know the abstract idea of us?  Does God know individual things or does he only know the Ideas through which the world was created?  That is to say, does God intellectually touch material existence?  Likewise, does the human mind directly know individual things, or does it only stay within its own representations of the thing?  Can the human mind get out of its own thoughts to get at the individual as it is in itself?  Or are we trapped within just our own view of things?  Is the individual, the thing itself, the other person, forever beyond the reach of our minds and God's?  That was the main question after the Summa of Thomas.  And it's the question today.  Not only can we know the individual but what it is that accounts for individuality.

 

The ideas are the things that go across minds, are open to view, are communicable.  The individual thing out there will never enter into anyone's mind.  It's closed to the mind's view.  It's absolutely non-communicable. The Ideas, the universals, are the intelligible.  The individual is non-intelligible.  It escapes intellect.  It is thus the absurd.  The artless.  Without intellect's grace.  The unknown.  The abyss.  Logic deals with the intelligible.  Philosophy tries to cross over.  Philosophy is the search for the bridge between mind and the world.  Between the universal and the individual.  Between the rational and the non-rational.  Philosophy's failure is its not accomplishing that, but staying only within ideas.  Philosophy, to be real philosophy, must encompass material existence.  It must itself have a part of the thick stupor of matter.  It must have the feel of the unintelligible.  Intellect must turn to sex.  Not just talk about it, but have it.  It mustn't hide the madness.

 

As for the jump from a feeling for absurdity and for a realm outside logic, or at least an indefinable logical entity, to identifying it with an ontological need for grounding individuality, that jump itself partakes of the non-intelligible, and is surely illegitimate.  But those jumps are the essence of philosophical proof.  Philosophy isn't logic.

 

 

 

431  In the dialectic non-being is found inside Being, and the outside is found inside the inside.  And otherness is inside identity.  In the dialectic non-mental things are found inside mental things.  Perceived things (out there things) are inside awarenesses.  It's a strange topology.  Inside and outside are outside and inside.  The dimensions have collapsed and expanded.  Unity and a bewildering otherness.  Inside the inside through identity and outside the outside.  This is the a priori space Kant wanted us to see.  The schema of the Absolute.  It's all so amazing, a thing the mind readily takes to.  It feels quick surprise at how it is so successful at juggling it.

 

 Existentialists say, "mind is time", or "mind is nothingness."  It's a quick, legerdemain use of the word "is".  It's illegitimate.  But we do understand these explanations.  No problem with that.  But it seems too facile.  On the other hand, it is more satisfying to the spirit than that from those non-daring ones who don't attempt the great speculation.  Staying on this side of the critical line is after a while just frustration.  Existentialists too easily let it all fall together.  The others, the sober analysts, hold back too long.

 

Ultimately my philosophy isn't based on anxiety and dread, but on eros.  Or if dread is that force on the chest and, like eros, it isn't a nightmare but a wet dream, then that.  I am Solomon, not Dracula.  This is St. John of the Cross, not demonology.

 

The area of metaphysics and of substance is that area between actuality and possibility.  Of the passing over from the one to the other.  It is that overflowing from God to the world and back.  It is the going out that is creation and cause.  It is that part of becoming that is time and change, that place between form and image. It is God who is also non-God, of Being that is also non-being, that place between.  Be it a thing or forgetfulness, the trick of philosophy is to show that Pure Act is that very part between actuality and possibility.  The danger (and what is life without danger?) is that it can degenerate into creationism, which becomes the feminine morass.

 

Metaphysics, the ground of the synthetic a priori, is that nexus that ties the set of axioms to the set of theorems.

 

 

 

432  Thomas Aquinas is more a disciple of Plotinus than he is of Aristotle.  And the Mind that Des Cartes talks about can be traced through Thomas also back to that same source.  Neoplatonism is strong in the middle ages.  Moreover, the hierarchies of Plotinus are still very much with us in modern thought.  From the complex through degrees of unity up to the One.  Up through levels of mind.  And Being beyond mind.  Of mind resting on Being.

 

The other element of the middle ages is the Lord that saves man's philosophy from the pit of Hell.  By itself it would end up there.  There must be a savior.  There must be a light that breaks in and harrows it.  There must be an insurrection from outside.  A revelation.

 

 

 

The death of philosophy is its collapse into one undifferentiated mass.  It is the Ideas being in Mind.  Of moments in Time.  Of individuals in the All.  Of potentialities in the actuality.   Of the future in the seed.  Of the Hierarchies in the Godhead.  Of universals in the individual.  Of manifestations in the one being.  Of the drop in the ocean.  Of a soul in a World Soul.  Of the particular in the One.  This sleep is everywhere present.  Its threat is everywhere.  Running from it leads right to it.  Or so it sometimes seems.  Really that Womb in nowhere real.  It’s a thing of obsession that never was and never will be.  The simplicity of the clear and distinct is all there is.  Just simple entities with no insides.  Only the well-formed.  Simple things by themselves.  Self-sufficient.  That's the meaning of the One and of Being.  Nothing is contained anywhere.  That's the Thrill of philosophy.  Overthrowing that monster.

 

 

 

433  The Forms are separate.  But they do seem to be connected by the nexus of participation or something.  There's not really a connection because the notion of image and participation is contradictory.  Contradiction vanishes when clarity, when the real appears.  When philosophy vanishes.  Philosophy is a lover and lovers know they are pollution around the beloved.

 

If I say the boy is red cheeked, it seems that there is a substance called 'the boy' which has a quality called 'red cheeked'.  But before the gaze of God that boy comes undone and in its place is just a bare particular and the form 'Boy'.  He's gone.  The world vanishes.

 

Some philosophers say that in spite of that gaze, by another act of God, He holds the substance, the object, in existence.  It's as though Being is a stronger force beyond intellect.  Uniting what should disintegrate.  That way there's a power holding us together around the tension exploding us.  It's an overwhelming feeling, and it won't stop.  Individuals that naturally divide into forms are held by something outside them, the Act of Being.

 

The feeling of being held, even of being inside a force field, is an essential part of the act of writing philosophy.  There's an invisible boundary between philosophy and science that can't be crossed.  And the attempt to cross is also essential.

 

That feeling of force is the feeling of substance to philosophy.  It's what makes philosophy be not just the analytic statements of logic.  It has thickness.  A synthetic part.  The synthetic a priori.  But the substance is from on high, the double of the individual.  The other side of Occam's Razor.  When the nominalist says that the universal is just the individual, or that the existence of the individual is just the individual, or that words just stand for individuals, you must, in order to understand the truth of that, get into the mysticism of the word 'just'.  A deflation that blows the mind and the world away.  It's almost ineffable.

 

 

 

434  A philosophical writing must be unrelenting. It's a hard thing.  No easing up.  Nothing with slow thickness.  It has no thickness at all.  But like empty space you can sense something there more impenetrable that steel.  It goes on forever.  Like God, there's no stopping.

 

To qualify as a thing made by God the universe must be worthy of being made by Him, that is, it must be like Him, eternal and perfect.  And then an absurd incarnation must follow, the passion of thought, and so it all must have its origin in time and be imperfect, and the imperfect flesh is ravished by the perfect.

 

To qualify as wisdom the words must be infallible.  Nothing else could mirror God.  The lover of wisdom must believe he is capable of knowing truth.  That the truth must be a thing clinging only to itself.  That false humility has no place before God.  His words must not be limited by the setting he is in.  They must be absolute.  His words must be a Realism.  Idealism and materialism are attempts to lie down and sleep in the matrix, in the humus, in its own limited humanity.  Realism has an angel's arrogance.  It's the Devil that councils against intellectual pride.

 

The Glory of a philosopher is that which he knows himself to have for having written the Truth.  He can see his own genius.  What else could he be given!  He is an apotheosis.  He understands Wesley's doctrine of Perfection.  He knows he is priest.  That the human in him has died. He is sacrificed because of his own insane assertions about himself.  It's ridiculous to not have the garment of humility.

 

Like Pure Act it just keeps on going.  Always in motion.  The mind staring wide-eyed at itself.  The incommensurableness of the one and the many.  The simplicity of mind and the plurality of the world in analytical identity.  First there is the One.  Then the first emanation is the Dual, the One with itself, Nous.  Then the One-Many, the World Soul, the form of our minds.  Then the many, the complex, fact, the world.  The Act is the world held in unity, the Spirit.

 

The act is the essence of time, the inadequacy, the identity of the simple and the complex.  It is the form of philosophical writing, which is different from scientific writing, which is fact, the complex.

 

 

 

335  Philosophical proof is a matter of disproof.  It is the destruction of definitions by means of contradiction and paradox.  Then after the thing's definition is destroyed its simple existence is asserted.  Simple things have no parts that could fit into a definition.  But they do have their oneness.  It is their being.  And they share the finis of Being, Being's self-limitation.  Held within itself in self-identity.  From the identity of Being the Simples come by judgment. They are not defined; they are asserted.

 

The Forms are in Necessity.  Their existence is in the analyticity of self-identity. They are the Principle of Order.  They cause order, but are themselves ordered to nothing else.  This unordered, accidental nature of the Forms is the cause of the total unordered, accidental nature of Nature. Here is the unity of opposites, of Necessity and Accident.  But they are only one in their extreme, superior form.

 

Nominalism which sees cause and effect as simple apposition is no different from Platonism which sees one Form uniting the two.

 

I have written this down and simply asserted it.  My proof is metaphysical and seems to be no proof.   I simply say it.  That is the will in philosophy.  The soul reaches for the identity and it's there.  There is no denying it for those who want to see.  There is no other proof for those who don't.  Credo ut intelligam.  Belief, assertion, then knowledge.  Belief stops the infinite regress of paradox.  But it only works in the realm of metaphysics where we are talking about nothing at all.  There is no passage from that place to the world.  Once you have tasted the food in the land of enchantment there is no going back to the world.

 

The form of philosophy is that of a person talking to himself.  The mind with itself.  A reflection of God.  A transcendent God hidden within himself, but who takes us into his secret place, and then won't let us go.

 

 

 

436  I am in exile.  I am in Babylon in the house of that great whore, surrounded by her sickening perfume.  I have to daily listen to her stupid talking, bring food to create more ripples of fat on her oily body, pretend to those around me that I desire her.  But when I am left alone I remember my real lover far off.  He comes to me in the night of my life, and he too cries at being left alone.  Only in death will I be able really to be with him.  His finger twists around in my verves.  He plucks them.  They are enflamed red.  I am as the Seraphim.  Turn.  Fire.  Nerves.  In the crucible of love.  I am small and dance in the color of his cheeks everywhere sparkling.  I see what he sees.  Stop.  Sounds of rushing wind.  The end of the age.  Terrible love.  Consuming everything opposing him, protecting his beloved.  In the smallest atom, that part that can no longer be broken, the constituting element of time, the simplest part that makes a thing be other than what it is not, in embrace, in his arms, my beloved and I repose.  He is the logos.  In him are all the Forms.  He is the Being of the One.  All the world comes from him. Understanding is standing under his Forms.  This growing is caused by him.  The rushing winds that rule is his looking downward.  Feel that moving from inside him out.  The Holy Spirit, the White Vision.  He is the Being of this, the external love.  Here is the beloved I have longed for.  I have found his silent unmovable beauty.  Everything I do is to try to get to him.  To touch.  To touch with my eyes this face of Wisdom.  To take my divinity.  Desire.  He lays his forehead on mine, and here is love made.  He glances at me and I see the world.  And angels with their heads up in his beauty.  The hard places on his shoulder is what I am on.  Even that, I see, is the philosopher's Reality.  The  thing in itself.  It walks right through me.  Oh my legs, rods within me.  At the touch of his lips he is like me.  I am telling you a story.  Why are eye twinkles all there is?  Mythological cheek roses and star necklaces.  The tying up of participation.  He is the Things in themselves.  He is the Being of the One that is the Form of the Forms.  But you know that from your philosophy books.  You have been reading about him all this time.  Holding that book was where love came from.  Touch itself.  Holding His Body.  Now you are in the Real Kiss.  Universals.  Beyond time.  In repose.

 

 

 

437  It seems that the metaphysics of Meister Eckhart is so much just the product of natural reason.  But it is reason sacrificed.  It seems that even Hinduism could have come up with it.  But they have too much oblivion.  Or Plotinus.  But he didn't have a lover's neck to cling to.  Too much domesticity everywhere except in Eckhart.  He is wild against his own religion.  Following the God of his religion.  Who stepped outside the religion that was of himself.  Eckhart's religion is supposed to look like natural reason, other religions, in order to be unnatural Christianity. Christianity is the only religion that fights all others and even itself.  Intimate with Sin.  Strange to the world.  A naked boy who doesn't care for your morality.  Incarnate in one's own mind.  He is the Law and the Prophets and Wisdom.  We all know Eckhart was a heretic.  A self without a self.  Looking so wrong following that boy.  Contradicting himself.  Shame.

 

How far out on the desert, he is lying on his breast.  Who knows which is which.

 

 

 

438  A tightly bound writing will only touch lightly upon the subject.  With a strigil it scrapes off the unnecessary.  It is strong because with the same tool it castrates you the reader, and you halt undone.  You halt before the primary form.  With just a word the god is there.  This is the form of a striking writing.  There's not much here.  You can take it in easily.  It is Crisco and crisis.

 

If it is so beautiful it almost makes you faint, that's because it has that pressure against you that is the weight, the glory, of God.  Parousia, dasein.  The broad surface of the thigh.

 

But the supreme, most sexual, thing is castration.  The thigh must be out of joint.  The pressure must not be directly on you.  A purity that is lifted up.  Surrounded and unable to come down.  Only lightly touching you. The pure form above you.  The most maddening thing.  But if it came you couldn't get it tight enough against you. It would be the same thing.  Oh God, destroy all this.  Beauty trembles.

 

 

 

439  Oh Lord, give me this day my daily bread.  One more philosophical idea.  One more piece of delight. One more turning of your wrath into pleasure.  This food baked in that fire.  One with your flesh.  Let me have that unity with you.  Let me have the heights that Lucifer was reaching for.  Make your pleasure be as great as my sin.  Make my sin great.  Make me totally against you that your wrath might come down on me.  Change into delight.  Be my philosophy.

 

Oh Lord, your wrath is our greatest gift from you. The prophets and Paul knew it well.  With it, change us into our primary forms.  Give us Number to take away our complexity.  To make us intense and tight onto you.  Undo us from ourselves.  Only you.  In us find your own identity with love.

 

Oh Lord, take us out of here.  This is no home.  Lift us up into the consideration of all the things we are.  Our home is the field of ideas we are.  The substance of our languages.  The Being of our sciences.  Our home is inside this place, in the Idea.  Out of here into Here.

 

 

Because of God's presence we get the supreme which we didn't want in the place of the mediocre which we did.  But we are determined to get to that supreme mediocre.  Where the crowd and the genius mingle.  The very pure "that there".  The Area.  The extreme that holds my ideas.  The God that is just outside my thoughts.  The smooth thigh.  My inarticulate words.

 

 

 

440  The true prophet preaches the Eschaton.  It comes from out of this present wrath of God.  The Repose out of the chaos.  The perfect repose.  Perfect stillness.  Made clear through.  At the extreme of mind, the Real.  From out of the stretching, from out of the going across.  In stillness hung there.  The God just comes down and lies there.  It is finished.  The perfect factum.  Completely made.  Stretched out.  Over his surface.  Numbers appear.  And time.  And self.  The poesis.  Adonis, Set from the South, but in perfect abstraction.  Now completely freed of It.  In stillness.  It is finished.  It was a fact.  The End of mind.  The smooth area.  His skin.  Bare.  And a particular.  It will hold me.

 

Wrath is meta is stretching is area is particular is holding is reclining is repose.

 

Philosophy must crack and knock things down.  The spirit is in it.  I know women will cry over me because I am lost and have come under the blast, but that's what I wanted.  He was my lover.  The Eschaton turns things around backward.  It has no need of her.  She can carry on and fume and I will just sit and watch.  Then I will stomp and walk off.

 

 

 

441  The metaphysical interpretation of Scripture is a scandalously taking it literally.  Eckhart quotes Jesus saying, "A little and you will not see me."  Eckhart says that means that if only a little clings to the soul it cannot see God.  A scandalous interpretation.  But scripture must be turned slightly to be made to reveal its spiritual meaning.  Throughout history the letters of the alphabet have been turned to be made to reveal the god within.  Sometimes the letters were just amplified, they doubled themselves, grew to show God.  Metaphysics must know how to turn everything in order to make it all fit together.  To reconcile the contradictory.  The work of the medieval Sentences.  Dialectic. It makes Jesus look like a Sophist.  But there is a dialectical difference. Such as when I say Relation is the being of relations. What is that if not a rising up. A threatening piece of non-understanding.  A thing with a secret to keep away the enemy.  Nothing.  As are all secrets.  But there is Secret.  Things partake of it.  The thing that makes you not be able to write like this.  Remember that my whole theme is that there is nothing secret from us.  We stand in immense Light.

 

 

 

442  It is a common thought that boys lie on their beds thinking about love.  He is in love with another boy, but he is more in love with love.  That was me.  It is an uncommon thought that boys lie on their beds falling through the mystical splendor of mathematics.  It's the same love, the same final object.  I saw it.  Years later it is still with me.  It is my only thought.  But I don't like to see myself as uncommon.  I want to be able to communicate it.  To tell it.  To take another boy in there with me.  I suspect many have already been there.

 

Maybe it's just a strange brain electrical current that is the meaning of it.  No, brain waves and thinking are two.  Maybe it's sin.  I am the worst sinner.

 

But I did experience it.  I stumbled over my words for a long time.  It's better to talk than just have private visions.  To talk about the visions that are of universals.  Of mathematics and ontology, the only things that are synthetic and also a priori.  A necessity with presence.  Hard to say because impossible not to say.

 

The meaning of it all bursts out in a whole philosophy.  Page after page, rolling.  Trying to take that otherness and make it familiar.  Still it remains religion.  Strange inhuman, mathematical being.  Supra-consciousness.  Christmas lights.

 

It's in the wind.  That eschatological thing.  And horribly in the nausea and headaches of endless repetition.  The tension of the boy not understanding.

 

But its beauty is in its other-worldliness.  This is not ordinary experience.  It's perfect escape.  But first it is necessary to learn the words to speak to a boy so he can go along.  Or to find one who also knows the secret door.  Love Himself.

 

 

 

443  The Sublime is the bridge to the religious.  It is at the flow where beauty breaks.  It is where my philosophy breaks, and I am a reflection of it and it of me.  Intimacy.  This body is beautiful; less than that, it is too pretty, not right.  I destroy any movement to system, and I want system so.  I wanted a beautiful structure.  But God wouldn't let me.  He is a jealous God.  I thought about it.  But the idea and the thing didn't fit together.  No measurement.  Nothing was first.  Thus it was infinite.  Mirrors and mirrors.   Only Light that is the reflection of light.  The Abstract.  A piece of silver.  Very pretty.  Just a Tie.  But what is that?  Go where you will, there is just open space between these thoughts. And they didn't begin with that sentence up there.  They begin with this one.  Just pretty.  Smooth sliding.  Believing that the words are sliding to the right place.  The flow and the bridge are one.  Christ hated the sensual.

 

Since there is no order to the infinite.  No sheet music.  No one to keep time.   No way to come close to it.  Only a way to be in it.  Lost, but inside a perfect beat.  Happening with a simultaneity that only abstraction knows.  The appearance of the abstract.  The too-tight perfection.  A miracle.  A dazzlement.  Since there is that, it must be that it takes you.  Does you.  The only time you will be in divine perfection, swinging.

 

But then it is also a bad dream. A piling up of things.  Unable to catch up. Desperate.  Sublime.  The monstrous thing.  A showing.

 

The gentle, monotonous infinite.  Logicians have long since solved the problem.  Now we're back to the One and the Many.  The Trinity, the godhead.  Oh, still moving around the grid work of the Iowa countryside.  Just sliding over it all.  And under bridges with boys in creeks.

 

 

 

444  Whether it's substance or consciousness, it's a black hole drawing in.  There's nothing under the appearances.  Behind the ideas.  The boy is falling into himself. Into his room where there are pictures of other boys.  There's nothing there.  It exists.  It doesn't exist.  It's concentration, the under of hypnosis.  A boy who has fallen into a well.  The ineptness of your getting at him.  But the boy wanted the pain.  Pain is a mysterious god.  In hospitals there are people who have pain that can't be stopped.  It is all circling and circling inward.

 

When you look at yourself and see yourself as a one hundred ten year old Indian.  And you wonder how other people see you and don't see you.  Oh, they see youth.  Not psychedelic, as Indians of both kinds are. 

 

This is the sublime break up.  Held tight in diffusion.  There you are in yourself.

 

The shell surrounding it is the heart.  A regular pounding, keeping time.  The rule is the keeping of time.  The repetition of the identical.  It is a song.  Always coming back to itself.

 

 

 

445  Well, did you manage to get rid of God?  Did he come and take away his absolute beauty he had surrounded you with and give you limited, less intense beauty?  Did he take away your deformed body, that thing that made you and others aware of some terrible, sublime presence?  Did he make you pleasant and ordinary?  You wanted that desperately, just like I want to write a handsome, well-formed book and have a graspable system.  I bet he didn't come.  I have tried to get something from him, and I've gotten nothing.  Can you see how sublime I am?  I can see you that way.

 

There are some things so ethereal that they can't exist in this world - like boy love.  Like Christianity.  They are the terrible things that ground the present.  I once in a church gave my book to God.  I didn't think he would take it and leave me with only the ashes, but he did.  So I will have the ashes printed up.  I gave him my thoughts and love at an earlier age, and they are the same thing.  I even placed my sexuality on him, my beauty, and now look at my face.  I want you all to see my loss and know God.

 

In all that Loss the world is greatly present.  I'm sure you know that.

 

 

 

446  Kierkegaard's teaching about the crowd also teaches us that it's impossible to make a mistake.  The crowd believes that there is a proper and an improper way of doing things. It believes that the good man is the one who is proper.  Or rather he is the one who is concerned about being proper.  Who is on the lookout against himself and others. He is a policeman for the transcendent order of things.  Kierkegaard teaches that there is no such order, the crowd is a mirage, that there is only the individual and he decides.  He falls when he begins to wonder if he hasn't failed to live up to the proper order of things.  Then he becomes like a child following the family rules.

 

But we must remember that Kierkegaard is speaking from an eternal point of view.  To get along in the world, it is true, you must follow the rules of propriety.

 

And yet it does happen that within this worldly order there appear certain individuals who seem to be a law unto themselves.  They decide.  They seem like demi-gods.  Others follow.  They are the men of faith.  Others try to follow, to systematize their ways in order to capture that divinity.  But it won't work.  The men of faith were just being flippant, but with great self-confidence.  He won't latter attend the scientific colloquia called to study his ways and world and words.

 

To love is to want to show the boy the law-free zone.

 

Outside of this, everything is ringed with taboo.  There it's the royal priest who must never let his heel touch the ground.  It's the distinction between the clean and the unclean.  But in Kierkegaard's Christ the distinction has been abolished.  The lowly has been lifted up, and all things are clean.  There is only holiness, the Sun and Being.

 

And then no world, which is distinction and rank.  Then just a pile of Whitman and Husserlian essences.  Whirling.

 

Boy, eschatological, here-comes-the-future love.  The End.

 

 

 

447  The Holy, Divine Animals break though and you are in the midst of an old, non-Christian religion. With a rushing and fluttering, and unseen movement he is there. With a feeling and filling you up.  Something is deposited in you. A piece of the universe grows in you.  Solipsism.  Bestiality. The impregnation that is Possibility.  Out of your human form.  Sensa are the back of that holy thing.  It’s the writhing we call the atomic bomb.  But it is more amazing and full of love sickness than that.  From a contradiction all things flow.

 

In the Form of Color, blue and red are identical.  In the Infinite the distance between two distinct points is no distance at all.  And two different things are each identical to a third.  And one thing from a different point of view is two.

 

In this logic of privacy. Just you with yourself, with me, a strange love, holy, strange things.  Animus.  Sickening excitement.  In and out.  Internal and external.  Hegel with too much love.

 

Is my coming at you like this something you work at keeping your distance from?  Like expecting exterior animals to come trampling about you?  Like not giving in to paganism?  Don't worry, I'm Christian.  I'm of the sheer philosophy of the twentieth century, and I transcend all this.  Sheer transcendence.  I'm urbane, I never knew any of this.  It's all going to end soon.

 

Since metaphysics ended it's only the Animals and the Boy Jesus that are left.  And the feeling that the one who has It is not you. Without philosophy you can see him as a white pure still thing over on the horizon.

 

After positivism, philosophy is an independent, self-contained identity there.  Sometimes not there.  Just the simplest thing.  The simple clarity that you were looking for.

 

 

 

448  The boy lying there before me becomes an eternal object in this way.  The light that is his skin moves in the variations of number always disappearing inside itself.  It is close to pure Light because it is delicately close to non-existence.  I can reach inside it and there is touch.  And there is soft and there is smooth.  Also close to non-existence.  All this comes to me, but with very little being. In a geometry that also disappears inside itself.  Over a sleep that is the boy not there.  This is no physical object, or perceptual object, it is sense data which seems like nothing at all.  Going into the seat of all sensa, into the twisting of love, the cut of blood, oblivion.  It is the tearing apart.  The philosophy that breaks up everything.  Extreme analysis.  It leaves the world behind, then disappears.  The closed inward.  The radical empiricism that leads straight to the god of love.  The boy is eternal because he is a falling into oblivion.  He is eternal for me because I go along.

 

There's nothing here to grab onto to stop the sliding.  No control.  This is the fright.  The horrible no way to stop of philosophy. It is there in the simple sentence, "The boy is smooth and love-colored."  The analysis has begun in the stringing out of words.  Each element containing the form of Being.  The horrible Over-Delicacy and Over-Sweetness of love.  It is the non-being of philosophical things.  The bed of Being they lie on.

 

This immanent feeling of being about to come undone is our feeling of creatureliness.  We were made and are now about to be unmade.  The ecstasy.

 

Our trembling existence over the strong base line of physical pressure.  Substance.

 

 

 

449  Just as of old this philosophy comes out of anger.  From out of rejection.  Being thrown back then getting up to fight.  And it ends in love as does all anger, fighting.  A sublime end.  A desire to put the other in that impossible heaven of God.  The place of glorious without.  To be feared and loved.  This is Angst.  Love-hate.  Self-hurting.  Hopelessness.  The only way to get even and have the beloved.  It is a mood.  And meinis Μηνις.  It will take you over.  Transcendence to trance.  Possession.  All lovers know how to give that look of absolute rejection to their beloved.  To show that you have willingly descended into the flesh.  With anger and an inward Shout.

 

Pale, brooding thought.  It kills every act, but it cannot kill itself.  Consuming thought.  Lucidity everywhere.  Only Lucidity.  Stifling dialectic.  A longing for reality.  But what was it that was so enticing about it?  Where was that place you wanted to lead your friend, when you had a friend? 

 

Religion rubbish.  Non-existent divinities.  The demonic rejection wasn't really there.  You could have gone along.  But the demons must be there if supreme Beauty is to be there.  If the Lucidity of the lucid is going to take you under.

 

There is a concentration, a study, a stupor as you go into the expanse of the Idea.  It takes you.  That is the Realism.  When you give up yourself and go into it.  Your descent or ascent.  Your possession.  Infilling and outfilling. The body.  Goosebumps moving in waves over you.  That feel of flesh.  Of the humus.

 

 

 

450

 

Tainted Love

 

I am against all of Western Philosophy.  I am anti-philosophy.  Sometimes I feel I've got to run away.  I gave it all a boy could give.  I pray differently.  My prayers are dreams of sex.

 

I'm so tense.  I'm so on the edge.  Everything is nexus.  Thus everything stands still within itself.  Atomic sentences.  Substance that is just there, always forever there.  Pushing on me, me against it.  Two boys who are opposites, in conflict.  Destroying to be each other.  I'm going to pack my things and go.

 

I fell in love; now I'm defending it.

 

 

A quiet, whispering inwardness.  So inward.  In a sighing concentration.  Into which you initiate your lover.  Where there is the operation.  Not the profaning of philosophy.  The murder.  The crying.  The tearing apart.  The temple.  In plain song.  Always going back.  The love that tears your chest apart.  Creating a topology that can be described.  A somewhat divine science.  The ground of teaching.  Of leading.  Of seeing the cosmos.  Looking at the night sky with your beloved by your side.  Lying on the ground.  Whisperings about great things out there.  That you see when you take him in there.

 

 

 

451  Knowing that there is a person there who is God is not among the natural, homely things.  All these things outside this home are the home of religion and thus philosophy.  There are many.  Angels seemingly present.  Not really a knowledge.  Not really knowing if Jesus was God.  Scary things like the power of birth and death in a woman's cunt.  Birth and death as the same thing.  Jesus from a place beyond that.  Words that aren't quite right.  Scriptures that make sense and don't make sense.  Murders, thieves, adulterers, those hot with desire.  Liars.  All of which are beautiful when done by a beautiful boy.  That is his sexuality.  From the place without the knowledge of good and evil.  From where Jesus came.  That which is not the World.  To believe that God is there in that man is to make knowledge feel guilty.  The unnatural Guilt.

 

 

 

I hate to hear myself talk.  I am so analytic.  So commonsense.  But when I write everything collapses, and I become philosophy, analysis ceases.  Then there is the strangeness of existence.  I am out there beyond mind.  I lose my cool and my casualness.  Then I love myself.  Writing philosophy is where I overcome myself.  Then I am guilty.  And I hesitate over my crime, my break with ordered society, concepts.

 

 

 

452  In the godhead there is the Idea of the Clean and the Idea of the Unclean.  Two Ideas.  They are of equal rank.  They are just two Ideas.  There is the Idea of Idea and of Image.  And there is the Idea of godhead and of In.  In the godhead they all lie around in a pile.  The most perfect beauty.  Sublime.  The Unordered.  Ideal Anarchy.

 

It can't be done in the extreme flips over into it can be done.  After all philosophies fail the thing we were looking for is seen.  There to be claimed and owned.  And spoken of.  It's the here that speaks.  Unseen, like a thief, with acts of terrorism.  Or like a dog nipping the giant at his heels.  When everything has left him that's his joy.

 

The showstoppers start slow and end fast.  The world is all that is the case.

 

It's a crying.  One little touch of pain.  The thoughts turn sad.  A rise, a fall, a step outward.  Everything is black before everything is bright white.  The rush, the relief, and over again.

 

 

 

453  All my relationships with people, especially with friends, particularly with lovers, are unpleasant.  It's a constant trying.  To figure out.  To be really.  Usually I hate them for having denied me.  But I did know Life with them.  Not pleasant, but in all that sublime.  A Christian category.

 

It is true that all we want is power.  But we are defined as the people of beauty.  Beauty is a power. The power to slay.  To kill.  We are murders.  It is the sacrifice at the heart of us. Probably the only ones in the whole universe to have killed God.  We are murders.  We are Beauty.  It is our Power. It is our Will. Or maybe the whole universe is beautiful.  Maybe it is beautiful and arrogant and youthful.  In the deceit of innocence.

 

Philosophy is not the supreme beauty.  It is about the crucifixion.  It is the crucifixion of the philosopher.  All within the Crucifixion.

 

 

 

454  The only honor there is is in the struggle.  In the Struggle.  The fight with God that leaves us lame.  That leaves us above the earth.  Unable to touch the earth.  Suspended, unable to climb down.  The only peace there is.  Within the Struggle.  There where things have been torn apart. The mind from the body.  Eternity from time.  In that division the price is paid.

 

This right here is philosophy.  I'm not asking you to think about some far off thing.  Come with me into it.  This is solicitation.  It's illegal.  Let your mind follow.  Into possible error.  Surely it will be error.  Wrapped up with me secure in the Idea. Going to the extreme.  Into the warm fire.  Little visions.  Comfort.  Just lying there.  Beyond the possibility of error.  This right here.  Stretched out, as your mind is over these words.  Indescribable because it is just nothing.  You can't go wrong.  Your lover Christ made no sense. He weighs on you.  Of course you understand.  Presumption.  No, it's just static.  Let it be.  We're just watching the whole thing. Give up.  It's just this right here.  Dasein.  Nothing's here.  Just stretched out.  The self's division.  Splayed.  Stripped off.  Extension.  No comfort.  No fireside.  Here by my fireside.

 

 

 

455  The fireside pleasures of learning.  Secure and at home in the Ideas and their simple exemplification. No mind ravishing beauty comes in the door.  No face-flaming angel.  No abandonment by a lover.  Warm mathematics.  God's view of the astronomical things.  Names and little images in the mind.  It is all comfort. The life of Leisure.  The God of Saturday.  Only Kierkegaard makes Christianity look different from other religions.  And that is because he made other religions be finite.  He aesthetically describes the non-aesthetic indescribable.  Just as other philosophers say they are outside or before the god's arrival.  His Infinite Love assumes love everywhere and is never deceived, maintains its debt and is not after a reward of love.  He has no possibility of failure.  His doctrine of Christ can't be wrong because it is meaningless.  Impossible.  Likewise, I can't be wrong because I haven't said anything.  A puff of Glory (Weight even).  I must assume my reader understands.  And that I will always once more be trying to say what I'm trying to say.  Like a fire in a fireplace, it is just static that requires no attending.  Just background for doing something else.  Many variations.  Like watching people from a café window.  But Kierkegaard calls (I call) attention to "that there".  The weight (the aesthetic) of the philosophy.  From out of the nowhere of the Infinite is the Dasein, the extension.  Des Cartes.  Thus uncomfortable.  No fireside, but the meaning of fire.

 

 

 

456  To take his bulk and push on it, to hold it and pull it to yourself is to feel your own power fade away into its inertness.  To lose force.  To feel ashamed.  But to move slowly over it and just lie on top of it is to feel that half-asleep numbness come over you.  So much desire.  Oh wonder.  There's a power there that fills in your lack.  No shame.  To let it move you.

 

I assert no propositions.  I do nothing.  It pervades me.  Neither God is nor God isn't.  Neither is truth.  There's nothing to be said.  God is outside prepositional form.  Outside form.  Wild.  Self-caused.  From inward out.  No first, nor second.  Unordered.  Like infinity.  Self-caused.  Incest.  Hair raising.  Goose bumps.  Right there.  Not a creature.  Self-creating subjective idealism.  Independent.  A surpassing unity that isn't.  A unity that isn't, thus the many.  A truth that has created itself.  Transcendental proof. Its separateness is the cause of the world.  A thing there in itself.  Numinous.  It says it has been thrown out of Being.  Independent.  It is contrary to me.  It will make fun of me, the old.  I can feel its pure expanse.  In its insides I can see things.  I see things inside sensa.  Inside red I see love and cutting. I see that becoming just the color red.  Death.  It's all in that strange dream half-asleep expanse.  It is eating and appropriation.  Imperialism.  Me taking him.  Covering him.  No control.  The type of writing that speaks the truth.  It moves me.

 

 

 

457  The world has rank and grade, but the highest of them is a swimming in pure equality.  The form of form is without form.  The highest art is just chaos.  The artist's workshop is just a pile.  Thus the pile is the art of art, the form of form.  But this is all at the concentration on the essence.  Where the proper distinctions collapse.  That is to say, where there is too much closeness which is sin.  Out of sin grace.  Out of work leisure.  It is the infinite.  The unordered.  A whole that is equal to a proper part.  A boy whose whole essence is at his shoulder where it is touching your lips.  Where the next point of contact is across an abyss, a charisma.

 

So what is the connection between order and chaos?  There is no connector.  They are identical.  Or again it's the tie that is identity.

 

The incestuous origin, the royal beginning, is the pagan beginning, the murder and marriage of the first that is without second.  It is incomparable.  It is separate from the common, the popular, the laity.

 

It is sexual.  Sex begins with a difference of rank.  But in the middle of the act that breaks down and identity reigns.  That is the sin of sex.  It is unordered.  It is egalitarian.  Which is mystery.

 

In articulo extremis we will find the Infinite either friendly or unfriendly.  We will see whether we can give up all partiality.  Whether we can put his lips on ours.  There will be no order; it will be a mess.

 

Love is the bewilderment.  It is unmanly.

 

A well-designed object looks good from any angle, not just from front to back.  It can be moved any way, beginning anywhere.  Thus well-ordered is unordered.

 

 

 

458  The truth of the matter is that sexuality is known to very few, very very few.  That trancelike concentration and the irresistible pull.  That touch and shiver and the thrust into the outer world of history.  That vision of a self-supporting silver thing.  Certainly not that scratching social thing called the comforting closeness of lovers.  It is the red cut of love on the back of the neck.  It's the function being taken out of the arms and legs and their becoming heavy thicknesses.  It's touching that cock when the guy is asleep and suddenly knowing fright because he might have just woke up.  It is in the dark when you should have been sleeping, knowing your forehead is on his.  It is the dare and the fright and the thrill that lights up existence.  It is the falling.  It is crime. The Cause.  The stuffiness and dryness coming through you.  You becoming matter. Abandon all your intellect. For It.  Some THING has become you.  You are against all human qualities.  This is some sort of god appearing.  It is not in the ordinary daylight.  It is not in our social existence.  The mind is flesh.  Descent.  But you would give up everything for that.  When his hand touches you, you find yourself breathing heavy and your heart beating fast.  And you are paralyzed.  You have betrayed your best friend for that.  But that was what he wanted.  He has become heavy.

 

 

 

459  A god grants free will by ceasing to be a fascinans.  The numinous is gone.  The world is devoid of his Lure. Even matter ceases to be dead.  No considerations like that.  Even free will ceases to be a thing to be fathomed.  But enough of this kind of thinking. I should see if this is meaningful to my colleagues.  Now it's the group.

 

There is a difference between the world of possibility as the mind imagines it and the world that becomes actual. The latter feels Holy.  It has a necessity in it.  There is an anxious twisting in it.  It is a surprise.  As though something took it out of your hands as you set out to make it.  It's not what you thought, and it's unfamiliar.  A feeling of being wrong and of being right.  Maybe Grace corrects it. Maybe.  You feel like a sinner.  Maybe you stole it.  You are Rome, the city that stole everything it ever had.  You are an Oriental slave. Act has a tie that puts together things that don't belong together.  A Crime is at the core of what we are.

 

We live in the difference between possibility and actuality.  God through God.

 

A society that looks for facts finds epicene boys.  Boy fascination is the end of positivism; it tried to be so adult about things.  It was a possibility that has now become actual.

 

 

 

460  The first love a virgin boy feels is not full of sighing and crying; it is known.  It is not felt.  Except as knowledge is felt.  It is his first knowledge.  His first time of being empty of feeling.  It is a cutting in the pure spirit.  Just a hard look.  He looks and is himself.  He takes himself upon his own strength.  Even God is there for him to manipulate.  He has backed away from it all.  This is love.  The one he loves is not now lovable, not soft and firm and a present embrace.  He is the one without the look of love.  He is marked.  He is strange.  He is not the right one.  He is just thought.  The first love will never become comforting physical presence.  It was just pure spirit.  That sour heart pain.  In this strange mind of God there is no God.  This is the truth of the atheism of Love.  Now it's a fight.  That moment after being so faithful, he turns faithless of you.  But this is all the extremity of love.  It is the birth of philosophy after the initial abandonment.  When the brow is knit and you just stare into the pain.  The gods have gone; a god is there.  Love is nothing but logic at first.  And like logic it's just the objective framework.  Out there, in the sunlight, to be walked around in.  It is act, actuality. Pure thought.  No feelings.  The structure that is there.  The thing worshipped is bedroom thought.

 

There is a place of unity and it is known.  It is separate from this ordinary world of separateness.

 

Possibilities seem impossible except when seen standing in the light of the actual.  But the actual is after the impossible.

 

In pure act is the pure grasp of the matter.  In a concentration that smashes clear-minded orderings.  Just the Clear Mind.

 

 

 

461  This is not a book that fights the monotony of the flesh with a flight into idealistic gentility.  It fights the awfulness of idealistic gentility with a thrilling monotony of the flesh.  This is the incarnation of God.  The solid monotone One.  That inescapable thing there.  Dull scholastic Being, the Esse, the reality that pervades fact.  You are bound in it, trapped in it.  This is the secret.  Of Love.

 

You must see the immensity of Being.  That mass is what keeps us in place.  As the immense universe keeps the earth still.  As the vastness of numbers up to infinity keep the logical form of the low ones tight.  As your matter is the slightest variation in the smoothness of the space-time field.  As God makes the "good life" seem oh so trivial.

 

If this is too much you can find relief in just watching a woman arrange your and her little here and now.  The serenity of forgetting it all.  Psychoanalysis can make you comfortable like that.  It's there to make you feel good.  But boys know there's something more than just their girlfriend.  And I have seen lesbians chucking it for freedom's sake.

 

Through history, philosophy changes very little; its mass is great.  Even theoretical physics hasn't changed much over the centuries.  Change is surface.  And that's just commotion.  But the form of commotion is also eternally unchanging.

 

This is the love of the physical, the mathematical, the mechanistic, the masculine, a boy's soft, pink ass pushed against an old brick wall.  The smell of sex, coming in his pants.  This is all tight identity of the thing with itself.

 

 

 

My relation to the incarnation of God in Jesus is that I find it offensive.  It won't fit into my system.  It's not believable.  It makes no sense.  I see no reason to believe it.  No God has whispered in my ear that it is true.  It's the worse kind of particularity.  It's like a hand hitting me.  That would make it a manifestation.  It's violent.  Maybe I'm intellectually masochistic, but I like that.  Its crudeness is beautiful.  Aesthetes usually are masochistic.  My own existence here and now makes no sense either, and it also hurts me.

 

 

 

462  I am dead, but no one will admit it.  I have the look of death.  My face is drained of life.  There is a look in my eye of having seen the Aweful.  But I can't get anyone to admit it.  No one will admit death when they see it.  I know I will have found a lover when someone tells me the truth about me.  Says he can see it.  Only love really perceives.  He will see that I am a son of Adam.  When God comes and shows us ourselves we will see dead things, old and shriveled things, loose, excrement things.  Our love is spreading filth.  But I am particularly dead.  If you look you can see that; I am a philosopher.  If you could see my face you would see it.  I am an old masturbating eunuch.  Putting my old lips and my old dick against young boys.  But don't forget that young boys are also the sons of Adam, and they love it.  I am dead.  Oh, Christ, I have looked in the mirror of your Law as you wanted and seen myself, now what?  Oh, Christ, don't take away the mirror; I love this dark night.

 

 

 

I don't like socializing.  I want to get to the point which is hardcore love or I don't want it.  I want intense feeling or nothing.  The limited is too nerve wracking.  I want the essence of sexual taste.  I want the melting that goes with the glance.  I want the firmness of the slow push.  I don’t want this un-concentrated socializing of the crowd.  Thus I seem to do nothing and appear to have no feeling.  But I have the mixture that is things only to a degree, with the logic, x is a Boy and x is Love, rather than the boy loves.  It is bare particulars and pure forms, not substances with attributes.  Subsisting Platonic eternities rather than historical individuals.  It is not an ethical world of feelings, but of the Divine Realm of Feeling itself.  It brushes by me every time he does.  Then that "he" is the divine thickness.  If he would intentionally come to me I would be the pure object, thrown against it.  This is not mere socializing.

 

 

 

463  That was the first time I hated God (I now doubt that I really did.  I think I was trying to be literary or Kierkegaardian when I wrote that) and yelled at Him (I really did quietly do that.).  No double meanings.  No dialectic.  Straight forward hate (Oh, come now).  It was not a refined love (no doubt about that).  The lover that was other than me, wouldn't be me, God let him bring his love to me and show me it was Other.  Other was just other.  The place was without unity.  It was flat. Demonic.  When my lover finally did come back after I had cried to God so much, he went to the other room and stayed.  Of its own accord, rage at God, after I had cried so much, arose in me.  God drilled it in me.  That was the first time rage arose.  No dialectic of Unity and Other.  Just one or the other.  either/or and I cursed God like Kierkegaard's father (I don't believe it).  But it wasn't real (finally).  Rather the Curse and the Rage arose in me so I could know them.  So I could see that they were not of my dialectic (a relief).  In my dialectic Being is everywhere, even in non-being.  But here Being was nowhere.  Later it was over, the vision was over, and I simply reached and took my lover (also just literarily).  Ideally the independent is very yielding.  Philosophy is not straightforward non-contradiction.  Rather opposing things united in the dialectic.  Third things that are other than both opposites.

 

 

The thing I write has no face, no front cover.  Nothing to cover up the chaos of organic, primitive connections.  The ooze, and bacteria, and nausea are right there.  The horrible, lawless matter.  Stripped of grace.  A thing to fear.  When one goes beyond the phenomena he is in the hell of metaphysics. When the awfulness of it gets great enough electric lights begin to blink. And it becomes like Bach counterpoint.  The problem for philosophy is to figure out how ooze and sickness changes into discrete, analytically arranged points.  The union of hell and heaven.  Both at the extreme.  I know that after a while of listening to Bach the stomach develops, from the thrill, an extreme case of butterflies.  Like that love gives.  That is the relation between sticky attachment and independent energy packets. Between suction and open space.  Between gravity and geometry.  Between inertia and intellect.  Between having a first and having no first, no face.

 

 

My writing is a grasping at and a holding on to the absolute First. It is the obsessive drive for order.  For the thing that is in and from out of itself. The Ens Causa Sui.  Thus it is concentration.  Intensity.  Pushed together.  In the knowledge that the appearance is much more easily achieved in casualness.

 

 

 

464  The pragmatist says we can look at the world through the eyes of a scientist or of a metaphysician. Whichever way works.  But metaphysics is the boy to the adult science, and everyone knows boys are poor workers if at all.  Boys are constantly impulsive and upset. They demand attention and won't admit error. But they have all the charm.  Metaphysics is delight. It is the boy falling in love with science.  With the sudden identities of math.  With the hero scientist who will take him out of his indecision.  And make him acting and capable.  The boy and metaphysics hate themselves.  The beautiful are always like that.  They are also aware of their supreme infallibility.  They are hard to deal with.  They won't work.  The pragmatist always opts for science.  And boys love their scholarly analyses.  It's all so butch.  And the scholar was just trying to impress the boy.  That's why they're teachers.  And why school is the field of love.

 

Long division is not a clear and distinct form.  It is full of habit, heaviness, area.  Thus it is familiar.  The same thing in fine abstract analysis is too much light.  It is too sharp and cutting.  It moves too quickly, without trouble.  The modern age is fought by the torpid.  They don't recognize it.  Everything becomes new.  Nothing remains the same for years.  No wooden homes.  Recognition is a matter of weight.  Matter enters logic. But so do death and change.  Only in the instantaneous, separate and new is the Same.  But that has no familiarity.

 

Straightforward contradiction is merely an image, an appearance.  Of the unity of mind.  And the higher unity that transcends that.  But for us those things can only be come upon suddenly.  And then they might get mad at being seen.  On the other hand, sometimes a laugh wells up out of them.

 

You see, in writing the perfection is the sameness of the heavy and the light.

 

 

 

465  God is eternal.  Therefore his beloved is eternal.  Oh, the cut of that eternity into the beloved, his being passive to it.  Oh, the tearing love.  A ghost.  This is the form of the trinity.  The piercing unity.  The sin of being equal to God.

 

If the mind can comprehend eternity it must be eternal.  It has come inside it.

 

Nominalists think there are no such things as universals because even if there were they would be individual things.  And that eternity would be only a part of time, namely the whole.  They say one cannot think clearly about confusion because if you did it wouldn't be confusion.  Nominalists like to contemplate the clear open space of absence.  It relaxes them and gives them a nice dreamless sleep.  At least that's what they are yearning for in their philosophy.  In the meantime the mystical clarity eludes them.

 

The nominalists were right, there is no difference between nominalism and realism.

 

 

God and the puzzle that is philosophy.  Once that puzzle has hooked you, you can't give it up.  It's not a human thing.  It's everywhere.  It can't be eluded.  It can't be forgotten.  Eventually you have to give up to it.  All the things that are said about God are true of it.  But it's just a puzzle.  God has become theology.  Even the simplest sit and figure.

 

God is the irreducibleness of sense data.  That irreducibleness is hard to take.  Sense data also have essences which are reducible to the One.  The thing that holds sense data in existence away from the One is its irreducibleness.  The mind tries to push through it but can't.

 

 

 

466  We aren't anything; we are just observers in this garden of Being.  Falling on things trying to be them.  Spiritual sighs.  Halfway between us and it is the body.  But we don't know what it's like having the body cut in two. We would tremble as the knife was about to go through us.  And then the expression on the face of the cut one after it happened would be too much to take.  The connection no longer connected.  The body is a tenuous filament tying us to It. The body the image of spirit.  The image of the Need.  The desperate straits.  Before the Relaxation.

 

Two sentences: 

We aren't anything; we are just observers in this garden of Being.

We would tremble as the knife was about to go through us.

 

The first is vague and impressionistic.  The second is definite and expressionistic.  The first is smooth mist.  It is melancholy.  The second jerks and is rocks.  It is opposition.

 

A third sentence:

But we don't know what it's like having the body cut in two.

 

It is blankness of thought that connects the former two.

 

 

The oscillations in the finite are evidence of the infinite.

 

 

 

467  The reality of my book is a night in bed with a boy who when the sex takes hold becomes right there the Boy.  All those poetic words are my book.  He is lifted up.  Into generalized love.  Second love.  Third level.  Philosophy is the form of the spirit.  A form crossed over with the form of love.  Transcendent to the physical level.  As the form of relation is the form of act.  The higher levels of the universal.  A place that every now and then lifts us up into it.  When it takes hold.  And the body is pushed and driven and breaks.  A place where the other is incorporated.  Where there is no other to Being.  The difference is internal to the One.  The place that Parmenides saw.  Where trespasses are understood and therefore forgiven.  It is all philosophical backward going.  Arched.  The place where the active is the passive, taken by the urge.

 

I go nowhere.  I start with the results.  I arrange them into meta-results.  The logic of the Telos.  Ends touching ends.  Just touching and moving on.

 

As the Saint at the moment of martyr pain is lifted up and thinks the whole thing is sweet, so this philosophy is for the street kids, hope for the hopeless.  Play.  Color.  And night games.  Pretty eyes.  I'll stab you with jealousy; you stab me.

 

It is the simple boy who has no quick movements of body or intellect.  A thickness.  So sexual to be beside.  Stuff.  Like owning a corporation. Like society's parties.  Like tripping and feeling it first in your legs.  Here and there until it takes hold.

 

The sad, thickness in your chest pleasure of a depression.  So much more real than gaiety.  But this is all so dialectical.  I get lost in the inward goings.  I can't think it because now I am playing.

 

I'll tumble for ya, I'll tumble for ya, I'll be your baby.

 

 

 

468  As art is paint and canvas, the idea is identical with matter.  And as music is the vibrating air.  As love is the lovers' breathing. So philosophy is vocis flatus.  It is cipher scratches.   It is an electrical jerk inside the brain.  In the legs.  The universal is the matter.  The heart is the heart beat.  The rigidity of logic is the sexual rod.  A tingle of excitement.  Presence.  After philosophy books have been sucked dry only the pulp is left, the scholastic form.  Rigid sentences, sentence fragments, and rigid words.  Flowing energy juice.  The energy is the rigidity.  The rigidity is the thing filled up.  Inflowing.  Packed.  Filling up Being.  Quantity of Being.  Pushed against, impenetrable.  A thing not being what it is not.

 

The form of my words is nervous excitement, like an electrical hum. The paragraph swells and moves to the end point.  It's one thing going nowhere.  But it moves out and becomes a thing out there.  It will stick to your eyes. And excite the optic fibers.  Attack.  And sticking to you.  Flowing in.

 

This is the extreme particular.  By itself.  Outside the universal.  An ontological thing.  The End of the history of philosophy.  Shimmering, silent air.  Undressed particular.  A thing to put the end of your fingers on.  The proper object of contemplation,  Still, perduring thought.  There, a piece of space and a piece of time are one.  The temporality of mind mingles with the spatiality of the world.  At light points.  Points turning into surfaces. An infinite coordinating.  Like God, time is both inside and outside the mind.  The boundary of space.  Words understood only in trickery, theft, and treason.

 

 

 

469  The independence of facts is overcome.   Lovers intertwined